PROLOGUE

A Fantasy of Sword and Sorcery

Month of the Dragon, Day 12, 1599 CE (Continental Era). The throne chamber of the subterranean Demon Castle’s inverted keep.

With a flash, one of Alnaeth’s stories came to an end.

And what a majestic end it was.

The slash of the Hero’s silver sword had turned into a beam of light that sliced through the air, rent the aether, exterminated evil—and cut down the Demon Lord.

The fight for survival between humans and darklings; the struggle for power between mortals and immortals; the final battle between Hero and Demon Lord—this event, known as the Immortal War, saw victory for the mortal army and its leader, the Hero.

The throne chamber—the site of said battle—was now shrouded in silence.

Its sinister yet sublime pillars were broken, the crimson carpet torn at the seams, and the throne itself demolished to pieces.

Two shadows stood facing each other.

On one side: a young blond-haired, blue-eyed human clad in silver armor and an azure cloak, the effulgent Holy Sword, Ixasorde, in his hands. His eyes were even more incandescent than the weapon itself.

On the other side: a fantastical creature of enormous stature, two crooked horns jutting from his draconic skull. In his hands was a single-edged sword the same color as his mantle, so black it appeared to be nighttime itself: the Dark Sword, Vernal. One of his piercing horns was now broken in half, and his skull sported a massive stab wound with many fissures running from it.

The creature opened its maw and made the aether tremble with three simple words:

“Excellent work, Hero.”

His solemn, bowel-shaking voice echoed through the chamber.

The Demon Lord then let his Dark Sword fall; it turned into a black mist.

His body, cut in two by the Hero’s fatal slash, began crumbling like dry leaves until all that remained was a man with long black hair and a mantle the color of darkness. He immediately fell to his knees.

This was the Demon Lord’s true form.

“Well done… You have finally defeated me, Hero. I commend your strength and, most of all, your courage.”

The Demon Lord’s praise was sincere, from the bottom of his heart.

“I…see.” The Hero closed his eyes as if to process what he’d just been told. “You were strong as well… Truly, you were…”

“…”

The Demon Lord responded with silence.

They were fated adversaries, archenemies, nemeses who detested each other. Each stood opposed to the other’s sense of justice. And yet now, with the battle over, their minds were clear. They were past such emotions as anger and hatred.

“Why did I lose?” the Demon Lord asked the Hero. “How did you defeat me? Why…did you prevail…?”

He was an immortal darkling. No matter how many times his extremities were ripped from his body, they would soon regenerate. Crushing his heart or head did not kill him, for he contradicted life itself.

So long as his soul existed, he would continue conquering death. Now, however, he was reaching his end.

The constant damage from the Holy Sword had sapped his soul dry. His flesh wasn’t dying, but rather, his soul was perishing.

He could scarcely move. The last vestiges of his soul waned. There was no stopping his fate; he would soon become mere ash.

“Strategy, numbers, even my own strength… I was far superior to you puny mortals in every respect,” said the Demon Lord. “I couldn’t possibly lose… And yet lose I did. Victory is yours. Tell me, Hero. Tell me why that is.”

The Hero answered: “…It’s life.”

“What…?”

“We have life. We may seem puny to your kind, our lives all too short and fleeting. Perhaps it’s true that you, with endless life, are superior to us mortals.” The Hero paused for a brief moment. “But that’s why we do everything in our power to live these puny lives to their fullest extent. Our weakness drives us to be strong. That’s why I… That’s why we were able to defeat you. Because we can see the value in life’s little glimmers. That much is certain.”

“…Enough of your jokes. As if such nonsense could ever defeat—”

“It’s not a joke.”

“Life’s little glimmers…? You expect me to believe such garbage?”

The immortal being, for all his impermanence, was uncomprehending. Perhaps he might have understood ages ago what the Hero meant, but he had long since forgotten.

“You don’t have to. We’ve won. And I believe our victory is evidence enough of this light we humans have.”

“………Do not forget, Hero: Where there is light among humans, there is also darkness. And so long as that darkness exists, I will appear time and time again before such light, for I am not the Immortal King but the Invincible King.”

“Then I’ll face that darkness as many times as needed.” The Hero’s eyes were unwavering, glowing with hope.

“Farewell, my greatest sworn enemy…Hero Gram.”

“Farewell, my most hated foe…Demon Lord Veltol.”

