Have you ever felt your heart claw its way up your throat, so loud you're sure the whole world can hear it? Like your veins are full of lightning and your lungs forgot how to work?
Yeah. That.
Except I don't have a heart anymore. Or veins. Or lungs. (Thanks for that, universe.) But if the icy, razor-sharp dread currently shredding through what's left of my existence is any clue-oh yeah, this is terror. The kind that sticks to you.
And the reason is currently six stories tall, smells like blood and storm-wet earth, and is staring at me like I'm the last puzzle piece it needs to burn the world down.
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Long ago, in the age of primordial creation, Chaos birthed wonders and horrors beyond mortal comprehension—the Demon King, the Supreme Deity, the Sacred Tree, and countless other forces that shaped the cosmos. But today, our story follows just one of them: the Demon King himself, and the strange, relentless obsession that now consumes him.
Look at him. A being of infinite power, whose very breath once toppled kingdoms—cradling a single soul in his palm like a fragile grain of sand.
"Why?" you might ask. "Why would a sovereign of darkness, a ruler of legions, waste his time on something so… small?"
Ah, but here's the truth: this soul is anything but ordinary.
It is the culmination of 2,500 years of patience, of rivers of spent magic, of clawing open the fabric of reality itself just to scour the void for life. Countless souls flickered past his grasp—discarded, unworthy—until at last, this one shone brighter than the rest.
The best. The perfect one.
How did he know this soul was so special? The answer was simple.
This soul had thrived in a world devoid of magic, where no supernatural forces existed—yet its density was staggering. Comparable to even the weakest of gray demons, such resilience hinted at something extraordinary. And when the Demon King delved into its memories, the truth became clear: this human had possessed a willpower that dwarfed his peers, an unbreakable resolve that explained his soul's unnatural strength. A spiritual power of 431—rare, even among warriors. Better still, his nature was ideal for servitude: fiercely loyal, unshakably trustworthy.
Perfect.
That was all the confirmation the Demon King needed.
Reaching into the abyss of his own power, he withdrew a fragment of something greater—something hidden. Long ago, twenty-five centuries past, when the first Demon King had dared to betray him and paid the price, he had been split into two: Chandler and Cusack. But in that moment of division, a sliver of power had been stolen away, unnoticed. A mere fraction—somewhere between 1900 and 2300 in overall power—too insignificant to raise alarms. At the time, nothing on the demon king's vision.
Now, though? Now, the Demon King was thinking.
How much would this fragment grow?
With a thought, he forced the writhing mass of darkness into the soul. It trembled, strained, and nearly shattered under the pressure. But it held. Barely.
As the soul stabilized, the Demon King shaped a humanoid vessel around it, leaving only the final details unfinished. Appearance, gender—such things would be the soul's own choice. He imprinted the knowledge telepathically: Whatever you decide now will be permanent.
One last glance. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he cast the nascent being deep into the Demon Forest, cloaking it briefly in his magic—just enough to ward off the hungriest predators. The protection wouldn't last.
And if the soul failed? If the creatures of the forest tore it apart before it could awaken and grow?
Well. That was no longer his concern.
The fragment of power within it could not be destroyed, only scattered. It would be disappointing, yes—but not irreparable. All he had to do was find it again.
And he had all the time in the world.
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You know what?
I never really asked for much.
I had a small farm where I raised a few animals, and I sold the meat in my own butcher shop back in the city. It wasn't glamorous or exciting by most standards—but it was mine. And truth be told, it brought me a sense of satisfaction that many of my acquaintances, despite their busier, flashier lives, never seemed to find.
My days followed a simple rhythm. I'd wake up early, feed the animals, and decide which ones were going to the slaughterhouse that day. I'd handle the 'worst' work myself—just enough to feel hands-on—then my employees would take over, finishing the process and delivering the meat to the shop.
The rest of the day was mine.
More often than not, I'd retreat to my garage to tinker with my dirt bikes or my pride and joy—my car. Not to brag, but I've won a few trophies with them. It was my way of disconnecting, of feeling free.
Evenings were quiet. I'd eat a good, hearty meal, then crash on the sofa, controller in hand or something playing on the TV. I'd fall asleep content, only to do it all over again the next day.
It was a quiet life. A passive one, maybe. But it was mine—and I hadn't even turned 26 yet.
But don't expect me to talk about my private life—we're not at that level of trust yet.
But nooo...
Of course, it couldn't just be simple. A goddamn demonic titan had to rip me out of my own body, make me feel like a helpless kid watching an atomic bomb fall straight onto their head, shove a mass of darkness the size of a semi-truck into my soul—and I'm pretty sure I was just a soul at that point—and then, with a satisfied look, throw me into a forest that looked like it had crawled straight out of hell.
Explanations, you ask?
All I got was this: I could pick my face, my body—whatever—and once I decided, that was it. No take-backs. Oh, and one more thing: "Don't disappoint me."
That's it. No explanation. No "here's why I ripped you out of whatever afterlife existed" or "here's what happens if you fail." Just figure it out and don't screw up.
Cool. Fantastic.
So now I'm standing in the middle of some nightmare forest, and I still have to decide on my appearance before this curtain of darkness disappears, with exactly zero instructions. What am I supposed to do? Wander around until something tries to eat me? Guess which choices won't piss off the cosmic edgelord who owns my soul now?
And the worst part? He didn't even care. If I died here, he'd just… scoop up whatever was left and try again.
What a fucking deal.