Sacred Cathedral – Midnight. The moon hung red over the stained-glass windows.
Pope Arkel stood at the altar, clad in radiant gold robes, jeweled rings glinting under candlelight. His wrinkled hands gripped a staff etched with divine scripture, but his eyes—cold, calculating—were fixed on the silent child at the center of the ritual circle.
Amon.
Wrapped in silk and bound in quiet, he stared back at the priests and nuns surrounding him. His breath fogged the cold air, but he made no sound. He did not cry. Only watched.
The cathedral floor had been cleared. Chalk runes stretched in a spiral, glowing a faint crimson. Fresh blood—goat's, supposedly—dripped along the lines, kept warm in silver bowls by small incense fires.
A nun trembled beside the Pope. "Your Holiness… Forgive me, but… this boy. He's just a child. Not even three winters old. If we send him to that realm—he will die."
Another priest spoke, his voice cautious. "That world… The Abyssal Gate has never been used without a binding. The demons beyond—"
"Enough." The Pope's voice cracked like thunder cloaked in velvet. "You speak of mercy to a demon's seed?"
"But—he's done nothing…"
Arkel turned slowly. His face remained kind, even gentle. "You fear for his body." He stepped closer to Amon and knelt. "But this vessel… is blessed."
Then, when no one could hear—
In his mind, his voice laughed like broken bells.
"A royal vessel. Alpin blood — pure, ancient. Even the gods we pretend to worship would kill to claim such a frame."
"He's not a mistake. He's a gift. And soon — mine."
He stood and raised his staff.
"Begin the chant," he commanded. "By the holy light of the First Flame, we cast away the impure. Let the gates open."
The circle blazed. Flames coiled upward, forming a shimmering portal of red-black smoke.
A few priests took a step back, unease rippling through the congregation. "Your Holiness, the ritual—he's unbound! He won't survive the passage!"
The Pope's smile remained serene. "Then we will pray he learns to swim in hell."
He approached the portal. Amon stared up, eyes wide, silent still.
The Pope whispered, low and reverent:
"Go on, little lamb. Let the wolves raise you."
And then—he pushed.
Amon fell into the portal, swallowed by swirling light and shadow.
The moment he vanished, the portal snapped shut with a shriek of torn air. Candles shattered. Nuns screamed. One priest vomited on the stone floor.
Silence returned—thick and suffocating.
The Pope turned back to the room. His expression was calm, divine even.
"Clean the blood," he said. "Offer prayers."
Then he turned toward the holy statue of the goddess above the altar and bowed.
"Forgive me," he murmured, "but the world needs a devil."
—— Twenty Years Later ——
Beneath a crimson sky, darker than blood, the great black castle of Gorgoroth loomed like a wound carved into the planet's flesh.
Within its grand hall—lit only by cold fire and bone lanterns—a boy sat alone upon a throne made from skulls and broken weapons. His eyes glowed faintly silver. His skin, pale as moonstone. His presence, unnaturally still.
Surrounding him stood dozens of demons—tall, twisted, monstrous things with horns like obsidian trees and eyes like molten gold. Each one radiated enough killing intent to shred armies.
And yet, the boy did not flinch.
He sat with one leg lazily resting over the other, chin on his hand, expression unreadable. His long black coat pooled around the throne like a shadow made flesh.
"Where is our king, human?" One demon barked, a jagged blade for a jaw. "What did you do to him?"
"You imprisoned him, didn't you?" Another howled, wings flaring. "You filthy worm! You tricked him!"
"He should've devoured you the day you arrived," spat a third, claws twitching. "But no—he called you son!"
"You humans are all the same," snarled a horned beast. "Pretending to be weak… until it's time to bite."
Amon said nothing.
Another demon slammed his fist against a pillar, cracking it down the middle. "He trusted you! Do you know what that means among us?! He offered you his heart—his name—and you spat on it!"
One leaned in, voice venomous. "Give him back. Or we tear the flesh from your bones and wear your skin like a trophy."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
And then—
Amon spoke.
His voice was calm, quiet—like frost cracking over stone.
"You speak of trust."
The air shifted. Cold. Heavy.
"You speak of mercy, of names, of bonds."
He stood.
And every demon stepped back—instinct overriding rage.
"You call me a human. You say I tricked him. But let me ask…"
His eyes flared with silver fire.
"Who burned my flesh to see if I'd scream? Who chained me in pits with starving hounds, betting how long before I bled out? Who laughed when I forgot my name?"
The room fell still.
"Not him," Amon said softly. "He called me son. You—called me meat."
A pause.
Then he smiled. And it was not kind.
"You ask where your king is?"
The demons tensed.
Amon raised his hand.
And from his palm bloomed a black flame—cold, eternal, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"I ate him."
Gasps. Screeches. A roar of disbelief.
"No…!"
"You lie!"
"You could never—!"
Amon stepped down from the throne of skulls. Each step echoed like a funeral bell.
"I didn't just kill him," he whispered. "I embraced him. Took in his soul, his power, his memories."
"You wanted your king?" Amon's voice rang through the bone-pillared hall. Cold. Calm. Deadly.
"But why?" he asked, almost amused.
He turned from the throne of skulls and walked toward the shattered window. Ash blew in with the wind.
Outside — the end of the world.
Cracked land stretched to the horizon. No rivers, no green, only scorched earth and heat mirages rising like ghosts. The air shimmered with dry death.
He raised his hand toward the desolation.
"Why did you love him?" he asked again, quieter now. "He gave you nothing but just... words. Words about peace. About restraint."
He scoffed.
"He once told me, 'If I fight, people die. So I won't.'"Amon's eyes narrowed. "And so you all starved under a coward with a crown."
The hall was silent. Not even a breath dared interrupt.
"He feared war more than he feared your hunger. So tell me—was he worthy of being your king?"
Still silence. Until one voice broke through:
"You talk like you care for us," a demon growled. "But you are human. What right do you have to be our king?"
Amon's gaze locked on him.
And then—he smiled.
"Human?" he said.
He lifted his left hand.
A dark pulse formed in his palm—a swirling void, endless and hungry. The air twisted around it, warping sound and space. His eyes blazed crimson, bloodred fire roaring in twin suns.
Black horns erupted from his scalp, branching like twisted roots through his skin and clothes. His bones cracked. Flesh shifted.
His voice rumbled deeper—inhuman.
"When I devoured your old king's soul… I became what he never dared to be."
The light in the hall dimmed under his growing power.
No longer a man.
Not even a demon.
Something worse.
Something beyond.
The demons dropped to their knees, one after another, trembling beneath his presence.
They bowed their heads.
And spoke in unison:
"We greet our new Demon King.""Amon, the soul devourer.""The true heir of the abyss."
But Amon laughed as he sat on the throne, "Heir of the abyss? You think this is the only kingdom in this realm? There are many tribes and one more kingdom."
"And once I conquer it…""I'll claim the Key to the Human Realm."
He rose from the throne.
"And there—my demons—we will build a kingdom worthy of our hunger."
"Our true war… begins now."