The wind outside the cave screamed like a beast with no skin, sharp and angry. The trees far below bent low as if they were bowing to something old, something powerful. Lightning danced across the sky like silver claws trying to scratch the heavens open. But deep inside the dark mountain, Ceyr stood still. His chest rose slowly, his breath calm, but his eyes—they burned with something that didn't belong to the world anymore. It was no longer just pain or rage. It was a hunger. Not just to eat. Not just to kill. But to change the very rules of power. The Trial had marked him. It had given him more than strength. It had broken his soul and rebuilt it into something that did not fit inside human, demon, god, or beast. He was now the heir of something beyond them all.
His body was covered in marks—black flame-shaped veins that pulsed with ancient energy, each one carrying the whispers of the Devourer King's old world. And though the voice of the Devourer had gone silent, something deeper remained. A feeling of waiting. Like the throne was watching. Waiting. Judging. Ceyr didn't fully understand the symbols yet. He didn't understand the rules of this new power. But he knew one thing—if he stayed here too long, if he stayed hiding, then everything he just fought for would mean nothing. The throne did not reward cowards. So he stepped forward, out of the cave.
The moment his foot touched the cold mountain stone, the sky cracked again. But this time it wasn't lightning. It was a tear. A thin line in the air, like someone had sliced open the sky itself. And through it, a pair of golden eyes watched him. Silent. Waiting. Ceyr stared back. "I see you too," he muttered, and kept walking. Below the mountain, far in the forest near the ruined Vale River, two demon scouts were searching the lands. Their leader, a tall creature with six arms and armor made of screaming bones, sniffed the air. "He's awake," it said. "I feel the hunger." The other scout growled. "Should we report to the Crimson Prince?" But the leader shook its head. "No. We kill him now, before the world realizes what he is."
They moved fast. Their bodies turning into smoke as they flew across the forest like black shadows. But Ceyr felt them before they even reached the slope. His new senses stretched miles. He didn't hear their footsteps. He felt their desire. Their hatred. And he smiled. "Let them come." The ground shook. Trees fell. And then they arrived. The demon with six arms dropped down like a meteor, smashing the earth. "Devourer Heir," it growled, "you will not take his place." Ceyr didn't speak. His hands were open. Calm. The second demon, shaped like a giant bat made of broken glass, screamed and flew at him. Fast. Sharp. But Ceyr didn't move. Not until the last second. Then his hand twisted sideways, and the air bent.
Not just wind. Not magic. Reality itself bent. The demon shattered mid-air, broken into dust by a force it couldn't even see. The six-armed leader roared and charged with blades in all hands. Ceyr stepped forward once, and time slowed. The mountain behind him didn't shake. It bent, just for a moment, and when he raised his arm, the world around him trembled. The demon's blades crashed down—and stopped. Ceyr caught all six with one hand. "You fight for the wrong kings," he said. And then his hand pulsed. The symbols on his arm glowed deep red. And the demon exploded from inside out. Not from damage. From hunger. The curse inside Ceyr ate it. Not the body. The essence. The being. And the Devourer inside him whispered for the first time in hours: *Yes… more…*
But Ceyr gritted his teeth. "No. Not yet." He looked around. The forest was burning now from the fight. Smoke rose high into the storm. He knew more would come. The Crimson Prince. The Void Hand. Maybe even the Archlords. He didn't care. He was done hiding. The Trial had chosen him. Now he would make the world listen. He looked at his hand again, at the marks, and whispered, "Let the kingdoms tremble."
Far away, in the Cloudspire Fortress of the Kingdom of Lurien, the Archlords gathered again. Their table was surrounded by runes. Golden bells rang slowly. One of them, an old man with no mouth, opened a scroll that burned as he read it. "The Heir has awakened." Another, a woman with wings made of crystal, looked toward the window. "Do we kill him now?" The third, covered in silver chains, shook his head. "We tried. The Trial survived him. That means the throne favors him." The last, a child who spoke only in thoughts, said, "Then let the games begin."
In the Abyss Fortress, deep under the dying sea, the Crimson Prince screamed with laughter as the flames danced around his throne. "He lives. Oh, beautiful! I've waited so long. Let him come! Let him burn the sky!" The war had not started. But the storm was rising. The Devourer's Heir had risen. And the world would never sleep again.