The room remained cloaked in silence, save for the ragged breaths of the figure seated amidst the wreckage of its former inhabitant's life.
Eren's chest heaved, but as the rhythm of his breathing began to steady, each exhalation of his was laced with a resolve foreign to the body it inhabited.
His trembling hands, bloodied and frail, rested against his knees, and his sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead. Yet, this was no longer Eren Vance.
The new occupant of the broken vessel was something far greater—a soul that had clawed its way through the depths of hell, one step at a time, forging itself into a force feared by gods and mortals alike.
This was no ordinary soul. It hailed from Moyu, a world steeped in martial doctrine and endless bloodshed. On that brutal, unforgiving planet, the rule of strength was law, and weakness was a death sentence.
---
He was born into the shadows of the Infernal Blood Sect, a place where cunning ambition and ruthless strength determined survival.
The sect stood as a monument to darkness, its sprawling halls carved into the jagged cliffs of a crimson mountain perpetually shrouded in storm clouds.
Here, the air reeked of sulfur and spilled blood, and the cries of tortured souls echoed through the caverns like a morbid symphony.
His mother, a concubine of low standing, had birthed him in secret, her identity forgotten within the grand halls of the sect. From the moment of his birth, whispers filled the air, labeling him an accident, a mistake, a parasite feeding on the resources of the strong.
The boy grew up nameless, mocked and beaten by the sect's scions—legitimate heirs of the sect's grand masters.
They called him Ashen, a name derived from the soot-covered chambers where he was forced to clean the blood of others. Weakness was all they saw in him, and their disdain was merciless.
But Ashen was no ordinary child.
He learned quickly that survival required cunning, patience, and an unwavering will. Where others saw fear, he found opportunity.
In the dark corners of the sect, where even light dared not tread, he absorbed the discarded scraps of knowledge—forgotten scrolls and incomplete manuals of martial techniques.
When the sons and daughters of the sect masters sparred in the grand arenas, he watched from the shadows, committing every movement, every strike, every defense to memory. What they performed with arrogance, he studied with precision. And when they rested, he trained.
The abuse and torment he suffered became his fuel.
By the time he turned thirteen, the once-beaten child had become a predator lurking in the shadows. The first death came swiftly—a scion of the sect who had sought to humiliate him in a drunken haze.
The boy's lifeless body was found the next morning, throat slit cleanly, a look of shock forever etched on his face.
It was the first of many.
One by one, Ashen eliminated those who mocked him. He struck from the shadows, sparing no one who stood in his way. Siblings, mentors, rivals—it didn't matter.
His rise was marked by blood-soaked nights and unrelenting brutality. By the time he turned eighteen, the Infernal Blood Sect was his.
His final act of ascension came when he challenged the sect's Grand Master—his own father.
The battle was a spectacle, witnessed by the entirety of Moyu's martial world. The young warrior, his body scarred and broken from years of battle, stood against the unrelenting power of a man who had ruled for decades. It was a fight that lasted a day, each clash of their blades shaking the mountains themselves.
When the dust settled, Ashen stood victorious, his father's lifeless body at his feet. His ascension was complete.
As the Demon Lord of Moyu, Ashen's power was unrivaled. His name alone struck fear into the hearts of even the most powerful sects.
His martial prowess transcended mortal understanding, his cultivation path a blend of darkness and destruction that defied the natural order.
But his reign was far from peaceful.
The Demon Lord had grown beyond his sect, beyond the bounds of Moyu. His ambitions stretched to the stars themselves, and it was this ambition that brought him to the attention of the transcendent beings who governed the martial cosmos.
Among them was Kaelthos, the Eternal Flame, a being of unimaginable power. Their battle was a cataclysmic event, one that burned forests to ash, evaporated oceans, and split mountains.
For months, their clash raged across Moyu, a testament to the unyielding might of two beings who refused to bow.
In the end, it was not power that felled Ashen but betrayal.
The Demon Lord's most trusted allies, warriors who had sworn their lives to him, turned against him. Their blades, once raised in his defense, pierced his back in the final moments of the battle.
He remembered the betrayal vividly—how the warmth of his own blood spilled down his back, mixing with the cold laughter of those he had called friends.
As he fell, his gaze locked with Kaelthos, who offered him a final, mocking smile before delivering the killing blow.
It was not the pain of death that consumed him but the fury of betrayal.
---
Now, as Ashen sat in this broken human body, the memories of his former life flooded his mind. They mingled with the fragmented pieces of Eren Vance's existence, creating a chaotic tapestry of emotion and identity.
He could feel Eren's despair, the hopelessness of a boy beaten down by life and betrayed by those he had trusted.
But there were other memories—ones neither of them could claim. They felt foreign, distant, as though they belonged to someone else entirely.
His gaze dropped to his trembling hands, the knuckles bruised and scabbed, the fingers thin and weak.
"This body is pathetic," he muttered, his voice laced with both disgust and pity. Yet, beneath the disdain, there was a flicker of something else—determination.
The Demon Lord had risen from nothing before. He had taken the scorn of others and forged it into power. He would do so again, even if this time, he had to start from the lowest rung of existence.
But as he sat there, the weight of two lifetimes bearing down on him, one thought burned brighter than all the others:
"This body bears the scars of betrayal, just as I do. We are kindred in our suffering. But no more. Now that I have taken your body and your will, I swear this—I will carve a path of vengeance so brutal, so unrelenting, that those who have betrayed you, and those who dare to, will beg for a mercy they will never receive. Rest in peace, Eren. Your torment ends here, and theirs begins."
The room remained still, the dim light casting long shadows against the walls, as the Demon Lord began to plan his rise once more. This world, this body, this life—it would all bend to his will.