Azrael sat on his throne of black stone, the firelight flickering against armor that no blade had ever cracked. Beneath him, rivers of molten flame carried the remnants of battles long since won — the very blood of kingdoms boiled at his feet. All around, his banners hung heavy in the heat, stitched from bone and steel, symbols of judgment.
This was his domain. This was victory made eternal.
For centuries, Azrael, Demon King of shadow and flame, had been unchallenged. Armies knelt like children crawling before their father. Heroes rose and fell, each thinking themselves saviors until his claw sharpened their bones into keepsakes. To mortals, his name was no name at all but a sickness — something they whispered only when desperate, half in curse, half in prayer.
He controlled darkness itself. He could sharpen night into spears, stretch it into wings, and crush enemies under its weight. His strength was unrivaled; no sword had broken his body, and wounds closed almost mockingly fast under his regenerative fire.
He was eternal. He was nightmare. He was King.
And yet… even kings hunger.
Azrael had grown tired of repetition — victory had no taste once it became routine. Power, hoarded too long in the same cage, stagnates. He wanted more. Something greater. Not just eternal rule of a cursed world, but eternity itself.
So he had defied even his advisors' trembling warnings. His generals had begged him to stop. His servants had groveled, crying of omens. But warnings meant nothing. Azrael had never once chosen restraint.
The ritual circle had been perfect. Marked in runes etched across obsidian, fueled by rivers of sacrificed souls and fire pulled from the very marrow of the abyss. The offering had been blood, uncountable gallons. Then the chanting rose.
The power entered him like a flood breaking through dam gates. His blood boiled with it, his veins nearly bursting. Shadows screamed out of his body like wildfire, uncontrolled yet magnificent. He had roared, reaching upward past all that was known — past shadow, past flame, beyond worlds unseen.
And then—something colder broke through.
Not fire. Not shadow. Light.
It was too heavy, too suffocating, not meant for him. It crushed, not burned. And within it, a voice that shattered through his skull — vast, divine, undeniable.
"Enough."
Azrael froze.
"Your rule is over, Azrael. You wish for eternity? Then climb for it. Seek it where even kings must bow. I cast you into the husk of a mortal. If you desire your crown again, ascend the Tower."
"No…" Azrael had roared, dragging up every last shred of his strength, his shadows clawing, grasping, tearing, trying to latch on to his body as it dissolved. His throne cracked, flames extinguished, banners shredded into void-dust. His chest tore open, his wings broke apart, his crown of horns melted into ash.
And then he was gone.
When his eyes snapped open again, the world was silent.
Too silent.
Azrael inhaled sharply, and pain shot through his chest. His lungs strained as though dragging in thin, brittle air. His throat tightened with weakness he had forgotten mortals lived with. He rolled and clutched at the ground—and felt no stone throne, no marble floor of war, but something soft beneath his fingers.
A bed.
He shot upright with a violent gasp… and nearly fell over. His body swayed. His stomach lurched. His muscles refused him, straining pitifully even to balance.
"What… is this?" His voice came raw, hoarse. Small.
He forced his gaze to his hands, dreading.
Not claws. Flesh.
His fingers were pale, dull things with blunt nails. Not blades, not strength, just… fingers. Weak, fragile. His skin was smooth and easily bruisable, like wax stretched over twigs. His chest rose and fell too fast, his heart pounding fear instead of unshaken dominance.
Azrael stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over them in his hurry to find proof. His legs shook. His knees gave. He staggered across the cramped room until his palms slapped against a dresser, and his eyes locked on a mirror.
The answer nearly made him retch.
He stared—no, he gawked—at a stranger.
A man. Ordinary. Twenty-five, maybe. Pale skin. Short disheveled hair that didn't shine but drooped like dead grass. Eyes ringed with blackened exhaustion, not fire. A mouth set in weariness, not in command.
Shoulders hunched like life had beaten him long before any war could.
That weakling was him. That frail shadow of existence was now his prison.
