The Doom Clan was a mountain carved into two halves.
One stood in shadowed glory—the Main Bloodline Faction, descendants of the ancient Demonic Emperor himself. They ruled from the central peaks of the clan, seated in fortresses carved from obsidian and soulsteel, guarded by traditions older than many continents.
But below, sprawling like veins through the deeper caverns and training valleys, stood the Opposing Bloodline Faction—those born of collateral lines, powerful but of different bloodlines from subordinates of the demonic emperor. Their horns, not as majestic as ones from the main bloodlines, their wings less symmetrical, their tails less marked with infernal glyphs. Yet their blood ran red and their ambition hotter than hellfire.
For centuries, this faction had clawed and vied for power.
They held six Paragon Realm core elders, each ruthless, brilliant, and patient. Their path to dominance did not lie in blood purity, but in cultivating a champion—a future patriarch strong enough to defeat the main line in ritual combat and take the clan's throne.
It had happened before, once, long ago. And they believed it would happen again.
Now, as the younger generation bloomed like blades in spring, their hopes coiled around a handful of rising youths. Their strongest talents were trained in secret, on harsher grounds, drilled for battle since infancy.
Among them was a girl once deemed a failure—a bastard child with thin blood and broken wings. Her name was whispered with disdain and pity, and when she turned six, her clan sent her to serve in the outer barracks. Beaten, starved, and near-mute, she should have died.
But fate bent otherwise.
One day, Lilith Doom—mother of the infant Malikai and matron of the highest halls—saw the girl on one of her quiet walks through the outer clan. Something about the child's eyes struck her: pain without self-pity. A fire waiting to burn.
She took the girl into the central fortress that day.
She cleansed her, clothed her, and gave her a name she would carry proudly: Iris.
Then she trained her.
Not to fight. But to endure.
To think.
To serve her son not as a slave, but as his shadow—his keeper, watcher, protector. Though six years older than Malikai, Iris was shaped from childhood to walk beside him as a silent sword and unseen comfort.
She obeyed Lilith with the quiet loyalty of a soul given new life.
By the time Malikai turned three, he and Iris were nearly inseparable.
She bathed him, read to him, and even lightly sparred with him when he first began his training. Though she never revealed her true strength, her senses were sharp, her hand steady, and her gaze unshakable.
And it was in these early years that another thread took root—Anzu, child of Abaddon and Tabitha.
Anzu, gifted and groomed to see Malikai as a stepping stone, met his cousin often during formal lessons or clan assemblies. At first, it was subtle. A shove here. A mocking smirk. A whispered insult.
But children absorb what they're fed.
Tabitha whispered poison in his ears at night, feeding envy like a mother feeds milk.
Malikai, calm and eerily quiet for his age, never rose to the bait. He simply watched. And smiled.
A smile that unsettled even grown elders.
And behind him always stood Iris—silent, arms crossed, wings folded neatly behind her.
Anzu learned early: Malikai would not be easy prey.
Though Malikai never once raised a fist or tail toward Anzu, the gap between them grew every day.
Despite being barely four years old, his body already displayed strange resilience, and his gaze held a weight no child should possess. His horns curved perfectly, gleaming like obsidian polished by the void. His wings, though still developing, shimmered with demonic essence when struck by moonlight.
Iris remained close. She read every twitch of his brow, responded before he voiced needs, and ensured no meal or medicine was ever tampered with. In time, Lilith allowed her more autonomy. Iris began overseeing his training directly, correcting his stance, guiding his breathwork, even helping him refine his tail strikes, which were notoriously hard to master.
Anzu watched from afar, jealousy simmering like magma.
His own progress was fast—some would say faster than Malikai's. He was charismatic, gifted in demonic arts, and beloved by many in the clan's outer circles. But where Malikai radiated eerie calm, Anzu burned with untamed ambition.
By the time both boys reached the age of five, their subtle rivalry had already split the younger generation into whispered factions. The elders, too, had begun to watch closely.
Within the shadows of the Doom Clan's roots, a storm churned.
The two factions—the proud heirs of the main bloodline and the hungry legions of the lesser lines—were both planting seeds.
They would one day blossom into war.
And at the center stood two boys.
One, trained from birth to rule.
The other, molded in spite to rise.