The next morning, the Demon King's castle no longer carried the air of calm authority. It buzzed like a nest stirred by a predator's claw. Servants rushed through the corridors with pale faces, clutching trays and scrolls. Knights in blackened armor barked orders, their eyes sharp and wary. Even the high officials, usually composed in their smug authority, whispered urgently among themselves.
The very stones seemed unsettled, as though the roar of last night still echoed in their cracks.
Asura sat cross-legged on his grand bed, a tray of breakfast resting on his lap. He picked at a piece of bread, nibbling at the crust with exaggerated boredom, his golden eyes fixed not on the food but on the heavy wooden door.
Outside, voices carried just enough to reach him.
"Something stirred last night," one guard whispered, his voice tight.
"The Abyssal Behemoth," another answered grimly. "It hasn't moved in decades."
"And yet we all felt it," a third murmured. "Its roar shook the entire realm. The ground itself split. This is no small omen."
A silence followed, heavy and uneasy. Then the first voice spoke again, softer, almost fearful:
"But why now?"
Asura chewed slowly, savoring the bite, though his thoughts were sharper than ever. His system window lingered at the edge of his vision, quietly recording his survival from the night before. He swallowed and leaned back, one hand propping up his chin.
So they noticed. Of course they did. Even if they didn't see the fight, no one could miss that roar. But they don't know. Not about me. Not about what really happened.
His lips curled faintly into a grin.
"…Good," he whispered under his breath. "Let's keep it that way."
The grin faded into something quieter, colder. The image of molten eyes flashed again in his mind. His fists clenched against the bedsheets, and his golden eyes hardened.
One day, Behemoth. One day.
From her usual post by the desk, Selene's violet gaze flicked toward him. She had heard the whispers too. Her expression remained calm, but her hands folded tightly in her lap. She remembered the boy limp in her arms, his skin fever-hot, his body trembling from mana strain.
She knew.
The others only suspected calamity had stirred. But she knew who had stood at the center of it. And the truth both terrified and awed her.
Asura caught her glance and quickly stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth, puffing his cheeks like a mischievous child. "Mmmff! Good bread, Selene!"
Her lips twitched at his antics, but her eyes never softened.
The boy she served was no ordinary child. And sooner or later, the shadow of last night would force the truth into the open.
✦ The Secret Resolve
Night fell heavy over the Demon King's castle. The usual rhythm of torchlight and shadow felt different now—unsettled, almost restless. Servants who once laughed quietly in the halls now hurried with hushed voices, and guards patrolled with sharper eyes. The air itself seemed to remember the tremor that had shaken the realm.
Inside the young prince's chambers, Selene moved with her usual grace, though her steps were slower than usual, her gaze often straying toward the bed. She arranged the desk neatly, tucking away parchments and quills, then folded a discarded tunic with careful hands. She filled a fresh pitcher of water, her movements precise.
But always, her violet eyes flicked back to him.
Asura lay nestled in the enormous bed, dwarfed by the silken sheets. His small arms clutched a pillow, his silver hair a tangled halo across the velvet. His lips stretched into a yawn—loud, exaggerated, and utterly convincing.
Selene lingered, her expression unreadable. "Sleep well, young master," she murmured, her tone soft but shadowed with something heavier.
"Mmh… night, Selene…" Asura replied, his voice muffled with feigned drowsiness.
She hesitated at the bedside, fingers brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. For the briefest moment, the gesture was not of a maid to her master, but of a woman to a child—a fleeting touch of warmth and protection.
Asura's chest tightened. For a heartbeat, he wanted to lean into that touch. To be what she believed he was: a boy safe in his bed, unburdened by secrets. But that moment passed quickly. He forced himself still, breathing slow and even.
At last, Selene turned. Her skirt whispered against the polished floor as she walked to the door. The hinges creaked softly, and with a muted click, the chamber fell into silence once more.
Asura's golden eyes snapped open.
Gone was the mask of innocence, the boy who yawned and cuddled pillows. His gaze burned sharp, alive with something far older, far hungrier. He sat up slowly, letting the sheets slide to the floor, the weight of the night pressing on him like armor.
His hand reached beneath the mattress, fingers brushing the familiar grain of the wooden katana. He drew it out with care, holding it close to his chest as though it were both weapon and anchor. The wood was warm from his touch, but heavy—far heavier than it had been days ago.
I can't let fear hold me back.
The memory slammed into him, vivid as lightning: the Abyssal Behemoth's molten eyes, vast and merciless; its roar that shattered earth and sky; the way his strongest strikes bounced off its hide like sparks against a mountain. His chest constricted, breath trembling—not from terror now, but from rage at himself.
He had run.
Yes, he had survived. But he had fled. And the system had mocked him for it with its title of "Coward's Wisdom."
