The morning sun cast long golden rays across the stone floors of the royal palace, slanting through the high-arched windows like spears of judgment.
Lucien Drevaris stood before the mirror again. A different man looked back. The soft silver hair remained. The pale skin and too-thin frame were unchanged. But there was something in the eyes now—a glint, cold and deliberate, like a blade dipped in venom.
He dressed himself with slow, methodical movements. Gone were the trembling hands and downcast gaze of the coward prince he now inhabited. He adjusted the collar of his ceremonial tunic, its colors faded from neglect, and turned to the door.
Today, he would eat with them.
The walk through the marbled corridors of the palace felt different. Servants scurried away without being told. A few even bowed, awkward and uncertain, as he passed. Word had traveled, no doubt—of strange behavior, of a new fire in the dead prince's eyes. Let them whisper. Let them speculate.
At his heel followed a silent figure clad in dark armor—Sir Caldus, a knight assigned to him long ago out of pity more than loyalty. And yet, the man had never once abandoned his post, even when the other guards laughed behind closed doors.
The pair approached the towering double doors of the royal dining hall. Two guards stationed there straightened as they approached, their eyes flickering with barely veiled contempt.
"Stop right there," one said, holding out a hand.
Lucien's pace didn't slow. "Is there a reason you're standing in my way?"
The guard sneered. "Didn't know the royal hound was invited to breakfast."
His companion chuckled. "Tables are for lions, not stray mutts without a sigil."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Step aside."
The first guard leaned closer, puffing out his chest. "You're not royalty anymore, remember? The king stripped you of the Drevaris sigil. You're lucky you're even allowed to walk these halls."
Before Lucien could speak, Sir Caldus took a step forward, voice sharp. "How dare you speak to His Highness—"
Lucien raised a hand to silence him, his gaze never leaving the guards. For a moment, the air grew heavy.
"I won't ask again," Lucien said quietly.
The guards hesitated. They could feel it—something behind those eyes. Something that stared not just at them, but through them. A pressure like unseen claws against the back of their minds.
They laughed nervously, trying to shake the fear creeping up their spines. "You got a temper now, 'Your Highness'?"
Lucien stepped forward slowly. One foot, then another.
He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He only stared—so deeply, so intently, that the first guard flinched. For a brief, impossible second, he saw something… behind Lucien. A burning field of crimson flame. Eyes. Hundreds of eyes, watching him from the shadows.
The guard staggered back, paling. The other caught his arm. "Tch… Just get inside then," he muttered, voice suddenly subdued. "We don't want to smell you any longer than we have to."
Lucien pushed open the doors without another word.
The dining hall was a grand cathedral of marble and velvet, its vaulted ceiling painted with angels and swords. At the long obsidian table sat the Drevaris royal family—his family.
At the head sat the King, robed in black and gold, face weathered like a crag of stone. King Aldric Drevaris. Next to him, the Queen, Elyra—graceful, aloof, and cold as the moon. Three seats down sat the golden boy: Crown Prince Caelum Drevaris, tall and perfect, a sword at his hip and glory in his posture. Beside him, the sly and venomous middle child, Prince Darius, lounged with a wine cup half-raised, grinning like a snake. At the far end sat Princess Selene, eyes flickering with interest—and perhaps a hint of amusement.
Lucien approached and took a seat without invitation.
The room paused for half a heartbeat.
Then…
"Well, well," Prince Darius said, sneering. "The stray dog comes begging for scraps."
Lucien ignored him entirely, unfolding his napkin with slow, elegant precision. He began eating.
Darius's grin faltered. "What, no pitiful retort today? No 'woe is me' act?"
Silence.
"Maybe you're dumber than I thought," Darius hissed, slamming his goblet onto the table.
A deep, rumbling voice cut through the tension.
"Enough."
The king hadn't raised his voice—but it hit like a sledgehammer.
Even Darius shut up immediately.
King Aldric stared down the table at Lucien. His eyes, like twin slabs of obsidian, betrayed no emotion.
"I've heard… reports. That you've been different since two days past."
Lucien looked up slowly.
Aldric's gaze didn't waver. "Has your Dormant core awakened?"
Lucien didn't blink. "No."
The king said nothing for a moment, then nodded once. "You will attend the evaluation at the Sanctum Chapel today regardless. The moment it is complete, begin preparations. You will attend the Arcanum Ascendancy Academy in three weeks' time."
A subtle stir moved through the room.
Lucien inclined his head once. "As you command."
Arcanum Ascendancy Academy...He'd heard the name whispered even in the deepest folds of the demon realm. A crucible where the continent's elite—sons of warlords, heirs of prime ministers, future saints and tyrants alike—were forged. A place thick with ambition and secrets.
