POV: General Veylthar the Ashen
The battlefield reeked of blood and smoke.
My wings, blackened by soot and torn by battle, beat furiously against the night sky.
Below me, the earth was a graveyard of my kin—broken horns, shattered blades, and lifeless eyes staring blankly into the dark.
The cries of the dying still echoed, but they were fading, swallowed by the heavy silence of defeat.
I had fought until my veins burned dry.
I had poured every ounce of mana into my strikes, every drop of strength into my blade.
Yet it hadn't been enough.
The Demon King—my lord, Zerath Bloodveil—had fallen.
It was never supposed to end like this.
Four Heroes had come, champions of the gods. Human, elf, and even traitors among our own.
They tore apart our armies. Crushed our generals.
And with their cursed light, struck down the king who had united our people.
And now, I was the last.
The last shield.
The last blade.
The last general of demonkind.
Or so I thought.
In my arms, five children clung to me.
Tiny hands gripped my armor. Fragile breaths brushed against my chest. Their crimson eyes glimmered with fear, too young to understand the weight of what had been lost.
They were the last noble heirs of demonkind.
If they perished, our history, our bloodlines, and everything we had bled for would vanish into ash.
"Hold on," I whispered.
Whether I spoke to them or to myself, I no longer knew.
My wings unfurled, battered and trembling.
With a cry that tore raw from my throat, I launched into the sky.
Each beat drained me further.
My mana core flickered like a candle in the storm, each pulse weaker than the last.
My muscles screamed. My vision blurred.
But still, I clutched the children to my chest.
I would not let them fall.
Damn the Heroes. Damn the traitors. Damn the gods themselves.
If not for them, our king would yet reign, and our people would not be hunted like vermin.
Through the smoke, a faint glow.
A village. Human. Dangerous.
Yet even danger offered a chance—perhaps even salvation.
I let my demonic pressure ripple outward, faint and fractured.
For a moment, nothing.
Then—three familiar signatures answered.
Hidden. Watching. Demon spies, buried within the town.
Relief struck me like light through the dark.
Perhaps they could take the children.
Perhaps the fire of our race would not die tonight.
But then..
My mana core cracked.
Agony tore through me like shattering glass.
My wings faltered.
And I fell.
Boom!
The ground shattered as I crashed, dirt and fire exploding outward.
Pain wracked my body, but still, I shielded the children in my arms.
Blood filled my throat as I forced my head up.
A shadow approached.
A woman. Cloaked in black. Crimson eyes gleamed beneath her hood.
Recognition stirred.
it, was my sister.
I managed a broken smile.
"Long time… no see… sister."
Her expression twisted.
Not joy.
Sorrow.
Her silence weighed heavier than a thousand words.
Finally, she spoke.
"Your mana core is going to explode".
A bitter chuckle escaped me.
"I know."
"The mana core began to fracture—first a tremor, then a pulse. Heat bled outward in steady waves, each one harsher than the last. Cracks spidered through it, glowing brighter with every heartbeat, until the searing force swelled and swelled—merciless, inevitable—before tearing itself apart in a slow, burning detonation."
My body convulsed. My shattered core offered no shield.
This was the end I had long delayed.
But not for them.
Never for them.
With what little strength remained, I thrust the children forward.
My arms felt like lead.
But I forced them into her embrace.
"Take them," I rasped, each word soaked in blood.
"Protect them… live for them."
Her hands shook as she gathered the small ones.
She hesitated.
But at last… she obeyed.
My gaze fell to the eldest, my son—Vex Ashen.
Barely two years old, golden hair tousled, red eyes blazing faintly with my bloodline.
He whimpered, reaching toward me.
As if he knew this was our farewell.
My heart tore—I would never see the man he would become.
Beside him, two newborns: Alaric Duskborne and Malrik Bloodveil.
Alaric, heir to the vampire line, his tiny form already carrying the weight of his clan's future.
And Malrik… son, of the Demon King.
His white hair gleamed like silver fire, his crimson eyes faint but burning.
A fragile ember destined to ignite into something greater.
My fading gaze turned to the last two—Aria Vale and Selene Veythys, daughters of fallen succubus generals.
Barely toddlers, clinging together in fear, tears streaking pale faces.
Their mothers had vanished in the war's final moments.
Whether escaped… or slain… I would never know.
"Grow strong…" My voice cracked, blood spilling from my lips.
"Live… even if the world hunts you. Live."
And then my mana core exploded.
The light consumed me.
My flesh. My wings. My very soul scattered into ash.
Yet as darkness claimed me, my thoughts did not linger on pain or defeat.
Only a single prayer:
That the children would rise again.
The last five heirs of demonkind.
The last hope of a fallen race.
⸻
Fifteen Years Later
The world had long forgotten the fall of the Demon King.
The Heroes basked in glory.
The kingdoms rebuilt.
Humanity slept soundly beneath their false peace.
But the children survived.
Hidden in the shadows.
Growing stronger with each passing year.
And when the time came…
The world would remember.