His fingers tightened on the katana until the wood creaked. His reflection caught faintly in the window—horns jutting through silver hair, golden eyes gleaming like tempered steel.
If I want to face monsters like that again, I need more than borrowed anime moves.
He rose, his bare feet whispering against the cold marble floor. The room felt larger now, emptier, as if daring him to fill the silence with resolve. His reflection stared back at him from the windowpane, but it was not the image of a child he saw. No—he saw something else. A shadow of the warrior he meant to become, forged not from comfort but from defiance.
The night outside stretched endlessly, stars veiled by faint trails of smoke still drifting from the scarred forest. Somewhere beyond those walls, the Behemoth prowled still, unchallenged, untouchable.
Not forever.
He lifted the katana to his shoulder, the blade resting like a mantle of responsibility. The aches in his body screamed for rest, the burns of overused mana whispered weakness—but his will stood unyielding.
I need mastery.
The thought rang in him like an oath. Not just power. Not just tricks stolen from the stories of his past life. True mastery. The strength to not only mimic legends, but to surpass them.
His golden eyes narrowed, burning brighter in the torchlight.
"Next time," he whispered, voice sharp as a blade, "I won't run."
The vow cut into the silence like steel against stone. The torches flickered violently, and for a heartbeat, the shadows themselves seemed to stir—as if the castle had heard him, as if the realm itself bore witness.
And though he stood alone, clutching nothing more than a wooden sword, the night bent around his resolve, acknowledging the spark of a boy who had already sworn himself to a war far larger than his body could yet contain.
✦ Training in the Shadows
The courtyard was more graveyard than training ground. Once it had been glorious, filled with the clash of steel and the roar of fire, a proving ground where Demon King's knights honed their blades. But time had stripped it bare. Stone tiles lay cracked, weeds poked through fissures, and shattered pillars loomed like broken teeth. Charred scars still marred the walls, etched with spells long forgotten.
To the castle, it was an abandoned ruin.
To Asura, it was freedom.
The moonlight poured through gaps in the roof, silvering the dust, washing over the boy who stood at the center. His bare feet were planted firm against the cracked stone, his chest already damp with sweat, his silver hair clinging to his forehead. In his hands rested a simple wooden katana, yet the way he held it—steady, reverent—gave it the aura of a sacred relic.
His small shoulders rose and fell with steady breaths. He could still feel the weight of the Behemoth's roar in his chest, the shame of his retreat in his bones. The fear lingered, but so did something sharper: hunger.
"This place will do," he murmured to himself.
He moved.
The first swing was deliberate, a clean diagonal slash that cut through the night air with a whistle. Then another. And another. His arms moved in rhythm, like the ticking of a pendulum. Slowly at first. Steady. Then faster. The wooden blade blurred, arcs of mana trailing faintly from its edge like ribbons of light.
The system chimed:
Ding.
[Swordsmanship Lv. 7 → Lv. 8.]
He didn't stop. His stance shifted, feet sliding across cracked tiles. He ducked phantom strikes, parried invisible foes, countered shadows that pressed in from every side. His movements were a dance between memory and instinct, half anime fantasy, half honed intuition.
Ding.
New Technique Acquired: Swift Edge Step.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. His lungs burned. Still he pressed on.
Then he changed gears. Sword drills alone wouldn't be enough.
He let the katana rest against his shoulder and thrust out his free hand. Mana surged instantly, flooding his veins like fire.
"Fireball!"
A sphere of flame spun into existence. Not the wild, uncontrolled inferno he had unleashed before, but compact, steady. He hurled it. The explosion rocked the courtyard wall, sending a wave of heat washing over him.
"Stormfang Bolt!"
Lightning surged around his arm, jagged arcs snapping at the air. His body jolted, muscles twitching under the sting, but he gritted his teeth and forced control, dispersing the crackle before it tore his arm apart. The smoke hissed away into the night.
"Stonebreaker Step!"
He stomped hard. Mana shot down his leg, shattering the earth beneath him. The ground cracked outward in a spiderweb, dust rising in a choking cloud. He stumbled, chest heaving, then steadied himself with his blade like a cane.
Ding.
Elemental Proficiency Increased!
Sword-Magic Synchronization — Unlocked (Beginner).
He barked out a laugh, breathless but fierce. "Yes… that's it."
But he wasn't done.
He tightened his grip on the katana and swung again, this time channeling mana along its edge. The wooden blade shimmered, wrapped in sparks of energy.
"Black Lightning Slash!"
The strike split the air. A jagged arc of electricity cut forward, leaving a smoking trench across the floor. The air itself trembled with the impact.
Ding!
New Skill Acquired: Elemental Sword Art – Beginner.
His arms shook violently. His knees buckled. He fell to one, catching himself with the katana.
His body screamed at him to stop. He was only four years old. He wasn't supposed to push this hard, wasn't supposed to channel mana like this. His vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges.
