The ancient ruins of Valdris Keep smelled of wet stone and something metallic, like old blood. Astraeus Ren pressed his back so hard against a crumbling wall that the rough edges of the stone dug into his shoulder blades. He tried to muffle the sound of his own breathing, convinced the frantic pounding in his chest was loud enough to echo through the entire cursed place. Dust motes, thick as insects, swarmed in the slivers of moonlight that pierced the collapsed ceiling, each particle a tiny, silent witness to his terror.
His academy robes—the deep blue and silver crest of the Arcanum Institute—were a torn, filthy mess. He clutched the simple iron sword they'd issued for the expedition, his knuckles white. It felt like a child's toy, flimsy and useless against whatever lurked in these suffocating depths.
"Routine expedition," he mouthed, the words catching in his dry throat. Survey the ruins. Document artifacts. Return by dawn. Simple. Safe.
That was six hours ago. Before Professor Aldwin, with his characteristic academic arrogance, had read the wrong rune aloud. Before the floor had given way with a gut-wrenching groan, swallowing half their party and scattering the rest like mice. Before the screaming had started.
The last scream had faded three minutes ago. Astraeus had been counting the seconds since. Counting was a lifeline, a fragile thread of rationality in a place that felt like a waking nightmare. One hundred and eighty-one. One hundred and eighty-two.
A sound scraped through the corridor ahead, heavy and wet, like something thick being dragged across stone. His breath hitched. Every muscle locked tight, a primal scream of run trapped in his throat. But there was nowhere to go. The passage behind him was a solid wall of collapsed rock. The only way out was forward.
Move. The command was a desperate whisper in his own mind. You're a student of Arcanum. You know seventeen defensive spells. You know—
He tried to summon the simplest one, a basic ward of light. The incantation, once as familiar as his own name, was a jumble of meaningless syllables in his head. His hands shook too violently to form the gestures. The gap between knowing and doing had become a chasm, and he was falling.
Forcing his legs to unfreeze, he crept forward, sword held in a trembling guard that would have earned him a week of latrine duty. The corridor opened into a vast chamber, and the sight that met his eyes stole the air from his lungs.
It had once been a throne room, maybe. Massive, rune-carved pillars clawed toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. But the grandeur was long dead, rotted into decay. The floor was a treacherous landscape of rubble and bones—the skeletal remains of others who had been foolish enough to come here. And at the far end, on a raised dais, something waited.
The seal was broken. Shattered stone lay scattered around a circle that pulsed with a sickening, non-light. Reality itself seemed to ripple around it, like heat haze off a summer road, and a profound sense of wrongness pressed in on him, a physical weight against his mind.
From the broken circle, shadow poured like thick, black ink. It moved with a horrifying purpose, coiling and writhing as it took shape. Astraeus watched, paralyzed by a mixture of terror and morbid fascination, as the darkness solidified into something that had no place in the mortal world.
The demon that stood there was nine feet of pure, overwhelming presence. Ivory horns, each one a masterpiece of terrible beauty, curved back from a head of wild, black hair that flowed in an unseen wind. Its eyes burned with molten gold, ancient and merciless, holding the weight of dead stars. Black armor, intricate with pulsing gold details, encased its form, and through the seams, a light like contained magma bled out. But the wings were what truly broke his mind—massive, beautiful, and terrible, feathered in white and edged in black, spreading to span twice its height.
The demon's gaze swept the chamber, and when those burning eyes landed on Astraeus, he felt his soul stripped bare. This wasn't a monster. This was a law of nature, a being of such power that reality itself bent to its will.
"Three thousand years." The voice was not a sound but a vibration that resonated in Astraeus's bones, his teeth, his very essence. "Three thousand years trapped in that cursed rock, and the first thing I see upon my freedom is… a child."
White feathers, edged in black, began to drift through the air like cursed snow. Orange-red flames erupted around the demon in silent, pulsing waves, radiating pure, destructive force. The ground beneath its feet cracked and splintered.
Astraeus tried to speak, to form a plea, but his throat was a desert. His sword felt like a splinter in his hand.
"I am Kha'Zul," the demon announced, taking a single, deliberate step forward. The impact sent a tremor through the stone floor. "Demon King of the Seventh Circle. Conqueror of the Ashen Wastes. Breaker of the Celestial Gates." Another step. "And you, child, have the profound misfortune of being the first living thing I've encountered in three millennia."
"I—" Astraeus's voice cracked, a pathetic squeak. He swallowed, the sound unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. "We didn't know—""Didn't know?"
Kha'Zul's laugh was the sound of mountains grinding to dust. "Of course you didn't. Mortals never do. You stumble through creation, poking at things you don't understand, breaking seals that were placed for very, very good reasons." He tilted his head, a gesture of almost feline curiosity. "Tell me, child. Do you have any idea why I was sealed?"
Astraeus could only shake his head, a small, jerky movement.
"Because I killed a god." Kha'Zul smiled, and it was the smile of a predator that had already tasted victory. "Not some forgotten nature spirit. A true god. One of the Celestial Twelve. It took the combined might of seven archmages and the sacrifice of an entire city to bind me." He spread his wings, and the air warped and distorted around him. "And now, I'm free."
