The spring rain cascaded softly over Mt. Qirin, its delicate rhythm weaving a song of calm.
The mountain shimmered under the glimmering lights of small overhanging houses, a quiet, secluded village far removed from the grandeur of the capital.
Inside one of these humble dwellings, Kael'tar stirred awake.
His eyes fluttered open, and a wave of disorientation washed over him.
The ceiling above wasn't adorned with the intricate carvings and murals of his grand chamber.
No, this was a ceiling made of rotting wood, with cobwebs dangling ominously in the corners.
He groaned, his voice low and rough. "What the heck…"
A sharp pang of memory sliced through his grogginess. The last thing he remembered was self-destructing.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of his fate pressing down on him. "So, it's true. I really died."
His chest tightened with emotion, but he forced a laugh, bitter and self-mocking. "No regrets, huh?" he muttered to himself. "What a joke."
Of course, he had regrets.
Who wouldn't, when their illustrious thousand-year reign ended in betrayal? Betrayed by his own trusted general, no less!
The thought made his blood boil.
He clenched his fists, though they were far weaker and smaller than he remembered.
"Hell, no regrets? My ass!" His voice rose in frustration. "I died a dog's death! Betrayed like some naive fool!"
"My autobiography will read, 'The Demon Emperor Kael, brought down by his own general.' Pathetic."
He could already hear the mocking voices of his enemies.
Those twelve old geezers in the Righteous Sect would be rolling with laughter, toasting their victory at his expense.
He sank back against the rough straw mattress, his thoughts spiraling.
No regrets, they say? Nonsense. Regrets are all I have.
Hell, if he hadn't died so disgracefully—betrayed, humiliated, cast aside—maybe he could've let it go.
But this? This was an insult that would haunt him for eternity.
The image of Azarion's smug face surfaced in his mind, and Kael'tar's scowl deepened.
The indignity of it all was unbearable.
Worse still, he imagined the laughter of those self-righteous hypocrites—the Twelve Elders of the Righteous Sect, who had likely toasted to his demise.
His fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. "Damn it all."
He spat on the ground, muttering curses.
The Lord of Evil Society, one of the thirteen great powers in the Upper Realm.
Demon Lord, Kael.
That is his name.
Kael'tar's Path to Power. Kael'tar's rise to power had been anything but conventional.
He hadn't walked the righteous path, cultivating merit and gaining divine blessings. No, he had built his empire on betrayal, manipulation, and ruthless ambition.
After constant successes through betrayals and traitors, he became a Demon Lord.
People pointed their fingers at him and called him mean, but what do those lowly fools know? Thanks to all that, he was able to overcome the fierce worldly winds and reign over the Upper Realm for a thousand years.
A warehouse overflowing with gold and silver treasures and technique records.
This meant that he was the person with the greatest power who could destroy even a sect with a single wave of my hand.
Each act of treachery had been a stepping stone, elevating him to the pinnacle of the Upper Realm.
His enemies dared not challenge him, knowing he could destroy entire sects with a wave of his hand.
Yet, none of it mattered now. It was all gone—his empire, his power, his immortal body.
Kael'tar gritted his teeth. "If I had known this would happen, I would've spent all my treasures on a weapon strong enough to crush Azarion and those self-righteous pests."
He let out a sharp laugh, full of disdain for himself. "What a fool I was to save for tomorrow when tomorrow never came."
Reckoning with the present
Kael'tar sat up, his back aching from the worn-out straw mattress beneath him.
His hands, once capable of summoning storms and destroying armies, now trembled as he held them up. Thin, calloused, and utterly mortal.
He dragged himself to the edge of the room, peering out through a cracked window. The rain continued its gentle fall, soaking the muddy streets of the village.
Children played in the drizzle, their laughter a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in his heart.
Kael'tar leaned against the window frame, his thoughts a mix of anger and resolve.
"I was a Demon Emperor," he whispered to himself. "Not even the heavens dared oppose me. And now, I'm a lowly human? A human in some forgotten village?"
His lips curled into a bitter smile. "Fine. Let the heavens laugh."
His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint returning to them. "Azarion, you'd better pray to whatever gods you believe in. Because when I'm done, not even your ashes will remain."
He caught a glimpse of himself in a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. His once regal face was gone, replaced by a thin, sunburnt visage with scruffy black hair and dull brown eyes. He looked every bit the lowly human he now was.
"I've seen corpses with more vitality than this body," he muttered, touching his face. "And this... this is supposed to climb back to the top? Ha!"
The creak of the door broke Kael'tar's brooding. A boy of about ten peeked in, his hair sticking up in tufts.
"Oi, big brother Carseain, are you gonna sleep all day? The chickens need feeding!"
Kael'tar stared at the boy, his sharp red eyes narrowing. "Big brother?"
"Yes! That's you!" the boy said, rolling his eyes. "Ever since you hit your head, you've been acting weird."
"Hit my head?" Kael'tar repeated, his tone dry. So, that's their excuse for my sudden reincarnation? How convenient.
"Anyway," the boy continued, "Ma says if you don't get up now, you'll miss breakfast. And if you miss breakfast, don't come crying to her later!"
With a sigh, Kael'tar swung his legs over the side of the bed. His knees creaked in protest. This body was weak—pathetically so—but he would make do.
As the day wore on, Kael'tar began to piece together his new life. He was the eldest son in a struggling farming family with a mother, a younger brother, and an absent father who had supposedly gone off to "find work" years ago.
The family's small plot of land barely produced enough to keep them fed. Chickens clucked around the yard, the fields were a patchwork of muddy soil and struggling crops, and the house itself was one storm away from collapsing.
Kael spent the day hauling water, repairing fences, and attempting to till the stubborn earth with a plow that seemed older than time itself. He did it all begrudgingly, muttering curses under his breath.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Kael sat slumped at the dinner table, staring at the meager spread of boiled vegetables and stale bread.
His younger brother chattered away about the neighbor's missing goat, while his mother fretted over the worn soles of Kael's shoes.
First: Figure out how to stop being dirt-poor and leave this forsaken farm. Second: Don't get killed by farm animals. Third: Take over the world again.
Simple.
As his brother droned on, Kael leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.