But then those molten eyes filled his mind again.
That roar.
That crushing wave of despair.
His chest clenched, shame burning hotter than his exhaustion.
"I… won't… run again."
He forced himself up, wobbling, legs trembling under his weight. The katana rose one last time, overhead, catching the moonlight.
He swung.
The blade slammed into stone, splitting a tile in two, the crack radiating outward like a scar carved by his will. The sound echoed across the empty courtyard, a defiant note against the silence of the night.
His breath tore ragged from his throat. His body swayed dangerously, silver hair plastered to his face with sweat. His knees buckled again, and he dropped to both, arms limp at his sides.
But the grin never left his lips.
The system's glow lingered faintly in his vision, silent now—as if even it had paused, waiting for him to recover.
Asura tilted his head back. The moon loomed above, pale and cold, watching in silence. He met its gaze as though daring it to look away.
"This is only the beginning," he whispered. His voice was hoarse, but sharp, an oath sealed in blood and sweat.
The courtyard returned to silence. Only the wind moved, brushing against his trembling frame, carrying his vow into the endless night.
✦ The Realm Watches
The balcony of the Demon King's citadel jutted like a fang into the night sky, carved from obsidian so black it swallowed the moonlight. From this height, the Demon Realm sprawled beneath him—forests of warped trees whose veins pulsed with red mana, mountain ridges belching molten smoke, rivers of shadow glinting like steel under the pale moon.
Tonight, all of it was silent.
Not the silence of peace, but the silence of fear.
The Abyssal Behemoth's roar still lingered in the bones of the earth. Even now, tremors rippled faintly through the stones of the citadel, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Birds had fled the forests in shrieking flocks. Wolves howled once, then fell silent. Even the storms on the horizon—the eternal gales that lashed the edge of the Demon Realm—paused, as though the very sky feared to stir.
The Demon King stood alone at the railing, his crimson cloak shifting with the cold wind. His horns caught the moonlight, glinting faintly, his eyes burning like molten gold as they scanned the horizon. His stillness carried weight, as if the realm itself bent around his silence.
Behind him, the council fidgeted nervously. High officials in black and crimson robes, their horns polished, their eyes sharp—yet tonight, even they trembled. The air was thick with the scent of their unease.
"My Lord…" one elder began, voice unsteady, "the Behemoth has not stirred in decades. Yet its roar carried across the kingdoms. Even humans in the borderlands must have felt it."
Another official spoke quickly, his tone sharp, panicked. "If the humans suspect the Demon Realm is responsible, they will act. Armies will march. Scouts are already watching our borders."
"And the angels," a third added bitterly, "they wait for excuses. The Holy See will call this a sign. They will preach that the age of calamity has returned—and rally their legions against us."
A younger official stepped forward, fists clenched. "Then let them come! We are demons. We need no excuses to fight—"
"Enough."
The word cracked like thunder.
The council fell instantly silent. Their voices withered, their eyes lowered. None dared to look at their king.
The Demon King did not turn. His gaze remained locked on the land below. His voice, when it came, was low, measured, and terrible.
"You tremble at shadows and waste breath on prophecies. But you miss the truth standing before you."
The officials swallowed hard. They exchanged glances, but no one dared to ask what he meant.
The Demon King tilted his head downward, crimson eyes narrowing. Not at the horizon. Not at the distant mountains.
At the courtyard.
There, bathed in silver moonlight, a boy stood. Small, fragile, silver hair matted with sweat. In his hands, a wooden katana swung again and again, each motion sharp as a blade, relentless despite the trembling of his body. Mana crackled faintly from every strike, lighting the dark air like sparks.
The boy faltered. Staggered. Fell to his knees.
But then, slowly, he rose again. He gripped the katana tighter, raised it once more, and swung. The cracked tiles split under the force. The boy's golden eyes burned like twin stars.
The Demon King's claws scraped the railing, leaving grooves in the obsidian. His lips curled faintly—not a smile, not a snarl, but something caught between.
"…So," he rumbled, his voice like a storm rolling over mountains, "it has already begun."
The council shifted uneasily. One dared to whisper, "My Lord… the Behemoth's awakening—it is an omen, isn't it? A sign of calamity returning?"
The Demon King finally turned, his gaze sweeping over them. The weight of it crushed their spines, forced their knees lower to the floor.
"Not an omen," he said. "A beginning."
The words struck like hammers. The officials bowed lower, their horns nearly scraping the floor. None spoke again.
The Demon King looked once more at the boy below. His grandson. His heir. His storm.
He remembered the roar of the Behemoth in his own youth, the endless battles against humans and angels who sought to wipe demons from existence. He had ruled with blood because only blood had preserved them. But this… this was different.
The child did not merely endure. He defied.
A storm was coming—one greater than any war he had waged, greater than any kingdom could contain.
And when it broke, the world itself would tremble.