"Please," Astraeus whispered, hating the weakness, the desperation in his own voice. "I'm just a student. I'm not a threat."
"No. You're not." Kha'Zul took another step, and Astraeus stumbled back, his legs finally obeying the instinct to flee. "You're barely worth the effort of killing." The demon's expression hardened. "But I've been trapped for three thousand years. And I find myself… irritated."
He moved.
One moment he was on the dais. The next, he was simply there, directly in front of Astraeus, having crossed the distance faster than thought. A clawed hand, more solid than shadow but less tangible than flesh, wrapped around Astraeus's throat and lifted him effortlessly from the ground.
The world dissolved into a supernova of pain and terror. The sword clattered to the floor. Astraeus's hands clawed uselessly at the demon's grip. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All he could do was stare into those burning golden eyes and know, with absolute, soul-crushing certainty, that he was about to die.
"Nothing personal, child," Kha'Zul said, his voice a low, almost gentle rumble. "Wrong place. Wrong time."
The grip tightened. Astraeus felt something in his throat give way with a wet snap. His vision tunneled, the edges darkening to black. This is it. Eighteen years old. Second year at the academy. This was how it ended. Killed by a demon in a forgotten ruin, his body left to rot with the others.
His mother would never know. His friends would assume he'd died in the collapse. There would be a memorial. Professor Aldwin would give a speech about the dangers of overconfidence…
The world went black.
Death was not the peaceful, gentle release the priests promised. It was a cold, silent, and deeply impersonal void.
Astraeus's consciousness—or what was left of it—floated in an abyss that was neither dark nor light. He had no body, yet he could still think. He could still feel regret.
Well, that was embarrassing.
The thought was not his own. It was alien, clinical, and deeply insulting. Embarrassing? He'd been murdered by an ancient demon king. That was tragic. Unfair. Not embarrassing.
You died without even attempting to cast a single spell.
"I couldn't fight back!" Astraeus's thought-voice echoed in the void. "That was Kha'Zul! I'm a second-year student! What was I supposed to do, throw a basic fire spell at him?"
You could have tried. There is a difference between dying in battle and dying in terror.
He wanted to argue, but the voice was right. He'd frozen. All his training, all his study, and in the end, he'd done nothing but plead.
"Who are you?" he asked, a surge of defiance cutting through the despair.
I am the God System. And I have a proposition for you.
"A proposition?" Astraeus would have laughed if he'd had lungs. "I'm dead. What can you possibly offer a dead person?"
A second chance. With terms and conditions.
The void shifted. A screen of pure information materialized before him, scrolling with data in languages that made his non-existent eyes ache.
Subject: Astraeus Ren. Status: Deceased. Cause: Existential failure in the face of a Class-Omega threat. Anomaly detected. Your death was not a predicted outcome. This creates a disruption that must be corrected.
"So you're bringing me back?" Hope, sharp and painful, surged through him.
Negative. I cannot undo what is done. I can, however, offer a system reboot. A new beginning. A chance to become something more.
The screen flickered, showing an image of himself—taller, stronger, surrounded by allies, facing down horrors that made Kha'Zul look like a minor nuisance.
I can provide the framework for you to acquire power beyond mortal limitations. To become a force that shapes reality itself.
"What's the catch?" Astraeus asked, because there was always a catch.
The catch is the threat. Kha'Zul must be contained. His freedom represents a catastrophic threat to this reality. I will resurrect you, and I will bind him to your soul. He will become your power source, your weapon, your burden.
The void seemed to grow colder. "Bind… the Demon King. The one who just killed me. You want me to be his jailer?"
Correct. You are the only viable candidate.
"Why me? I'm a failure! I'm a mediocre student who just died without putting up a fight!"
Precisely. You are a null variable. You have no destiny, no grand fate, no predetermined path. You are a blank slate. That makes you the perfect anchor.
The screen showed Kha'Zul again, but this time he was a shadow bound to Astraeus, his power chained, controlled, and channeled.
I will give you a system to grow. His strength will become your strength. His knowledge, your knowledge. He will be your tool.
"He'll kill me the moment he gets free," Astraeus stated, a flat certainty.
Then do not let him get free. Grow strong enough that he cannot break the binding. Become powerful enough that he has no choice but to serve.
"And if I refuse?"
Then you remain deceased. Kha'Zul remains free. In approximately three months, he will have regained enough power to begin his conquest. Within a year, millions will die. Within five, civilization as you know it will cease to exist. The choice is yours.
It wasn't a choice. It was a sentence. Accept and face a lifetime of torment, bound to the monster that murdered him. Or refuse and condemn the world to a fate worse than his own.
"Some choice," he muttered into the void.
Initiating contract. Do you accept the terms?
Astraeus thought of his mother. He thought of his friends. He thought of the world he knew, the sun on his face, the taste of fresh bread from the market.
"I accept."
Binding protocol initiated. Resurrection sequence commencing. Good luck, Subject Ren. You will need it.
The void shattered, and his world became pure, agonizing light.