Azrael's heart hammered. His vision blurred red. He slammed his fist into the mirror, cracking the glass with a shatter that spilled fragments across the floor. But the cost hit instantly — his flesh split like paper, blood bright red dripping down his knuckles, stinging like knives.
He stared at it in disbelief.
Such a petty wound. It should have sealed within heartbeats. Instead, pain lingered. And beneath it, humiliation boiled.
"This…" his voice broke low, clutching his bleeding hand. "This is no body. This is a cage. You dare… bind me into this worm's shell?"
The words from before rang again in his skull like a whip: Ascend the Tower. Or rot bound forever.
He pressed his forehead into the cracked mirror, breath unsteady, fogging over the broken reflection of Kai's face. Fury filled him, but alongside it came the sharp, cutting edge of challenge.
Azrael snarled softly to himself.
"This human… he is nothing. No power, no meaning, no will. Dead inside long before I came." His lips twitched. "That only makes him useful. His shell, my cover. His weakness… my mask."
His thoughts smashed apart when another sound filled the room — sharp, rattling vibrations. He whirled instinctively, shadows flaring in reflex. His eyes locked on a strange glowing object buzzing on the desk.
Azrael approached, glaring suspiciously. It was a block of glass and metal, vibrating like cursed stone. He picked it up with careful disgust. Its surface lit up under his touch, glowing images dancing across it. Then sound blasted—a chirping note followed by words crawling across the surface.
[Kai, your shift starts in one hour. Don't be late this time.]
Kai.
His head tilted, brow furrowed. That must've been the name dragged onto this clumsy body. A human. A worker. Pathetic.
Azrael sneered. "Kai is dead." He set the object back down roughly, unwilling to waste more focus on its magic. Later, perhaps—when he decided this world's tricks deserved his time.
But then—his senses spiked.
The smell. He knew it instantly.
Rot. Decay. The hunger of lesser filth.
A shadow bent unnaturally in the room's corner. From it crawled a twisted little beast — goblin‑shaped, sickly green flesh, drooling fangs, and feral yellow eyes that locked on him with primal hunger.
Azrael's grin came sharp, feral. At last.
Something to remind him he still breathed.
The goblin screeched and lunged, claws flailing. Azrael's body faltered — knees buckled, heart slammed painfully, muscles dragged slow. But instinct alone drove him. He raised his hand, and his shadows answered.
Like smoke turned to iron, they surged across the floor, swarming the goblin's legs, its arms, its throat. Tendrils coiled, crawled up its neck. It coughed, gargled, snarled uselessly.
Azrael's grin widened, blood dripping from his cut knuckles. His fist clenched. The shadows obeyed, snapping inward like a trap.
CRACK.
The goblin's body buckled in a single instant, crushed and broken, before bursting into ash that scattered across the floor.
And when it was over, only silence lingered.
Azrael lowered his hand, chest heaving hard—too hard. This body hated the effort. His arms screamed, his lungs burned just from that. Yet his smile stayed, faint, unwavering.
He still had power. Diminished. Suppressed. But it was there. His shadows lived. His core remained intact.
Azrael moved closer to the mirror once more. He leaned into the fractured image of Kai's frail face, studying it—not with hate, but with something colder. Calculation.
His pupils flashed red for a flicker, his aura throbbing before shrinking back down under the mask.
"This shell is weak," he whispered to himself, voice low, steady. "But I am not." His gaze hardened into something merciless. "I will climb. I will shatter the heart of this tower, drag its deity screaming into the pit, and reclaim what is mine. Even eternity… will kneel."
Slowly, he straightened.
The room was ordinary. Pathetic. Human. And yet, beyond these walls, he could feel it—like faint thunder in the bones of the earth. The Tower waited. It pulsed. A chain, a lure, a throne waiting to be seized.
And Azrael, Demon King, exiled and wrapped in mortal weakness, would climb.
His chest pounded from effort but quickened with one more thing: anticipation. His lips curved faintly. He spoke the cursed name softly, almost with amusement.
"Kai."
The mask would hold. For now.
But one day, when the truth of whose eyes looked out through that tired human face was revealed, the world would kneel all over again.
To be continued.....