Tsuramō ran a hand through his crimson hair, the strands wild and tangled from his restless pacing.
His demon cloth fluttered around him—dark, sleek, and shimmering with an iridescent sheen that seemed to ripple like liquid midnight.
The fabric was woven from enchanted silks, reinforced with dark magic, fitting tightly against his lean frame.
It bore intricate patterns of swirling runes stitched along the edges, glowing faintly with a sinister blue hue, echoing his demonic heritage yet contrasting sharply with his gentle disposition.
He was the son of the mighty Demon Lord Malakar, a creature of terror and power.
But unlike his father, Tsuramō was a paradox—compassionate, almost human in his aversion to bloodshed.
He despised the violence that stained his lineage, preferring to wield his long, razor-sharp blade with precision, slicing through demons and shadows alike.
His blade gleamed cold and deadly, etched with runes of protection and calm, a symbol of his refusal to embrace the darkness his bloodline offered.
Haruto's eyes, a deep, stormy gray, flickered with frustration as he muttered.
"I don't wanna stay here anymore. Everything is just a bunch of hokum." His voice was low, tinged with disdain.
He paused, running a hand through his crimson hair again, then looked down at his clothes—sleek, black armor interwoven with crimson threads that hinted at his noble yet conflicted heritage.
His demeanor was quiet but intense, a boy caught between worlds.
"I think I'm going to run away one day," he whispered to himself, voice barely audible. "That old man has been bothering me since I had sense."
Suddenly, a shadowy figure approached—a tall, commanding woman with a presence as cold and sharp as winter's breath.
She was a demon of regal bearing, her skin a deep obsidian, shimmering like polished onyx under the flickering torchlight.
Her eyes burned with a piercing crimson, and her horns curled elegantly from her forehead, tapering into wicked points.
Her long, dark hair flowed behind her like a silk banner, and her wings—large, leathery, with veins of glowing violet—spread slightly as she moved.
She bowed her head slightly, voice as smooth and commanding as a blade sliding through flesh.
"Master Tsuramō , the king awaits your arrival," she announced bluntly, her tone devoid of emotion, yet laced with a sense of importance.
Tsuramō nodded slowly, pushing aside the tumult of his thoughts.
"I'm coming," he replied calmly, his voice steady despite the storm of feelings within.
The demon woman straightened and turned gracefully, her violet wings folding behind her as she slipped into the shadows, leaving Tsuramō to his restless thoughts once more.
The footsteps echoed softly through the vast, opulent halls of the demon palace—a sprawling fortress carved from black obsidian and shimmering crimson crystal, its spires piercing the infernal sky like jagged claws.
Walls dripped with glowing runes that pulsated with dark magic, casting flickering shadows across endless corridors lined with towering statues of ancient demons.
Torches of molten lava flickered in wrought-iron sconces, their flickering light dancing across intricate murals depicting battles and bloodshed from ages long past.
Tsuramo moved with deliberate silence, his hands clasped behind his back, his crimson eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
He walked slowly, almost contemplatively, every step echoing softly against the polished stone floor.
Servants and demons alike bowed deeply as he passed, their heads lowered in reverence or fear.
The air was thick with the scent of brimstone and dark magic, a palpable tension hanging like a storm ready to break.
Soon, he came to a halt before the grand throne—an enormous seat of blackened gold and blood-red gems, carved with twisting demonic runes that shimmered with unholy power.
Sitting atop it was the Demon Lord Malakar—an imposing figure whose very presence seemed to warp the air around him.
Malakar's voice cut through the silence like a blade—cold, low, and menacing.
"Tsuramo… You've been a disappointment," he intoned, his tone dripping with contempt. His eyes gleamed like twin crimson stars, piercing into his son's soul.
Malakar stepped down from his throne, a towering figure wrapped in a cloak of shadows and flames.
His armor was dark and jagged, etched with glowing runes that rippled with infernal energy.
His horns curled back like the spirals of a twisted crown, and his face was a mask of razor-sharp features—chiseled and cruel, with eyes that burned with a relentless hunger for power.
"I expected you to be cruel like the others," he continued, voice like gravel.
"The demons in the clan are all training, fighting, preparing for the day you'll take my place." He stepped closer, inches from Tsuramo's face, the air thickening with menace.
"And yet… you remain weak."
Malakar's gaze bore into his son as he leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Do you remember the favor I did for you? You were once a helpless, useless human—nothing but a pawn. And now… you are the most powerful demon in this forsaken realm." His lips curled into a cold, mocking smile.
Tsuramo smirked, a glint of defiance sparking in his crimson eyes.
"You'll keep reminding me of that… until, who knows when," he said softly, voice calm but laced with underlying irritation.
Malakar's expression darkened, and he turned away with a slow, raspy laugh that echoed unnaturally through the hall—an unholy sound that sent shivers down the spines of everyone present.
"And you, father, I already told you— I'm not taking the throne. I'm better off like this."
The demon lord's shoulders tensed as he turned back, eyes narrowing. "And what's the point? You're the demon lord's oldest son. You will take the throne after me, whether you like it or not."
Tsuramo's grin widened, a flicker of rebellion blazing in his eyes. "I'm not kidding. I don't want the throne. I'm sick of this—stupid old demons bossing me around, telling me what to do. It sucks."
Malakar's brow arched sharply, the flames dancing along his horns flickering brighter. He sat back on his throne with a deep, rumbling growl.
"You're part human, part demon. You are the most powerful of all… but I can wipe you out in an instant if I choose."
He slowly rose, his voice dripping with dark promise. "You will learn… or you will die."
Tsuramo's smirk grew wider, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"You can't kill me, father. You're not capable," he said, folding his arms. "And I will never rule this cruel, corrupted world. Mark my words."