The battlefield burned.
Corpses lay scattered across the blackened plains, their armor twisted, their blood soaking into the soil. Fires crackled, smoke rising to stain the crimson sky. And at the center of it all stood a single figure — tall, armored in crimson-black plate, his greatsword Erebus dripping with blood.
Azrael Bloodrend. The Crimson Prince.
Even the corpses seemed to bow to him in death. Behind him, his soldiers — once trembling, low-born demons from a kingdom mocked as the weakest — now knelt in reverence.
He had led them to victory after victory.
He had crushed kings who once scorned his name.
And now, only one remained.
In the distance, his generals stood, exchanging looks that should have been pride… but carried something else.
That night, in the obsidian citadel of Bloodrend, the war council gathered. The chamber was vast, its walls lit by braziers of green flame, its floor inlaid with a map of the demon kingdoms. Most of it already bore Azrael's crimson sigil, only a single kingdom left unconquered.
Azrael stood at the head of the table, his armored hand pressing against the map. His crimson eyes glowed, hard and merciless.
"One more," he said, his voice cold and certain. "One more kingdom, and the demon world will kneel."
Kaelthorn, broad and scarred, raised his goblet high. "To our Prince's final victory!"
The council roared their approval. Lady Selene, veiled and smiling, dipped her head. "Glory to the Bloodrend name."
And Varian… his younger brother, the one who had once followed him like a shadow… could not meet his eyes. His hands trembled around his goblet.
Azrael noticed. He always noticed. Strange. Their smiles reek of fear.
As the council laughed and toasted, the chamber floor glowed faintly.
Azrael frowned, his hand tightening around his sword hilt. "What is this—"
The runes blazed to life. Chains of crimson light erupted, wrapping around his limbs, dragging him down.
"Treachery?!" His roar shook the chamber.
Kaelthorn's face twisted with grim resolve. "Forgive us, Prince… but your reign cannot continue!" His spear thrust forward, piercing Azrael's side.
Selene's voice rang out, weaving power into the runes. "By this seal, we strip you of your cursed strength!"
Azrael bared his fangs, snarling, as he struggled against the chains. Blood dripped from his wound, sizzling against the glowing runes.
And then Varian stepped forward. His brother. His blood. His betrayer.
Azrael's gaze locked onto him, furious and cold. "Varian. You too?"
Varian's eyes were wet with grief, his voice trembling. "Forgive me, brother… but the world cannot bear your rule."
He plunged their father's cursed blade into Azrael's chest.
The runes flared brighter, drinking his blood. Azrael staggered, pain tearing through him — but his crimson eyes only burned hotter.
Then, he laughed.
Broken. Furious. Cursing.
"Fools… You think this is victory?" His voice thundered. Cracks split across his body as crimson flames erupted. "Even if centuries pass… my blood will return. And when it does… your lines will BURN!"
The chamber exploded in fire. The council screamed as the citadel walls cracked and collapsed.
And then… silence.
The throne of Bloodrend stood empty, drenched in ash and blood. The Crimson Prince was dead — not by enemy blades, but by those he had trusted most.
Or so the world believed.
The world turned white.
A newborn's cry pierced the silence.
In the warmth of a human manor, Lady Elara Blackthorn cradled a child in her arms. Beside her stood Lord Dorian Blackthorn, scarred and weary, yet smiling for the first time in years.
Elara gazed down at the infant, her eyes brimming with tears. "Dorian… look at him. Our son, Adrian Blackthorn."
For a heartbeat, the infant's eyes glowed faint crimson. A spark of something ancient. Something vengeful.
Then it faded into the innocent gray of a human child.
Narration (final): Azrael Bloodrend was dead… but vengeance never dies.