The world had forgotten his name.
Once, Azrael Veynar, the Crimson Lord of the Abyss, had ruled with a power so absolute that even gods trembled. Armies of men, angels, and dragons united to end his reign, and in the last battle, his throne was shattered, his kingdom scattered into the void, and his soul sealed beyond the flow of time.
Or so they believed.
A thousand years later, in the decaying outskirts of the Holy Empire of Eloria, a boy gasped for air inside a ruined chapel. His frail body was thin, bruised, and weak. The villagers had abandoned him here to die, calling him cursed.
But when his heart stopped, the world shifted.
Dark flames erupted from the cracks of the broken altar. The air vibrated with whispers, and shadows bent unnaturally toward the lifeless boy. Then, his eyes opened—scarlet and cold, burning with ancient wrath.
"This body… feeble, yet… how amusing."
Azrael had returned. Not as the towering figure of terror that once commanded legions, but within the fragile shell of a forgotten human child. His soul had clawed its way out of the abyss, awakened by a faint resonance—the fragment of his shattered throne buried beneath the chapel.
He stood, unsteady at first, then straightened with dignity no mortal could fake. Dust fell from the cracked ceiling as the shadows whispered his name, echoing across dimensions.
"The gods thought they had chained me. The heroes thought they had erased me. Yet here I am… reborn."
The boy's reflection in the broken mirror shimmered. For an instant, the image was not human but the silhouette of a horned king wreathed in crimson flames. His memories rushed back—of betrayals, of divine spears piercing his chest, of the heavens themselves uniting against him.
And now, centuries later, everything had changed.
Humans had grown complacent, drunk on false tales of their "holy victory." The empire that claimed to have slain him had become corrupt, rotting beneath its golden banners. The abyss was fractured, its legions leaderless. The gods had withdrawn, their voices silent.
The world was ripe.
"I will rebuild what was mine. I will claim the throne again. And when the gods descend, they will kneel."
A faint laugh escaped him, low and dangerous. The ruined chapel trembled, dust falling like ash. For the first time in a millennium, the Crimson Throne stirred.
Azrael Veynar had awakened.
And the world… would burn.
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