In the endless void between realms, where stars were born and gods perished, the once-invincible Demonic Emperor knelt alone atop a mountain of corpses—his blood soaking through the dark abyssal ground. His wings, torn and ragged, still shuddered with pride. His horns, cracked, glowed faintly with infernal light. And his tail, a symbol of his dominion, coiled tightly behind him like a wounded beast refusing to die.
He had emerged victorious in countless wars, but it was his clash with the Crimson God Clan, mysterious and ancient even among the divine, that left his soul irreparably wounded. As he limped from that battlefield, flesh torn and soul dimmed, he sought solace among those he trusted most—his Seven Deadly Sins, godking demon lords who had once sworn blood oaths of loyalty to his rule.
But it was they who delivered the final blow.
The betrayal was swift and coordinated. Pride, Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, and Greed—each representing a faction of unmatched power—united against their master when he was at his weakest. With their armies and their clans, they severed the core of his dominion, the Abyss Planes, from his control. The skies howled, and the demonic constellations fell as the emperor escaped with the remnants of his once-great Doom Clan.
Hiding in the shadows of the 8 Primes World, the Demonic Emperor laid the foundation for one final act. Drawing on a forbidden technique he'd uncovered during an age-old expedition into the realms beyond fate, he etched a path for his reincarnation—a chance to one day reclaim everything.
But the damage to his soul was too great. He could not guide his next life. Only fragments—dreams, whispers, echoes—might remain.
And then, he died.
Centuries passed. Then countless eons. The betrayal of the Demonic Emperor faded into myth, his name spoken in reverent whispers only by the oldest of abyssal devils. The Doom Clan, no longer the rulers of the Abyss, had taken root in the Central Continent of the 8 Primes World—a chaotic, grand world divided among four mighty forces.
To the east, the Sacrum Empire of humans built towering cities and armies of cultivators. To the north, the Celestial Hall, bastion of the holy angels, shimmered in radiant purity. To the west, the Divine Beast Alliance, led by ancient dragon, phoenix, and qilin clans, guarded ancient bloodlines.
And in the center, looming like a storm cloud over the land, was the Doom Clan.
Their wings dark as obsidian, horns spiraling with demonic might, and tails coiled in silent warning, the Doom Clan were demons in form and soul. They had fallen, yes—but not broken. With seven God Lord Demon Ancestors in slumber or seclusion, the Doom Clan still ruled the Central Continent unchallenged. Their subordinate supreme lands were defended by towering citadels of bone and shadow, and their bloodlines remained potent.
It was during an eclipse of three moons—an omen recorded only once in ancient doom scriptures—that a child was born.
From Astaroth Doom, the current patriarch of the clan and a mighty Paragon Realm Demon Lord, and his consort, Lilith Doom, a rare Empyrean Realm Demoness, came their first and only son.
The moment he emerged from his mother's womb, black lightning danced through the sky, a single crimson flame erupted from the Doom Clan's ancestral altar, and the sealed tomb of a long-dead demon lord cracked—just slightly.
The clan's elders murmured about destiny.
Malikai Doom was unlike any child the clan had birthed in ten thousand years.
From the moment his tiny lungs drew breath, the air around him pulsed with an ancient pressure. His skin, dusky with a faint violet hue, shimmered under torchlight. Two small, black horns already protruded from his crown—unheard of for a newborn—and a thin tail coiled tightly around his leg like a serpent guarding its treasure. His eyes, however, were what stilled the chamber: pools of abyssal darkness with crimson flecks, like burning embers trapped in an eternal void.
Lilith cradled her son, awe and caution in her expression. "He's strong… frighteningly so."
Astaroth stood nearby, arms folded, his Paragon aura suppressed but barely. Even he, a veteran of war and bloodlines, could feel something sleeping within the child. Something deep. Something... ancient. But when he reached out with his spiritual sense, it met only a sealed wall, impenetrable. Strange, but not alarming enough.
"Born under the Eclipse of Calamity," Astaroth muttered. "And with such a form already... the ancestors will take interest."
That they did.
Within days, the Seven God Lord Ancestors—each secluded in their hidden realm within the Doom Clan's domain—cast down silent divine gazes upon the child. They sensed nothing irregular, but found his potential... exceptional. Still, none spoke of anything unnatural. None saw the sealed God Lord-tier soul buried within the core of Malikai's being, hidden beyond even divine sight.
And so, life began.
No prophecy. No declaration. Just a boy born to noble blood. A demon prince.
He would grow up believing himself only that.
But in dreams—dark, shifting, half-forgotten dreams—he would walk battlefields stained with god-blood… and hear a voice whispering in a tone older than time:
"You are mine… rise again."