"Become stronger! In this world, those who are weak will die!"
The voice echoed in my mind, a haunting memory from the battlefield. I couldn't remember the man who spoke those words—his face blurred with time—but the raw desperation in his voice was burned into my soul.
At thirteen, I was thrown into the chaos of war. The Demon World's endless battles didn't discriminate by age. No one cared that I was a child; no one spared me because of my small stature. Survival was all that mattered, and survival meant fighting.
---
The battlefield was a nightmare come to life. Explosions shook the ground, fire roared across the horizon, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and ash. The screams of the dying mingled with the clash of steel, creating a symphony of chaos that became the background of my existence.
I learned quickly. I had no choice. The enemies I faced didn't hesitate to kill, their blades striking with ruthless efficiency. If I hesitated, if I faltered for even a moment, it would mean my death.
Desperation fueled me. I scavenged weapons from the corpses of the fallen, using swords too large for my hands and shields too heavy for my arms. I watched the seasoned fighters from the shadows, observing their techniques, their movements. I played dead when I needed to, hiding among the bodies until danger passed. I did whatever it took to survive.
The first time I killed, I felt nothing. No guilt, no remorse—just a hollow emptiness. I didn't have the luxury of emotion. I fought to live, and that was all that mattered.
---
Over time, the battlefield became my home. My body adapted to the constant fighting, my senses sharp and my movements precise. The weak child I had once been was gone, replaced by something harder, sharper.
By the time I turned twenty, I was no longer an easy target. My enemies began to avoid me, their gazes filled with fear when they saw me approach. I had earned a reputation, not as a demon to be pitied, but as one to be feared.
I climbed the ranks through blood and fire, rising to the position of Baron. In the Demon World, nobility was not inherited; it was taken. The title of Baron was not a reward but a recognition of strength, a declaration that I was no longer prey but a predator.
But it wasn't enough.
---
The Demon World's hierarchy was vast and unyielding, with four Grand Dukes reigning at the top. Each was a mountain of strength, their power casting a shadow over the entire realm. Beyond them, at the pinnacle, was the empty seat of the Demon King—a throne left vacant for centuries, a symbol of ultimate authority and strength.
I wanted that throne.
It wasn't just ambition that drove me. It was thirst. A hunger so deep, so insatiable, that nothing less than absolute power could satisfy it. The title of Baron was a stepping stone, a rung on the ladder to something greater.
But the Grand Dukes were untouchable. When I finally challenged one, I learned the hard way just how vast the gap between us was. Their power was overwhelming, their presence suffocating. I fought with everything I had, but it wasn't enough.
Defeated and humiliated, I fled, retreating to the edges of the Demon World to lick my wounds.
---
Time became meaningless. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into years, and years into centuries. Three hundred years passed, each day a monotonous cycle of survival and reflection. My body endured, but my mind began to fray. I couldn't even remember my parents' faces anymore or the origin of my ambitions.
The only thing I could recall with clarity was the taste of kimchi stew. That small, mundane memory from my human life became a symbol of everything I had lost, everything I would never have again.
The Demon World offered no comfort. Food was raw and unseasoned, a necessity rather than a pleasure. There was no joy, no peace—only survival.
I considered ending it all. My dreams of power, of becoming the Demon King, felt like distant fantasies. What was the point of continuing this existence?
---
As I wandered through a barren land devoid of life, a voice called out to me.
"Randalph Brigsiel."
I turned, my body instinctively tensing for a fight. The figure before me was unlike any I had seen before. Clad in black armor that seemed to absorb the light, his presence radiated an oppressive energy that made my knees weak.
"I am Death Bringer," he said, his voice calm yet filled with power.
I glared at him, my instincts screaming that this being was far beyond my understanding. "What do you want?" I spat, masking my fear with defiance.
"I am here to offer you a chance," he replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "The last chance to become a devil."
---
His words stirred something deep within me—a spark of hope, of ambition, long thought extinguished.
"I've seen you, Randalph. I've watched your struggles, your battles. You are strong, but strength alone is not enough. I am offering you a place in my game—a game of world destruction."
My breath caught. "What do you mean?"
"The rules are simple," Death Bringer said, his tone light but carrying a weight that pressed against my chest. "You will compete against others in a battle for supremacy. More land, more humans exterminated—the more you conquer, the closer you come to the ultimate prize."
"What prize?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"The title of Demon King."
The words struck me like a hammer, sending a surge of adrenaline through my veins. The Demon King—my dream, my ambition, the goal that had driven me for centuries. Could this be real?
"You have a choice," Death Bringer said, his gaze piercing. "Nod, and you accept my offer. Shake your head, and I will leave you to your solitude."
The man looked at my head.
I couldn't see a dare in his eyes. The moment his eyes lingered on me, I felt like my body was stripped naked. I couldn't move like my entire body was in the clutches of a Leviathan.
For a moment, I hesitated. His presence was overwhelming, his words dripping with promises too good to be true. But in my heart, I already knew my answer.
I couldn't speak empty words. I never felt such a great presence from the Grand Dukes. All I could do was nod. And my mind became easy again once I nodded.
---
The moment I agreed, a surge of power coursed through me, reigniting the fire that had long since burned out. Death Bringer's smile widened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
"Good. Welcome to the game, Randalph Brigsiel. May you prove worthy of the title you seek."
As his figure faded into the shadows, I clenched my fists, my resolve hardening.
I would play his game. I would fight, conquer, and rise. And when I found the being who had put me in this position, there would be only one outcome.
There is only one thing left for me to do. To the being who put me in this state.
Kill.
Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!
Whoever you may be!
Wherever you are!
I WILL KILL YOU!
Yes. There was no other option. So!
Transmigrator—
No, its Randalph Brigsiel now.
In the 300 years since I came to this Hellish World.
Return to Earth.