Gradually, Yur pushed himself upright, his newly healed body leaving faint imprints in the loose soil beneath him.
He surveyed the canyon, noting how everything had reverted to its prior state—almost as though his cataclysmic outburst had never happened. Yet subtle traces remained: thin fractures streaked the walls and earth, like spiderwebs spun from some recent nightmare. The Trep Demon's corpse, which had once been sprawled close to him, was now gone entirely.
"Zul," he said quietly, his voice oddly drained of emotion. "What…happened?"
[Host has gone through the Ritual of the Successor!]
Reading the system prompt, he felt no surge of surprise or fear—only a distant sense of acknowledgment.
"Explain," he ordered in a calm, low tone, the authority in his voice at odds with his lack of apparent concern.
[The being, Mal, left this ritual within the System.
Host has been granted greater potential and power, yet…]
"I feel like I've lost something," Yur cut in. He flexed his arms and legs, verifying that they were intact and pain-free. "And this…thing on my head?" He ran his fingers over a jet-black crown seemingly fused to his own flesh. Every tentative touch gave a sensation as though he were merely brushing his own skin.
[Host has been crowned the Heir of Zulmasharr.]
He nodded once. "I see." Any normal response—shock or delight—simply didn't materialize. Instead, he stood with a fluid motion and stared down at his naked torso, untroubled by his state of undress.
[Host has unlocked many memories. Would you like to review them?]
"No," he said, almost reflexively. "It doesn't seem necessary." His voice echoed with an odd detachment, as though any curiosity had been muted. "So, what exactly changed?"
[Host has undergone physical and psychological alterations.
One consequence of the Ritual: Host's capacity for happiness is lost.]
He tilted his head a fraction, absorbing that fact with unsettling calm. "So that's it." A flicker of dissatisfaction brushed against his consciousness, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Happiness is gone… The knowledge seemed more like reading a footnote in a manual than a revelation about his own life.
"Zul, fetch some clothes." His command was cool, matter-of-fact. Moments later, five Demon Points vanished, and a pair of dark grey pants materialized alongside a tattered shirt. The outfit loosely draped his frame, leaving slits for his wings and a small portion of his chest exposed.
[Demon Points Remaining: 285]
Once dressed, he tested his revitalized body. First, he tried leaping and sprinting—motions that felt startlingly effortless. His speed and stamina had soared beyond what they were before.
Then, focusing on flight, he fanned out both wings. The span had doubled, and a single mighty downstroke sent him rocketing into the air with near-effortless control. To traverse a few kilometers now required barely any exertion.
I'm faster than that Trep Demon ever was, he noted, though the observation brought neither pride nor excitement—just a mild, clinical satisfaction. Alighting on the ground, he tested his punches and kicks. The earth dented and cratered under the force of his strikes, sending cracks spiraling outward.
[Host can contend with Morruk Demons using only his bare hands!]
"So… traveling will be easier now," he said, indifferent to the feat he'd just demonstrated. He recognized a difference in himself: I'm not happy about it… but I'm not upset, either. It's just a fact.
He let out a quiet sigh, sensing the echo of an emptiness in his chest. Where he might have felt euphoria or relief, there was only neutrality. It didn't even disturb him—just felt normal, as though any "joy" he recalled was distant and unreal.
"Never mind." He rubbed his eyes, then turned his attention to the system interface. "Zul, the map has expanded. Why?"
[As the Heir of Zulmasharr, you gain a broad overview of many regions. The Barren Canyon and parts of the Land of the Mother are now fully detailed.]
Curiously, he noticed a thick black outline encircling the entire canyon on his map. "What's this boundary?"
[Any territory claimed by the Host becomes a 'protected region.' No creature may enter without the Host's permission.]
A faint remembrance of Mal's whisper flitted through his mind—something about granting him absolute freedom. He brushed it aside as easily as he'd brushed aside his other fleeting thoughts.
In the map's corner, he saw an option to "move instantly within protected regions." On a whim, he tested it, visualizing the place he had once called home. Instantly, a tear in space formed—a crimson-rimmed portal revealing the inside of his old dwelling.
