Kael'tar strolled through the village, the uneven path crunching softly under his boots. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward him, like the memories he couldn't quite shake.
Kael'tar walked aimlessly through the village, his thoughts drifting away from the uneven roads and weathered stalls.
The sight of the humble market and the simplicity of mortal life stirred something deep within him—a memory he had long buried.
His mind wandered back—far back—to a time when he was not yet the Demon Emperor, but merely a child born of darkness and death.
Demons were born in two ways. The first was through mating—either between two demons or between a demon and a human. Such offspring were common, and though their lives could be harsh, they often had a foundation: a family, a lineage, and, sometimes, even a semblance of love.
But the second way? That was rare.
Kael'tar had been born from the corpse of an ancient creature, a phenomenon so uncommon that most demons considered it a myth.
His "birthplace" was a battlefield where an ancient leviathan had fallen. Its decaying flesh had birthed him into a world that neither welcomed nor cared for him.
It was said that the energy of such creatures could spawn life, but the life created was always twisted, cursed, and feared
Kael'tar was no exception.
From the very beginning, Kael'tar had been alone.
There were no parents to cradle him, no soft words of comfort, no guiding hand to show him the way. He had been abandoned to the wilds, a child born of death and shadow.
As a young demon, life was brutal. He had no shelter, no food, and no one to rely on.
The demon clans, sensing his strange and unnatural origin, treated him as an outcast.
There were days when he couldn't find food, his frail, childlike body scavenging for scraps left behind by stronger demons. Other times, he fought with wild beast over meager morsels.
Nights were worse—cold, dark, and filled with the howls of predators waiting to devour him.
He had no money, no strength, and no knowledge of the world.
He remembered the hunger most vividly—the gnawing, unrelenting ache in his stomach that had driven him to the brink of madness.
Yet, even in his weakest moments, Kael'tar refused to die. There was something within him, a spark of defiance, a will to survive against all odds.
That spark had grown into a fire. Over time, Kael'tar clawed his way up from the bottom, mastering his demonic powers, manipulating those around him, and carving a path to dominance.
Kael'tar clenched his fists as he walked, his pace quickening.
Those memories were a stark contrast to the being he had become. Through sheer willpower, cunning, and a ruthless determination to survive, he had risen from nothing to become the Demon Emperor.
He became feared, revered, and untouchable. Gold flowed into his coffers like rivers, power surrounded him like an impenetrable shield, and his name became synonymous with terror.
And now, here he was, reduced once more to the bottom.
His current existence was a cruel parody of his past struggles.
Back then, he had fought for survival with the fire of ambition burning in his chest. Now, he toiled in the fields, planting seeds and hauling water like a commoner.
He looked down at his calloused hands, dirt-streaked and far removed from the regal, unblemished ones he once possessed.
"Is this the universe's idea of a joke?" he muttered bitterly.
He glanced down at the pouch of silver coins at his side, the weight of it almost mocking.
In the Upper Realm, thirty silver wouldn't have been enough for a single servant's wage. And now, here he was, treasuring it as though it were a king's ransom.
"Laughable," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with bitterness.
Kael'tar's wandering eventually led him to the edge of the market, where a small group of children played with crude wooden toys.
Their laughter was shrill and carefree, a sound he had never known in his own childhood.
For a moment, he stood there, watching them.
One child tripped and fell, scraping his knee. Tears welled in his eyes as he began to cry, but before the sound could escape, an older girl rushed over, pulling him into a hug and murmuring words of comfort.
Kael'tar's chest tightened. He had never experienced such warmth, such simple kindness.
'Why am I even thinking about this?' he thought, shaking his head. 'I don't need their pity or their sentimentality. I've survived worse without it.'
But the image of the children lingered in his mind as he turned away, walking back toward the heart of the village.
Kael'tar stopped walking, gazing up at the sky. The stars were beginning to emerge, tiny pinpricks of light against the encroaching darkness.
"Back to the bottom, huh?" he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Well, I've been here before."
And if there was one thing he knew, it was how to rise.
As he made his way home, Kael'tar couldn't help but reflect on the irony of his situation.
A thousand years ago, he had climbed from nothing to become a ruler feared across realms.
Now, he was back to scraping the bottom, earning thirty silver by killing a wild boar and receiving scoldings from mortals who thought they knew better.
But this time, there was something different.
Back then, he had fought alone. Now, there was a family—however fragile and mortal—who seemed to care for him in their own strange way.
Kael'tar scoffed, pushing the thought aside. "Love and kindness," he muttered to himself. "Useless sentiments for weaklings."
Yet, as he stepped back into the village square, a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, there was something to be learned from this humble life.