Darkness. That was the last thing Arkan remembered.
The world had ended for him with the shriek of tires, the tearing of metal, and the blinding flash of shattered glass. His chest had been crushed, his lungs filling with blood, every heartbeat a thunderous drum of pain before silence consumed it all. In that fading instant, he thought of his mother's gentle hands, his younger sister's laughter, the trivial yet precious moments of an ordinary life he believed would last forever.
But death is a thief with no patience.
There was no tunnel of light, no divine embrace waiting on the other side. Only the void. A bottomless, endless nothing.
He floated there, stripped of flesh and breath, stripped of time itself. Was this eternity? A quiet oblivion where memory and thought would dissolve until even the self ceased to exist? At first, Arkan thought so. He waited for the stillness to claim him, for the last remnants of his soul to scatter like dust in a storm.
Yet something clung to him. A spark. Not warmth, not comfort, but hunger. It pulsed inside the emptiness like a heart that refused to die.
And then the void shattered.
He awoke to sound.
A guttural growl, low and rumbling, vibrated through the air around him. His eyes opened—eyes that no longer belonged to a man—and the world came into view.
The sky above him was crimson, stretched endlessly, the color of fresh blood spilled across the heavens. No sun shone, only a monstrous moon hanging heavy and swollen, its surface scarred with rivers of black. The ground beneath him was cracked and blackened, the soil dry like charred bone. Ash drifted on the wind, carrying with it the stench of sulfur.
And in front of him… predators.
Three creatures prowled in a half-circle, their bodies lean and twisted like beasts of famine. They resembled wolves at a distance, but their features were warped: elongated jaws filled with jagged fangs, eyes glowing with molten embers, muscles straining against ragged patches of skin. Their claws scraped against the stone as they stalked closer. Saliva dripped from their jaws, hissing as it struck the ground.
Arkan's breath caught. He staggered backward, but his movements felt wrong, foreign. His limbs were heavier, yet stronger. He glanced at his hand—and froze.
It wasn't a human hand.
His skin was pale gray, faintly luminous with crimson veins that pulsed like molten lava beneath the flesh. His fingers were elongated, ending in curved black talons that shimmered in the red moonlight. His reflection, faintly visible in a pool of stagnant water beside him, revealed horns curling from his skull, eyes glowing scarlet, and a face too sharp, too alien, to ever belong to the man he once was.
"No…" His voice was guttural, echoing as though two tones spoke at once. "This… this isn't real."
The first beast lunged.
Instinct seized him before thought could. His clawed arm lashed out, catching the creature by the throat mid-leap. Strength coursed through him—unnatural, monstrous strength—and with a single squeeze, bone cracked like brittle wood. He hurled the beast aside, its body crumpling against the rocks.
The second came from the flank. His body twisted, faster than any reflex he'd ever known, and his talons carved through flesh with frightening ease. Warm blood splattered across his chest, but it wasn't just warmth—something else surged into him.
A torrent of energy, black and writhing, poured from the creature's dying form and sank into his own. Arkan gasped as fire roared through his veins. His muscles tightened, senses sharpening until he could hear the ash falling from the sky, smell the iron tang of blood thick in the air. It was intoxicating, overwhelming.
The third beast froze. It whimpered, then bolted into the darkness.
Arkan collapsed to his knees, trembling. The power still lingered, burning like coals in his chest. He stared at his bloodstained claws in horror. Not just at what he had done, but at the undeniable truth humming inside him: some part of him had enjoyed it.
"What… am I?" he whispered.
The crimson moon above gave no answer.
Time passed—minutes, perhaps hours. Arkan wandered the wasteland, his thoughts a storm. He remembered dying. He remembered the void. He remembered waking here. Had he been reborn? Was this Hell? Every corner of the landscape screamed damnation: rivers of tar bubbling like boiling oil, skeletal trees creaking in the dry wind, distant roars of things too large to imagine.
Yet even in his despair, one truth remained. He was alive.
Or something close to it.
Hunger gnawed at him—not for food, but for the energy he had tasted when the beasts died. His body ached, demanding more. Every time he tried to ignore it, the burning in his veins flared, reminding him that he was no longer human.
By the time the sunless sky darkened into deeper shades of crimson, he had his answer. This was not the afterlife of any religion he had known. This was another world entirely. And in this world, strength was survival.
Arkan's first night was drenched in blood.
He encountered more creatures: carrion birds with six wings and shrieks like knives, skeletal hounds crawling from fissures in the earth, shadowy wraiths that clung to his back with icy claws. He fought because he had no choice, every kill feeding the hunger, every kill making him stronger.
The power terrified him, but what terrified him more was the ease with which he used it. Each time he tore through a foe, the energy rushed into him, and for a fleeting moment the fear faded, replaced by something primal, something euphoric.
When dawn—if it could be called that—broke with the same crimson glow, Arkan stood alone amidst corpses. His chest heaved, his claws dripping, his horns glistening under the moonlight. He was stronger than when he had first awakened. Strong enough to know the truth.
He had not been given a gift.He had been cursed.
The energy he devoured was no blessing. It was corruption, burrowing into his soul, whispering promises of power. Already, he could feel the edges of his humanity fraying. The memories of his family seemed distant, like fragments of a dream dissolving in morning light.
And yet… he refused to let them go.
Clutching his chest, Arkan swore to himself. "I won't lose who I am. Not yet."
Days blurred into one another. Arkan learned to hunt, to fight, to survive. He discovered that the land itself was hostile—spires of stone collapsing without warning, rivers of black tar swallowing whole herds of beasts, storms of ash scouring flesh from bone. He witnessed battles between creatures larger than castles, their roars echoing like thunder across the wasteland.
But the strangest thing was the silence. There were no human voices, no laughter, no civilization—only monsters. For a time, he wondered if he was the only sentient being here.
That belief ended when he stumbled upon a ruin.
It was a fortress of jagged obsidian, its towers cracked and half-sunken into the earth. Symbols burned faintly on its walls, runes that pulsed with dark light. And there, gathered among the broken stones, were others. Not beasts, but humanoid figures with horns, claws, wings—variations of the monstrous form he himself bore.
Demons.
They watched him approach, their eyes narrowing, whispers hissing through the air. Some looked eager, as though tasting prey. Others wary, sensing the strength in his stride. For the first time, Arkan realized he was not alone. This was not merely a wasteland of beasts. It was a world of demons.
And he was one of them.
That night, beneath the gaze of the crimson moon, Arkan sat atop the ruined walls and stared into the endless horizon. His claws flexed. His heart pounded with hunger.
He had died as a man.He had awoken as a monster.
Yet something deep within told him this was not an accident. The void had not released him here by chance. He had been chosen, cursed, or perhaps condemned.
Whatever the truth, one thing was certain:This world would devour him if he did not devour it first.
And so began the tale of Arkan, the man who died, and the demon who would rise.