Night fell quickly in the Crimson Woods. The moon was blood-red, hanging low over twisted trees that looked more like bone than bark.
Oryzzell sat against a rock, breathing shallowly. The forest was quiet now, but he knew better. It wasn't peace—it was fear.
The power he unleashed with Aeon Severance had shaken something awake.
His left shoulder throbbed with heat.
With trembling hands, he pulled down the collar of his shirt. There, glowing faintly beneath his skin, was a mark he hadn't seen in this life before—a jagged, rune-like sigil surrounded by black veins. It pulsed like a second heart.
> "The Demon Lord's Brand."
The memory came not as a thought, but as a truth—etched into his soul.
In his past life, he had defeated the Demon Lord Myrzael at the cost of everything. But the Demon Lord had cursed him in death. Not with vengeance. Not with madness.
With power.
> "My throne... I gift it to you, Oryzzell. In death, you are worthy."
He clenched his fist.
That curse—the Mark—was a forbidden inheritance. It should have been burned away in the Severance. But somehow, it survived reincarnation.
He gritted his teeth as the veins spread slightly, crawling down his arm.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered.
But the Mark pulsed again, and suddenly—he heard voices.
Screaming.
Not in the distance. In his mind.
Thousands of them.
Demons. Beasts. Spirits of ruin.
> "King of the Forsaken..."
"Bearer of the Brand..."
"Command us..."
He slapped his palm against a nearby tree, grounding himself. His breath came out in white steam despite the warm air.
"Shut up," he hissed.
The voices faded.
But the temptation didn't.