The woman cradling me was Sushila — a commoner who had captured the heart of the Wolfhard Patriarch, bearing his bastard son in a world where bloodlines meant everything. She was the mother of this fragile vessel I now inhabited.
This was how the shadowed chronicle of the Second Demon Lord's origins began — where Sushila had just birthed Arthur into a world of gilded thorns. It didn't begin with conquest or power, but with a ceremony that would damn us all.
The silver lining? I'd been reborn in one of the wealthiest lineages not only in the empire, but of the entire realm — a fortune that would eclipse the top echelons of Earth's Forbes list. Sounds like a win, right? Except I'm the illegitimate fifth child of a man who already had four heirs, each a full-blooded noble with madness woven into their veins like heirloom silk. Not only was this body fated to fall by the heroine's hand in some distant climax, but its path promised torments sharper than those of my prior existence. If my old life had been merely unlucky, this one promised to be cursed from the very first breath, and the calamity about to unfold in this very sanctuary would ignite it all.
This place was the Cathedral of the Celestials, nestled deep in Wolfhard territory. It was more than a house of worship; it was also a holy birthing ground — its vaults echoed with the cries of the elite. Only those etched in ancient ledgers or draped in gowns embroidered with house crests could afford it — a birthright for the privileged. Here, amid incense and incantations, families learned which celestial patron would claim their offspring, charting destinies in starlit threads. Mothers, freshly spent from labor, were mended by holy magic, a balm far superior to healing magic.
Those who couldn't afford such luxury received their callings through dreams when they came of age — visions of beings with faces of emerald or amber, descending like fallen stars to mark their chosen.
Healing magic was already miraculous — bones mended, wounds closed. But holy healing magic? That wasn't just repair. That was restoration: flesh, stamina, vitality, even morale. Spiritual corruption evaporated. Peace, clarity, courage, faith — all could be instilled. This sacred power would spare Sushila from death in the ordeal awaiting us beyond these walls.
But I knew what was coming. The letter they would send to House Wolfhard tonight would trigger the carriage incident that would shatter everything. And I, trapped in this helpless infant body, couldn't speak, couldn't even stand on my own. I couldn't even do something as simple as holding it in, and I really needed to go to the restroom.
Moments later, Sushila lifted me, her nose wrinkling with playful affection. "Someone took a pooh-pooh. Was it you?" Her voice carried that universal language of mothers everywhere, the baby-talk that made my seventeen-year-old consciousness recoil in mortification. If I thought I'd experienced embarrassment before, I was wrong.
After a while of thinking I came to the conclusion that crying was my only weapon — maybe if I wailed nonstop, it would anchor Sushila from leaving here tomorrow, delaying our departure or at least until the Patriarch came for us.
The Daughters of Light gathered around us like white-robed angels, their faces soft with admiration. "He's so cute. The cutest baby I've ever laid my eyes on."
"Look at him," another breathed, tracing the air near my face. "The Wolfhard founder reborn in those features."
A third approached, her eyes bright with recognition. "We must write to House Wolfhard. The family will want to celebrate such blessed news. Of the one who resembles the sword saint, the hero of old."
"No, please, don't send the letter!" I tried to scream. My mouth only produced wails.
The old priest approached, his threadbare robes rustling like autumn leaves. "Sisters, prepare the altar. We need candles, incense, sacred altar cloth, and the offerings," he commanded.
"I'll tend to it, Father," one replied, hastening away with purposeful grace.
Once the altar stood adorned, the priest announced, "The hour has come to present him and unveil his calling." Gently, he lifted me from Sushila's embrace.
"I'll continue with Lady Sushila's healing," a Daughter offered, her hands already aglow with ethereal light.
The ceremony began as it always did — candles flickering to life, incense painting the air with sacred smoke, the priest lifting me toward the heavens like an offering.
"Children of the constellations," his voice echoed through the cathedral, "I bring forth a newborn soul. Which among you lays claim to this life?"
Usually, the answer came swift and sure: a column of light — azure, gold, or crimson — descending to bathe the child in their chosen celestial's blessing. But this time the cathedral inhaled, and the light did not come.
The priest tried again, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "Which among you, children of the constellations, claims this sou—"
A gust extinguished every candle flame on the altar.
Darkness swallowed the cathedral whole, and with it came a cold that had nothing to do with winter — the kind that reached into your bones and reminded you that death was always watching. The sweet smell of incense turned metallic; you could taste copper from just inhaling it. Outside, animals began to panic, their cries piercing the unnatural silence.
Here we go, I thought.
"Father — an omen!" A Sister burst through the doors, her face white with terror. "The sun is gone — the moon has devoured it completely! Only a ring of fire remains!"
