The throne sat atop a mountain of treasure — a jagged monument to power and fear.
It was no longer a seat of rule, but a cage of silence. Gold coins, cursed gems, dragonhide tomes, enchanted artifacts, weapons from fallen heroes, crowns from dead kings — all lay scattered in careless piles. There was no order, no grandeur, no celebration. It was wealth beyond imagining, amassed through submission, fear, and conquest.
And yet, he never looked at it.
The Demon King, cloaked in black silence, sat slouched forward on a throne forged from iron thorns, rusted by blood and time. His eyes were half-closed. His fingers drummed on the armrest in thoughtless rhythm.
His gaze was not fixed on his riches, nor the shifting shadows around him. It was distant — unanchored. As if he saw nothing, because he felt nothing.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of torture, bloodshed, and dominion.Fifteen years of cold vengeance.Fifteen years of victory.
And still, not once — not even once — had he felt peace.
He did not know the meaning of comfort.
The silks draped across his back meant nothing. He couldn't tell velvet from chains. The food brought before him — enchanted feasts capable of healing gods — rotted untouched. Music, art, stories, beauty — all meaningless. He could not read, and never cared to learn. He had never heard a lullaby, never touched a petal, never tasted joy.
He had no memories of warmth.Only screams.Only iron.Only fire.
And so he ruled, not as a man, but as a void — a vessel of power without purpose.
His brother — once a prince of Verdantia — knelt before the throne.
Bent, broken, old before his time. His robes were stained with ink, blood, and tears. His eyes hollowed. His lips trembled each time he spoke, for he never knew whether that day's words would earn him silence or torment.
"Three kingdoms have doubled tribute this season, my King," he rasped, voice cracking. "They beg forgiveness for last month's delay."
The Demon King said nothing.
The brother swallowed. "One sent… a child. A— a girl born under a star eclipse. They think she might be… of prophetic blood."
Still nothing.
The brother dared a glance upward. "Do… you wish to see her?"
The Demon King's answer was a flick of his finger — leftward.
A command. Dispose of it.
The brother bowed so low his nose touched the black stone. "Y-Yes, my King."
He rose shakily, bowed again, and fled. But he did not cry. He had no more tears.
He had seen children burned alive. Seen nobles fed to monsters. He had personally ordered the death of entire cities — on the Demon King's behalf.
He hated himself more than he feared the throne.
Behind the throne, shadows moved.
They weren't guards — there were none. The Demon King had no need for protection.
These were things. Monsters tamed by his will. Cursed creatures twisted by his magic. Wraiths made from the bones of enemies who dared speak his name. They slithered and shifted, whispering in tongues forgotten by mankind.
And still, he ignored them.
Sometimes, challengers made it through.
A sorcerer with magic from the Age of Stars.A knight whose armor was blessed by a hundred saints.A woman wielding a blade said to slay gods.
All came.
All died.
The throne remembered them — not by names, but by stains on the floor.
Their deaths were never dramatic. There was no duel, no dance of blades. The Demon King would rise, step down the stairs, and with a flick of his fingers or a single wordless stare — they would crumble.
He didn't fight anymore. He didn't need to.
Power itself bent to his will. His very breath warped the air. His presence was oppression incarnate.
Even now, his former enemies haunted the Citadel as spirits. Not because he had cursed them — but because their hatred, their pain, had nowhere else to go. They lingered, unable to move on, trapped in the shadow of the man they could never defeat.
But in all this — in the quiet wealth, the infinite power, the reverent fear — he felt nothing.
He sat, day after day, hour after hour, in a room that echoed with gold and whispers and death… and still the same thought returned, gnawing at the edge of his mind:
"Why… do I feel nothing?"
He had killed the ones who tortured him.He had burned the palace that buried him.He had made the world kneel.
Yet, even now…
"Why does it feel unfinished?""Why am I still so cold?""Why… am I still here?"
He stared down at his open hand.
It was stained with blood — so much blood that it had dyed his very skin. He could barely remember the face of the child he once was. The boy in chains. The boy whose screams had echoed alone in the dark.
"That boy… was supposed to disappear."
"But he's still here."
He clenched his hand slowly into a fist, as silence settled once more upon the Citadel.
Not peace.
Never peace.
Only silence.
Flashbacks danced across his vision — not memories, but images of slaughter. Of the many who challenged him:
A brother, weeping, sword in hand.
A king who knelt and begged.
A warrior priest who chanted until he burst into flame.
Each one thought they were the chosen one. Each one believed they would slay the monster and end the reign of evil.
They were all wrong.
He had become something beyond prophecy, beyond hope.
A godless ruler on a throne of thorns.
Outside, the skies turned black. Thunder rumbled without storm.
In the distance, for the first time in decades… a star moved.
Something ancient stirred beyond the veil of the world.
But within the Demon Realm, the throne remained still.
The king, unmoving.
His heart, hollow.
His rule, eternal.
For now.