Verdantia was no longer spoken of as a kingdom.
It was a curse now. A blight on maps and in memory — erased from textbooks, scorched from annals, whispered only in the frightened stories of survivors and fools. Once the jewel of the continent, it was now 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 not 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.
Fifteen years had passed since his escape from the abyssal prison 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 made it to the throne room.
Those who did were broken before they could speak.
Verdantia's capital, once the 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 by 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.
Inside 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 a deeper crimson than fire, and his presence alone was enough to silence entire halls. 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, mastering every known art and inventing 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.
He did not seek conquest. He did not rule with vision or law. He simply existed in the heart of ruin, and the world bent around him in terror.
In time, other kingdoms submitted to avoid his wrath. They sent tribute, gold, rare beasts, forbidden tomes, sacrifices, and taxes in exchange for silence. His realm, surrounded by death, became paradoxically the richest on the continent.
Not because he demanded it — but because fear made them offer it.
The Demon Realm overflowed with treasures stolen from fear and desperation. Vaults piled with ancient relics, mountains of coins and enchanted gems, lost artifacts and cursed items. But the Demon King never counted his riches. He did not care.
He did not know what to do with wealth. He had no concept of luxury.
He had been raised in darkness. In chains. In silence and fire. All this glittering abundance meant nothing to him.
The people of the world dared not even look toward the Demon Realm.
Merchants whispered stories of black-winged watchers that burned ships with a gaze. Scholars said the land itself was cursed by the gods. Pilgrims believed it was the mouth of hell, and the Demon King its guardian.
None dared prove them wrong.
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 for 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 their offerings. He recorded their desperation. And when they displeased the Demon King, it was he who 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, but every year of it. He had betrayed his blood. He had joined the call for the "demon baby" to be executed. Now he lived in fear of a monster he helped create.
And the world? The world did not forget.
Poets wrote cautionary tales of Verdantia's fall.Priests warned children that sin would turn them into monsters.Kings looked to their borders with fear — 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 decided to leave.
But they all knew this:The day he moves, the world burns.