The priest began chanting, desperate words of warding and protection.
"Kraaah."
A lone raven cried — cutting through the chant, echoing against the vaulted ceilings. It had somehow made it inside, circling the cathedral three times. A single black feather drifted down to rest upon the altar. It then perched atop the mother goddess statue, settling on the shoulder, drawing all gazes.
Then the statue began to weep.
Crimson liquid split the stone eyes, going slowly down the cheek, staining the goddess's carved lap with drops.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"The statue weeps blood!" a scream shattered.
A voice slithered into my consciousness, cold, intimate.
"You are mine."
My infant body began to cry instinctively.
"A misfortune has claimed this day," the priest whispered, his face gray with shock.
"What about my son!?" Sushila's voice cracked in panic, as she rose unsteadily.
"Lady Sushila, you haven't completely healed," her maid interjected, grasping her arm.
The priest's hands shook as he clutched his holy symbol. "In all my years...a child unclaimed by the gods."
To them, it spelled oblivion: no celestial shield, no exalted path — just a void existence, cursed and adrift. But I knew better; no celestial had claimed me because something else already had. Not by light, but by something far darker. Something that dwelt in shadows and fed on suffering, something that would use this innocent child's body for purposes too terrible to name.
The priest tried to console Sushila. "Perhaps tomorrow, when you've rested, the goddess will provide answers."
The eclipse ended as suddenly as it had begun, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows as if nothing had happened. But everything had changed. The die was cast, the wheels of fate already turning toward tragedy.
Dawn brought Sushila's full restoration.
The priest approached, solemn. "I petitioned the celestials through the night, but silence reigned. Your son treads a thorny road, yet all may yet align under the mother goddess's gaze."
"My thanks for your hospitality," Sushila replied, her smile a mask veiling inner turmoil. "May the constellations ever guide you."
"And may they journey with you," he echoed.
It was evening when we departed. I had tried to cry nonstop only to be stopped by being breastfed, ruining my plan. The sun painted the sky in shades of honey and rose as the Wolfhard family's carriage set off. The polished wood gleamed, and the velvet seats cushioned every gentle sway of the horses. The coachmen, dressed in their crisp uniforms, drove with steady hands, their posture the picture of duty.
Inside, however, the air was far from stiff.
Sushila held me against her chest, her hair spilling over her shoulder, a smile brightening her face as she leaned down toward me.
"Oh right, Ruby," she said, her voice carrying warmth that could melt even the coldest air. "Since you kept guard all day yesterday, you didn't get a chance to meet him. This is Arthur."
She lifted me slightly, brushing my cheek with her fingers. Her touch was feather-light.
"Say hi to Aunt Ruby," Sushila teased softly, though we both knew I could only gurgle in reply. Her smile was radiant with a mother's pride.
Across from us sat Ruby, dressed in her neat maid's uniform. Her posture was composed, her expression calm — but there was the faintest softness in her eyes as she leaned in to look.
"He's the most adorable child I've ever seen, ma'am," she said, her voice steady. No hint of excitement, yet there was something genuine beneath the surface — a quiet sincerity.
Sushila chuckled. "Isn't he just the cutest little thing? He'll be a little heartbreaker someday, I tell you."
Then she turned her gaze toward Ruby, her smile deepening. "Don't be shy, Ruby. You can hold him."
Ruby blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. Servants were rarely invited into such moments — but Sushila didn't see her as just a servant. She saw her as family.
With careful hands, Ruby accepted me into her arms. She held me securely, as though she had always known how. Her face remained composed, lips pressed into that familiar, unreadable line. Yet when I reached out, tiny fingers brushing against her collar, something shifted.
Her eyes softened. The corners of her mouth threatened the smallest smile.
Sushila noticed instantly. "See? He already likes you."
Forgive me, Ruby, I thought.
Ruby glanced at her lady, then back at me. For the first time, she allowed the mask of duty to slip just enough for warmth to shine through. She rocked me gently, a motion so natural it seemed practiced.
"You're right," Ruby said quietly, almost to herself. "He's… precious."
Then the carriage lurched to a sudden stop.
The horses screamed in terror before falling silent, and in that unnatural quiet, I felt the weight of destiny pressing down like a gravestone.
The Wolfhard Carriage Incident. The name alone evoked terror in my mind.
"What's happening?" Sushila whispered.
I tried to warn them, tried to scream out the danger I knew was coming, but only helpless infant cries emerged from my throat. In my previous life as an author, I had written this scene a hundred times. Now I was trapped inside it, powerless to change a single word.
We were about to discover that some stories are written in blood.