"Huh. That works." He closed it with a gesture, the view returning to the grounds of the Barre Canyon. "I'll keep exploring." He paused, feeling no inner spark, no thrill of wanderlust—just a measured sense of should do. "I want to see what else is out here."
And so he unfolded his wings, preparing for another journey deeper into Zulmasharr. Though his eyes showed no lightness of heart, he pressed forward, fueled by a cold sense of purpose.
If the old Yur had been determined for freedom, this new Yur was simply resolute, marching on with the weightless calm of someone who had surrendered both hope and fear to the dark flames of ascension.
————————————————————————
News that the Heir of Zulmasharr had emerged rippled through Afloria like wildfire. From noble estates to common taverns, rumors spread of the mythical black Flames of Severance—a phenomenon prophesied for countless ages. Few truly understood what it signified, but the ancient saying was well-known:
When the black Flames of Severance appear, the true heir to Zulmasharr is born, and humans and demons alike must abide.
Stories of this so-called "Heir" had circulated for centuries, yet no one, not even the oldest historians, knew precisely where they originated.
Meanwhile, another piece of news fueled the rumors: Sect Leader Olmi—a stalwart protector of one region—had perished in battle shortly before the black flames filled the skies. Whispers questioned whether his death was tied to the appearance of Zulmasharr's heir. In hushed corners of a prestigious sect, disciples speculated. Some admonished others to keep silent, lest they invite trouble.
Seated within the heart of Afloria's most formidable continent lay the Fiend Devouring Sect, one of five Guardian Sects tasked with defending critical gates that led directly into Zulmasharr. Sprawling over a mountain range of more than a thousand peaks, it was an empire unto itself—ordinary mortals could spend their entire lives and never traverse its vast domain.
At the highest summit stood a single, imposing manor. Within those walls, two figures conferred. One was an older man with a thick black beard, seated on a broad throne, eyes closed and radiating an aura of immeasurable depth.
The other, a middle-aged man, stood respectfully before him—though his own cultivation rivaled legends and stories alike.
"Grand Elder Rivno," said the middle-aged man, bowing. This was Hinjo, the current Sect Leader of the Fiend Devouring Sect. His voice carried a subtle tension. "We've come to verify the cause of the recent phenomenon. Has the heir truly been born?"
Rivno opened his eyes, letting them linger on the star-filled sky overhead. "Little Hinjo, the Flames of Severance herald the Heir of Zulmasharr—the successor to that mysterious being called Mal. Whether it bodes good or ill for our world, that's not our immediate concern."
Hinjo let a grimace play across his features. He was responsible for countless lives and the delicate balance of power against the demon realm. "Then enlighten me. What should we be focusing on, Grand Elder?"
With a wave of his hand, Rivno conjured a slender blade into view. "Take this to Inner Elder Kinro," he said evenly. "He'll be going to oversee the Dying Flame Sect as a provisional sect leader until they recover from their losses. They face a threat from a Rakshar demon invading our territory."
Handing Hinjo another small weapon, Rivno continued, "Also dispatch a few Ethereal Convergence Elders to restore order in Olmi's region. The demons there have grown audacious—someone must pacify them."
Hinjo inclined his head. "Understood. But what of the current treaty? If we escalate, the demons may claim we've broken it and launch a full-scale war."
A faint smirk crossed Rivno's lips. "They won't move on us just yet, not when they're scrambling to locate this Heir and crush them before they attain true power. In the meantime," Rivno paused, tapping a finger on the armrest, "order all Guardian Sects to send their disciples below Rank Six into Zulmasharr."
"To train them… amid this chaos?" Hinjo's brow knit, but he already guessed the reasoning. "Very well. I'll make the necessary arrangements and relay the command."
His parting words hung in the air as he vanished, leaving the Grand Elder alone beneath the starlight.
Rivno's deep-set eyes flickered with the weight of centuries. The Heir is born, he mused silently, and neither Afloria nor Zulmasharr will remain the same.