Verdantia was no longer spoken of as a kingdom.
It was a curse now — a blight on maps and memory, erased from textbooks, scorched from annals, whispered only in the frightened stories of survivors and fools.
Once the jewel of the continent, it had become a festering scar none dared approach.
To the world, it was the Demon Realm.
To the world, he was the reason.
Once a prince, once a child — now a monster in flesh. The boy born under the weight of a broken prophecy had become the nightmare of kings. His name was never spoken. Only his titles passed trembling lips:
The Demon King.The Black Tyrant.The Flame Without Mercy.The Curse of Verdantia.
And though he never once stepped beyond the borders of his ruined land, the world feared him more than war itself.
A King Without Movement
Fifteen years had passed since his escape from the abyss beneath the palace.
In that time, kingdoms rose and fell around Verdantia's cursed soil — not by his sword, but by his presence.For the Demon King did not march armies.He had no court, no alliances.He did not conquer in the way of men.
He existed.
And that was enough.
Foreign kings sent assassins.None returned.Heroes born of prophecy ventured forth.Their names were forgotten.Armies, fleets, spells of divine retribution — all vanished, devoured by the rotting lands surrounding the capital.
None reached the throne room.
Those who did were broken before they could speak.
The Citadel
Verdantia's capital, once the shining city of Eloria, had become a darkened citadel of cursed stone and crimson sky.
The silver rivers had dried into channels of ash.The eternal sun no longer shone there — only red clouds, churning like blood in a bowl.
Strange beasts roamed the outskirts, monsters unseen in the natural world.Magic warped. Time twisted.Even compasses spun uselessly in the hands of explorers.
It was said the land itself hated outsiders.
None who stepped into the Demon Realm walked out whole.
The Throne
Within the Citadel, the Demon King sat on a throne forged of black iron and dragon bone.
He had not aged a day.
His eyes glowed deeper than fire, and his presence alone could silence an entire hall.He never smiled.He never laughed.He never spoke unless necessary.
His power was legend — no, worse. Undeniable.
He had reached the Pinnacle of Magic and Swordsmanship.Mastered every known art.Invented others.
He fought monsters that turned cities to dust.He wielded cursed weapons with his bare hands.He destroyed ancient spirits said to be immortal.
And yet, after all that...
He stayed.
A Kingdom of Fear
He did not seek conquest.He did not govern by law.
He existed at the heart of ruin.And the world bent around him in terror.
In time, kingdoms submitted — not by force, but by fear.They sent tributes: gold, rare beasts, forbidden tomes, sacrifices, and taxes in exchange for silence.
His realm, surrounded by rot and death, became paradoxically the richest on the continent.
Not because he demanded it.Because fear made them offer it.
The Demon Realm overflowed with treasures stolen from desperation.Vaults piled with ancient relics, mountains of coins and enchanted gems, cursed items no scholar dared to name.
But the Demon King never counted his riches.
He did not care.
A Mind Raised in Fire
He had no concept of wealth.
No desire for luxury.No hunger for pleasure.
He had been raised in chains.Forged in silence.Tempered in fire.
Glitter meant nothing to him.
The world dared not look toward the Demon Realm.
Merchants whispered of black-winged watchers that burned ships with a gaze.Scholars said the land was cursed by the gods.Pilgrims believed it was the mouth of hell, and the Demon King its keeper.
None dared prove them wrong.
The Brother
Within the heart of the Citadel, his brother still lived.
Once a prince.
Now a shattered man.
A broken servant kept alive — not out of mercy, but punishment.
He was called:
The Tax Keeper.The Scribe of Blood.The Wretched Assistant.
Every kingdom that paid tribute had to address him first.He oversaw the offerings.He recorded their desperation.
And when they displeased the Demon King…
He delivered the decree of death.
He had begged for death a thousand times.
It never came.
The Demon King wanted him to remember.Not just the betrayal.Every year of it.
Because he had joined the call to execute the "demon baby."
Now he served the monster he helped create.
The World Remembers
Poets wrote cautionary tales of Verdantia's fall.Priests warned children that sin would turn them into monsters.Kings stared across their borders — afraid not of armies…
But of silence.
Because no one knew why the Demon King stayed in his realm.
No one knew what would happen if he ever decided to leave.
But they all knew this:
The day he moves, the world burns.