The crimson moon hung heavy in the sky, casting its sickly glow across the wasteland. It was the same as when Arkan had first awakened, but now, after days of wandering, its presence no longer startled him. Instead, it gnawed at him like a constant reminder: this world had no sun. No light, no warmth. Only the eternal gaze of a bleeding sky.
Arkan trudged across cracked stone, his claws dragging faintly at his sides. The hunger was back again, a dull ache that throbbed in his chest. It was different from the hunger of a man in need of bread or water; this was a thirst for power, for essence. Without it, his limbs felt heavy, his vision blurred at the edges.
He hated it.
But when the beasts came, and their dying energy poured into him, he couldn't deny the relief it brought. Each time, it was as though his veins were filled with fire, his senses sharpened, his body strengthened. A part of him whispered that he could lose himself to it forever, that if he just kept feeding, he would never feel weak again.
He clenched his fists. No. I can't.
The memory of his family's faces still lingered, though fainter than before. His sister's laughter echoed like a distant bell. He feared what would happen the day those echoes went silent.
The wasteland shifted around him as he traveled. Black stone gave way to dunes of ash, rolling hills of skeletal remains that crunched underfoot. He passed rivers of tar that bubbled with foul steam and ruins of structures older than time itself. Each ruin bore markings carved into the stone—jagged symbols that pulsed faintly with light whenever he neared. He did not understand them, but their presence stirred something deep in his new body, something both familiar and hostile.
On the third day since finding the obsidian fortress, he heard voices.
Not the snarls of beasts, not the shrieks of carrion things, but voices that carried language.
He froze, crouching low on a ridge of stone. Below him stretched a hollow valley where black fire pits burned in shallow craters. Around the flames, a gathering of humanoid figures sat, their forms varied but united in monstrous features: horns twisted in different shapes, wings torn or leathery, skin in hues of gray, red, and obsidian.
Demons.
Arkan's pulse quickened. He had known, from the ruins, that others existed. But seeing them—living, breathing, conversing—was another matter. It confirmed the truth he had dreaded. He was no anomaly here. He was one of them.
He listened carefully. Their voices were guttural, their language harsh, yet somehow he understood. As though the knowledge had been etched into his mind with his rebirth.
"Another hunt failed," one demon snarled, its horned head turning toward the fire. "The beasts grow stronger with each passing moon."
"Stronger, or hungrier," another rasped. "The land changes. The cycle repeats."
They spoke of survival, of territories, of wars between clans. Arkan absorbed every word, piecing together the fragments of this world's law. The law was simple: strength ruled. The weak fed the strong. Alliances lasted only as long as fear held them together.
And above them all loomed the Demon Lords.
Arkan had heard whispers from the ruins—echoes of names carved into broken walls. But now, hearing the demons themselves speak of their rulers, he felt a weight settle on him. Each Demon Lord was said to command a territory spanning hundreds of leagues. They were titans of shadow and flame, beings so powerful that lesser demons trembled at their passing.
"To defy a Lord is death," one demon said flatly."To serve them is survival," another replied.
Arkan's claws dug into the stone of his hiding place. He felt the hunger twist inside him, the same way it had when he'd faced beasts. The difference now was clear: this hunger wasn't just for power. It was for freedom. If the laws of this world demanded submission to monsters, then he could never accept it.
Still, to charge into their midst would be suicide.
He turned to leave quietly, but a stone slipped underfoot. It clattered down the slope.
The camp fell silent. Dozens of red eyes turned toward the ridge.
"Who's there?" a voice growled.
Arkan's body tensed. He could flee—but something inside him, a voice older and darker, whispered that this was a chance. A chance to see if he belonged among them… or if he would carve his place by force.
Slowly, he stood.
The demons rose to meet him, their weapons crude but deadly—axes of obsidian, spears of bone, jagged blades blackened by use. They watched him approach, some snarling, others curious.
Arkan descended the slope until he stood before their fire. The flames painted his horns in crimson light, his eyes burning like embers.
"Another stray," one demon sneered, a hulking brute with shoulders broad as a bull. "You don't belong here."
Arkan's lips curled back, his voice a guttural growl. "I belong as much as any of you."
Laughter rippled through the group. But not all of them laughed. A few tilted their heads, eyes narrowing as though sensing something.
The brute stepped closer, towering over Arkan. "You smell of blood, but you carry no mark. No clan claims you. That makes you prey."
He raised his axe.
Instinct roared inside Arkan. His claws flashed upward, faster than the brute expected. The strike split flesh, blood spraying across the firelight. The brute staggered, snarling, but Arkan was already upon him, driving his claws into the demon's chest. The energy surged into him—stronger than any beast's essence he had consumed. It filled him with fire, with ecstasy, with the terrifying joy of killing.
When the brute collapsed, lifeless, the camp erupted into chaos.
Some demons roared in fury, leaping to attack. Others stepped back, uncertain. Arkan stood above the corpse, his chest heaving, the firelight painting his face in shadow. His claws dripped black blood, but his eyes blazed brighter than the flames.
"Prey?" he growled, voice trembling with power. "Then know this—any who call me prey will be devoured."
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackle of fire.
That night, Arkan was not slain.
He was tested.
Demons challenged him one by one, some driven by rage, others by curiosity. Each battle fed the hunger inside him, and each victory made the whispers in his veins louder. By dawn, when the crimson moon still hung eternal above them, Arkan stood bloodstained but unbroken.
The camp had changed.
Where once they looked upon him as an intruder, now they looked with wary respect—and fear.
A smaller demon, eyes sharp with cunning, approached him as the fire burned low. "You are cursed," it said softly. "The Devourer's Curse. To take strength from those you kill. Dangerous. Rare."
Arkan's jaw tightened. "Then you know what I am."
The demon nodded. "Yes. And so do the Lords. If they learn of you, they will not allow you to live."
Arkan said nothing. His claws flexed. In his heart, he already knew the truth. This world was ruled by monsters who believed themselves eternal. But no throne lasted forever.
And perhaps his curse was not a burden after all. Perhaps it was a weapon.
He gazed up at the crimson moon, the hunger burning brighter than ever.
If this world demands monsters, he thought, then I will become the greatest of them.