Fifteen years had passed.
The world outside had changed — kingdoms rose, fell, warred, crumbled, rebuilt — but the Demon Realm remained untouched. No wind dared disturb its cursed soil. No star dared shine above its skies.
And at its heart, in the throne room of endless wealth and bone, sat the same man.
Unchanged.
Unaging.
Unfeeling.
The Hollow King.
He no longer moved unless necessary.
His once-raven hair now shimmered with strands of white — not from age, but magic condensed over time. His skin bore the markings of forgotten runes, carved in battles he didn't remember, victories he didn't care for. His eyes… were still void.
Not empty — but so full of darkness they pulled the light inward.
The room around him had grown quieter. Even the whispers of the cursed spirits faded now and then, as if the world itself had run out of things to say.
There were no more challengers.
The world had finally learned.
You do not seek audience with a god of silence.
He sat, alone, surrounded by riches and relics of a thousand fallen legacies.
And yet, inside… he was dust.
"They called me evil."
"They called me monster, demon, curse, king of ruin."
"And I became all those things."
"But after all that… why do I still feel nothing?"
He thought vengeance would heal the wound.
He thought power would warm the cold.
He thought blood would silence the screams.
But the boy who had been born in fire… never left.
That boy still sat inside him, curled in chains, waiting for someone to say, "You are not evil."
But no one ever did.
Even his brother no longer spoke unless commanded.
The once-prince — now a husk of a man — wandered the citadel with cracked scrolls, managing taxes from a hundred kneeling kingdoms, overseeing tributes of gold, jewels, and firstborns.
He no longer cried. He no longer begged. His soul had broken long ago.
Every time he passed the throne, he bowed so low his spine creaked.
And every time, he whispered one word:
"Mercy."
He never received it.
But still, he whispered it — not for himself, but for the world.
The Demon King sometimes wondered why he didn't kill him.
He had slaughtered millions.
Burned gods.
Erased bloodlines.
But not him.
Why?
He didn't know.
Maybe because he wanted someone to witness his reign.Maybe because that one shred of memory — the brother who once laughed in sunlit halls — refused to vanish.
Or maybe because he needed to punish him.
Punish everyone.
Punish the world for birthing him, for branding him, for burying him.
But punishment had become stale.
Even hatred had grown cold.
He had mastered everything:Swordsmanship — Grandmaster of the Highest Flame.Magic — Wielder of Forbidden Aether and Starfire.Curses — Bearer of the Nine Seals of Death.Alchemy, Enchantment, Divinity — All conquered.
He had walked through the Tombs of Time and spat upon fate.
He had destroyed prophecies with his bare hands.
He had nothing left to prove.
And yet…
He was not free.
Sometimes, he'd look out beyond the cursed palace walls, beyond the ash-choked forests and twisted rivers.
He would stare at the horizon — the line where the dead sky met the forgotten world — and whisper:
"What else is there?"
He didn't want more power.
He didn't want forgiveness.
He didn't even want to be remembered.
He wanted… something.
But he didn't know what.
He rose, for the first time in months.
His boots clicked against the obsidian floor, echoing through the empty citadel.
The monsters shifted in the shadows, lowering their heads in reverence.
His brother watched, wide-eyed, as the king approached the ancient mirror — a relic once used to speak with gods.
He stared into it.
Not to see himself.
But to find himself.
And all he saw…
…was the boy.
Ten years old.
Burned, broken, bound in chains.
Staring back.
Expressionless.
Alone.
"He never left."
"And maybe… he never will."
"Maybe this throne isn't my revenge."
"Maybe it's my prison."
And then…
The wind shifted.
Real wind.
From outside.
Something had changed.
He turned slowly — eyes narrowing for the first time in years.
Far to the east… a star moved.
But not just any star.
A red one.
A star that had not shone in over a thousand years.
He recognized it.
Not from study — he could not read.
Not from myth — he cared for none.
But from instinct.
Something deep. Something ancient. Something true.
The world had turned again.
"So… it begins," he said, voice like frost across steel.
Far beyond the Demon Realm, a child opened their eyes — marked with golden fire.
In a hidden monastery, ancient seers wept blood.
In a forgotten ruin, a sealed gate trembled.
And in the throne room of Verdantia — now the black heart of the Demon Realm — the Hollow King stood for the first time in an age.
Unblinking.
Unfeeling.
But no longer unmoved.
Something was coming.
And for the first time in fifteen years…
he turned his head to look.