Inside the castle depths, a cocoon of rock rested in its cold embrace. The dull surface was wrapped with sharp stone, jutting out like blades.
Soft groans emanated from inside, with bits of rock crumbling from the hard swaddling with each breath, until a fine crack appeared in its center.
Slowly, it spread. Decked with growing fractures, the shell began to look glued together rather than a single, cohesive unit.
Its fate was soon decided by a strong thud, crumbling under its own weight as a hand ragged by scars and wounds punched out from the interior.
The demon emerged from his slumber, though his figure seemed more slumped than how he once stood. Legs stumbled with a deep limp, horns hung low upon a humbled head, and gnarled hands tightly clenched a nearly-eviscerated gut.
As he walked forth— for the shortest of seconds —he lacked the bearing of his station.
The pain from his injuries... stung far more than he would like to admit. Even his beastly physique had its limits, and that blasted sword had come damn close to finding it amidst his own bowels.
Never did he think such a day would come. To be forced into such a dire strait, by some weak bandit?
'How far have I fallen?' He mocked, observing the shattered remnants of a once-great hall.
It shouldn't have been like this. Wounded and tired as he was at the start, there was still no excuse.
No man such as he— Alastor, Lord of the Black Rising —should ever have fallen into a state like this. Broken by time and fools.
It was almost funny to think that he would come back in this manner. A powerful enemy that had been brought low, coming back with the thought of a second chance... only to find a fragile shell of what he had once built.
Alastor was strong; there was no doubt about that. But the ideals he held, and the enemies who stood against him required more than one's own strength.
It would be so easy for everything to collapse. Resources and allies were necessary if he wanted any hope, but even the best army and largest coffers did not promise success.
Yet, such thoughts failed to keep his back bent for long.
Not when he had an audience.
Dim eyes shifted to a lowly corner of the room, taking on an authoritative light while seeming to stare into empty space. Yet, the air itself visibly swirled under Alastor's stare.
Peasants would have attributed the strange phenomena to a ghost. But Alastor knew better.
He would be blind if he didn't recognize the sign of his loyal spirit. And even if he was, the sense of nervous reverence that it emitted was far too familiar for him to have forgotten.
The two of them— king and servant —faced each other as Alastor straightened his back and revealed a smile of confidence. For a moment, it was as if the halls around them had regained their former luster while he acknowledged his sole subject.
Alastor took in a breath of air, pausing as if unsure what to say, before uttering:
"Thank you."
It was a simple phrase, one that didn't specify 'what' Alastor referred to, yet the honesty of them rang like a bell to the spirit. Their spiritual head shook from side to side, denying their need for thanks.
Was Alastor thankful for its aid? Presence? Or the loyalty shown for still remaining after all these years? Truthfully, none of it mattered. The station befitted to it demanded nothing less than absolute devotion when it came to their service of the master.
Still, thanks were given. A demon he may be, but Alastor had his pride as a monarch. Pride that demanded proper conduct towards his own.
After giving the being its deserved respect, Alastor's focus shifted to the empty throne room. His gaze traced the myriad of broken statues and torn banners, the sight filling him with a deep melancholy as he recalled the former glory this place held.
Oh, how beautiful it once was. Molded to fit his tastes, a reflection of all that he had done. To see it in a state of squalor fed the rage he fought to keep from showing.
'Those bastards...' He glowered, gritting his white teeth with force enough to shatter bone. His mind flashed with the image of humans, ones dressed far more luxuriously than the recent weaklings.
'You will get your dues; All of you.'
An oath was sworn with eyes upturned towards the heavens above. It had been made ages past, but kindling had been added to the faint smolders.
'As the world is my witness, your vile nature will be expunged from this land. I will see to it. Broken and weak I and my wards may be, none of it will save you from the judgment that is deserved.'
His lips grew wider as a maniacal grin took over his visage. It would be done. He would see to it.
This time... would be different.
Alastor would be better prepared; and less— sloppy, with the execution. Something those proclaimed 'heroes' had failed to do.
And it would all begin with a certain book.
The Compendium answered his call, materializing in his palms with a wave of dark, focused energy. Pages flew across as he scoured their contents, searching and planning with a zealous demeanor for the revival of his domain.
A plan. That was what he needed.
He had been trapped in the tight embrace of those holy chains for centuries. Slowly ground and burned away; an eternity of torture.
But it had given him one thing he never seemed to have: time.
Time to think of what had taken place. Time to consider what had gone wrong.
After a millennia of ruminating, Alastor was sure he knew what had gone wrong.
Impatient.
Emotional.
Heavy-handed.
It was these that had caused his defeat. Humans could pretend that their heroes had won the day, but Alastor had been his own enemy back then.
With his reborn mindset, along with his trusted Compendium, nothing would stop him!
Joy was deeply etched across his face while he delved into the tome, until a single, yellowed piece of paper slipped from the binding, softly drifting to the ground below.