The Hero lifted the Holy Sword, then brought it down on the Demon Lord Veltol’s head.

The faint gleam in the Demon Lord’s eyes disappeared. His body crumbled into black sand before vanishing into nothingness.

The Hero watched carefully, so as to burn the image into his mind.

“…Time to go home. Everyone’s waiting.”

He used the sword to pull himself up, then set off for a new day—one brimming with hope.

The end.

Yet the world lives on.

Cyberpunk City—Shinjuku

And so, five hundred years went by.

It was the quickening of new beginnings, followed by newborn cries.

The moment of resurrection had arrived.

Rebirth felt like rising to the water’s surface. His consciousness floated up from the murky depths, and after five hundred long years, he was revived.

Veltol Velvet Velsvalt: the Immortal King, the Dark Lord, the Invincible One. He had many names, all symbolizing the absolute, terrifying evil he represented to the mortals.

And there was one particular title he was called most often: Demon Lord.

Five hundred years earlier, he had created the Immortal Kingdom, formed the Immortal Army, and battled against the mortals in a struggle to dominate the world, only to be defeated at the hands of the Hero.

His body had crumbled to dust and returned to the darkness. And yet, after several centuries had passed, he was back.

His return had only been possible through the power of Methenoel, a type of reincarnation magic Veltol himself had created to tie his memories and physical form together with his soul, then convert that into data and send it to the future. The aether used that data to emulate his body and rebuild it.

Aether was the greatest form of matter, capable of imitating any phenomenon, and magic was the method through which one could manipulate the aether to bend the world’s logic.

There was nothing, theoretically, that couldn’t be achieved through magic. Resurrection, time travel, universe creation… No matter how preposterous or absurd, as long as one possessed the required mana—magical power, that is—and knew the correct technic, anything was possible.

Among these possibilities was reincarnation. It had existed in theory only with no history of success—until Veltol perfected the forbidden art.

Veltol was a darkling—all immortal beings without exception. Immortals were, naturally, beyond the concept of death.

However, even souls became worn and weathered. No matter how undying the flesh may be, souls were not indestructible. A soul would eventually perish once all of its power had been exhausted.

The purpose of Methenoel was to conquer that destruction. It was a cosmic endeavor to revive body and soul even after both had rotted and perished.

Veltol had evolved. The completion of this magic had elevated his soul from a mere immortal to a higher being. He had become truly invincible.

And now, five hundred years later, he would once again envelop the world in darkness. His rebirth would bring him world domination.

So…it succeeded?

Veltol was still trying to wrap his head around his second life, his thoughts as sluggish as one would have when waking from a deep slumber.

It was, of course, the first time he’d ever used Methenoel. Although he had figured out the logic and completed the technic, he’d had no opportunity to test it out.

Veltol was not reborn as the fantastical creature that the Hero had faced but the human form that had crumbled to dust following his defeat.

His long jet-black hair, captivating as a crow’s damp feathers, contrasted with his snowy-white skin. He was perfectly androgynous, possessing equal parts delicate feminine beauty and masculine virility. His eyes were the color of darkness. His limbs were long and slender, his body utterly proportionate: lean and toned, yet covered in muscles hard as steel. His almost artistic physique was completely exposed, not a single stitch of clothing on him.

He looked just like a human. He didn’t have fangs like an orc, or pointed ears like an elf, or horns like an ogre.

And this much was natural, since Veltol had originally been human.

Immortals were supernatural beings separate from gods or living creatures. Mortals called them darklings out of fear, for such beings were human yet undying, human in appearance but wielding inhuman powers. In fact, all immortals were considered darklings, be they human or elf or orc or otherwise.

Veltol looked like a human in his early twenties when in fact he was one of the oldest darklings at more than three thousand years old.

Where am I…?

He was lying on an altar made of white rock. His vision was blurry, and he was having a hard time grasping the situation—perhaps an aftereffect of Methenoel.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cold air and aether. The aether coursed through his veins all the way to his heart before transforming into mana. The mana then traveled to every one of his veins, his nerves—every cell in his body.

Mana, besides being fuel for magic, was an indispensable element for life.

Once his eyes were full of mana, his vision returned. He could see he was in a vast, dark space.

“Lord Veltol…”

He heard a voice, one that he knew all too well. It was clean and clear like a chime. Even after five hundred years of sleep, there was no way he could forget or mistake it.

“Machina?”