In his first life, Zatiel had been an ordinary man living an ordinary life.
No sorcery or mythical beasts prowled his world. No gods watched from above, no demons lurked in shadows. In place of magic, advanced technology reigned supreme, dictating the rhythm of every life. Cities gleamed under artificial suns, and progress marched forward in cold, precise steps.
The crown jewel of that technological empire was the A.I. Chip—a creation that represented the pinnacle of human achievement. It possessed unmatched processing power, capable of instant data analysis, limitless storage, and the execution of intricate simulations to produce insights beyond the reach of any human mind.
It was more than a tool—it was a constant companion. At birth, every child received one, implanted seamlessly into their brain. It grew with them, observed them, and assisted them until their final breath. In that society, the A.I. Chip was as essential as the heart that beat in one's chest.
Zatiel's own life in that world was… unremarkable. He harbored no grand ambition, achieved no great fame, and made no mark worth remembering. His days were filled with routine and the quiet comfort of predictability.
As the end of his natural lifespan approached, he expected nothing beyond it. Zatiel was an atheist to the bone—he scoffed at the notion of an afterlife, dismissed the existence of a soul, and accepted that death was nothing more than eternal, dreamless dark. When he closed his eyes for the last time, he did so without fear, certain that he was stepping into nothingness.
He was wrong.
When consciousness returned, it came not with the sterile lights of a hospital but with fire.
He opened his eyes to a land where the sky was dominated by a monstrous, fiery-red sun. Its glare seemed to scorch the air itself, and winds thick with heat scoured the ground. The landscape was scarred—vast pits yawned like wounds in the earth, exhaling foul vapors. In the distance, an immense river wound through the land, its waters black and thick, carrying with them the hollow screams of countless tormented souls.
This was the Abyss—the birthplace of demons. A realm of chaos and malice, layered infinitely downward, each level more treacherous than the last.
Confusion and fear gripped him. His body felt alien—heavier, unbalanced. Dread gnawed at him as he looked down… and froze.
His hands were monstrous, several times larger than before, with nails curved into predatory claws. His skin was an unhealthy, corpse-like white, pocked with scars and twisted deformities. His mouth—if it could still be called that—was an unholy maw bristling with rows upon rows of jagged teeth.
He was no longer human.
He had become a Mane—the lowest form of demon in the Abyss.
Manes were the wretched husks of human souls, warped and corrupted by the Abyss's foul aura. To other demons, they were nothing more than fodder—useful as expendable shock troops in battle or as meat to be devoured.
Even as terror rooted itself in his chest, Zatiel felt a new force pressing against his thoughts—an overwhelming, savage will. The Abyss did not merely change bodies; it corroded minds. Every demon here was a predator, driven by primal instincts to hunt and kill. The very air was saturated with chaotic energy that gnawed at reason and stoked violence.
That same chaotic energy, however, granted power—immense physical strength and near-impenetrable spiritual defenses. Within their ranks, demons were as fearsome as dragons. But the weaker they were, the more susceptible they remained to the madness of the plane.
Within minutes of his arrival, Zatiel's thoughts began to fracture under the onslaught. The hunger, the bloodlust—it was consuming him.
And then… a voice.
Cold. Mechanical. Familiar.
[A.I. Chip detected. Initializing mental defense protocols.]
The chip—his constant companion from his first life—had followed him here.
With its aid, the mental corrosion slowed. Logic regained its footing, and the mind of Zatiel—the man—reasserted itself within the shell of the demon. The chip fed him strategies for survival, methods for rising in rank, and warnings of the countless dangers ahead.
What followed was an eternity of slaughter and struggle. The Abyss was an endless battlefield, and Zatiel adapted to it with ruthless efficiency. For millennia, he fought, killed, and consumed. His power grew with every victory, until at last he rose to the rank of Abyss Lord—a being of laws, eternal in life, sovereign in power.
But even the eternal can fall. And one day, he did.
In his third life, he was born an orphan in a world where magic existed.
His fate might have been sealed in obscurity had an apprentice of the Magic Tower not noticed his potential. It was not compassion that moved the apprentice but duty—part of their task was to recruit new talents for the Tower.
Life in the Tower was a constant, gnawing anxiety. It was less a place of learning and more a den of wolves. Every corridor hid schemes; every smile was a mask.
In his first year, Zatiel devoted himself to strengthening his spirit and devouring every scrap of knowledge he could find. He took odd jobs and menial tasks for meager pay, careful not to draw attention to himself.
Then, one day, three Rank 2 Apprentice Magi approached him with an offer.
A task had been issued: recover a rare magical herb called Shadow Sorrow. For apprentices with an affinity for darkness, it could significantly strengthen the spirit. They told Zatiel they needed only a lookout. No fighting. No danger. And in return—he would share in the rewards.
He was cautious. But they were warm, friendly, persuasive. Against his better judgment, he agreed.
The journey to the herb's location was filled with easy conversation and feigned camaraderie. But as they drew near, the mask fell.
They betrayed him.
With cold efficiency, they shoved him forward toward a Shadow Wolf—a magical beast with the strength of a Rank 3 apprentice. While the wolf focused on him, they would seize the herb.
By the time realization struck, it was too late. Zatiel ran, ducking between roots and stones, but a Rank 1 apprentice was nothing before such a predator.
Within three minutes, he was on the edge of death. Only when the wolf caught some disturbance and returned to guard the herb did Zatiel survive at all.
Now he lay beneath an ancient tree, his body broken, breath shallow. But within, something else stirred.
He reached into the depths of his mind—and memories flooded back. Memories of millennia steeped in the slaughter of the Abyss. Memories of the cold clarity of the A.I. Chip. Memories of a name that once made the very planes tremble.
Minutes passed.
When his eyes opened again, they burned with a light that did not belong to a dying apprentice.
"I am Zatiel," he said softly at first, then with rising force, "Abyssal Lord. Ruler of Death and Destruction. Nightmare of Dys—and I have AWAKENED!"
His gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.
"A.I. Chip—scan me."