Many of those I crossed blades with in my past life... were born from its halls. He lowered his eyes slightly, not in deference, but in thought.
If I'm to rise again, I need to understand its depths. I need to crawl beneath its skin—learn who holds sway, and who bleeds easiest. A battlefield behind marble walls. How fitting.
He rose, bowed stiffly, and turned to leave.
This time, the guards opened the door without a word.
As he walked, Sir Caldus resumed his place behind him.
Lucien's thoughts simmered beneath the calm.
Disrespected. Mocked. Spat on.
When I ruled the Ninth Flame, even archdukes of Hell bowed before me. Here? I'm a joke in a jester's shoes.
His fists clenched.
Power. That's all that matters.
A smile crept across his face.
And I never forget a face.
Sir Caldus glanced sideways. "...You're smiling."
Lucien didn't answer.
─── ✦ ───
The Sanctum Chapel of Valdorus was a grand monument—white spires, stained glass windows depicting the Ascended Gods, and a sanctified corestone embedded in its center. Nobles from across the realm had gathered in their finest robes to determine their children's fates.
The Corestone Orb, a glowing relic of divine origin, sat on its pedestal at the altar. It pulsed faintly—hungering for the touch of potential.
Lucien stood in the back, ignored by most, whispered about by others.
"Isn't that the trash prince?"
"He's got a dormant core, doesn't he? Pathetic."
"What's he even doing here? Cores don't change overnight."
Lucien said nothing. His eyes scanned the room with practiced disinterest.
One by one, nobles approached the orb. Most revealed Verdant Cores, the middle tier—enough to attend the academy, enough to make a name. A few bore the Dormant Core, barely functional and largely scorned.
Eventually, a name echoed through the chapel.
"Crown Prince Caelum Drevaris."
A collective murmur ran through the crowd.
Caelum stepped forward, face carved from calm, posture flawless. His silver armor gleamed as he placed a hand upon the orb.
He carries himself well, Lucien admitted inwardly. Calm. Controlled. Crowned by birth, but not just in name.
A blinding light erupted. Power surged outward, pure and awe-inspiring.
The orb glowed white-gold.
"Astral Core," the head priest whispered in reverence. "Truly… touched by the divine."
The nobles erupted in praise.
"A future King!"
"A prodigy!"
"A gift from the gods themselves!"
Caelum bowed once, expression unreadable, and left the altar to thundering applause.
Lucien had heard whispers of the Astral Core before—a rare manifestation of mana so pure and transcendent that some believed it was divine in origin.
Impressive. For a human.The core flared, and Lucien's gaze narrowed slightly. But… he thought, a flicker of memory clawing its way forward—That hero I faced before death. The one who stood tall even as Hell rained down upon him. That wasn't Astral.There's something beyond this. Something hidden. Whatever he wielded…If it exists, I'll find it. I have to.
Minutes passed.
Then—
"Lucien Drevaris."
The room dimmed. The air grew cold with derision.
Lucien stepped forward slowly.
Some people chuckled. Others snorted.
"Why's he still using the family name?"
"He's nothing. Always was."
Let's see what this body can do.
His legs moved on command, but his core—what little he'd managed to stir—still felt like dragging a blade through wet sand. He could barely coax a sliver of mana from it, even in isolation.
Dormant Core, they'd called it. A cripple's birthright. I've devoured archmages with stronger pulses than this.
Still, there was no point in resisting the ceremony. Not yet. If nothing else, it would confirm what he'd already begun to suspect. And if they look too closely… they might see something else. Something deeper.
Lucien placed his hand on the orb.
Nothing happened.
Mockery rose in waves.
"He can't even channel mana?"
"I've seen squires with more talent!"
Lucien closed his eyes.
Then—
A jolt.
A surge.
From deep within, something stirred.
Burn them all.
The Corestone flared violently—black-red tendrils lashing against its radiant frame.
Gasps filled the chapel. Some stepped back.
The pressure… was enormous. Wrong.
A priest stumbled. "W-What is this…?"
Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
The orb dimmed.
Dormant Core.
Silence.
Then laughter.
"Hah!"
"What a joke!"
"It glitched!"
"No way that was real—he's still trash!"
The priests hurried forward, examining the orb in confusion.
Lucien turned away, ignoring it all.
His heart pounded.
His fingers trembled—not with fear, but elation.
His palm still burned faintly.
That energy… It wasn't mana. It was essence. It was… me.
His lips curled into a smile as he walked past the sneering nobles.
The Demon King's heart beats again.
It begins.
And deep within his chest, the sealed Demonic Core pulsed for the first time in what seemed like a century.