The heavy doors of the Queen's chamber creaked open. From within, a silence like death poured outward. Not the silence of fear — but the kind that followed an unthinkable miracle.
The Demon King stepped out.
Unscathed.
Unchallenged.
And above all… unchanged—at least on the surface.
But his brother, who waited near the entrance gate, felt a disturbance in the air around him, like the world itself was holding its breath. His brother rose from the royal chariot, eyes wide as disbelief washed over him.
"Y-You… walked out?" he stammered.
The Demon King didn't respond. His crimson cloak flowed behind him, tattered from the battle in the barrier, though no one had laid a finger on him.
"I thought…" his brother continued, "I thought you were going to raze the kingdom. You didn't even spare our own blood. You imprisoned our parents. You tortured me for years. But this… this kingdom—strangers, enemies—you spared them?"
The Demon King paused at the steps of the palace, the sunlight catching his pale, scar-crossed face. For the first time in fifteen years, his hand trembled—not from weakness, but from the aftershock of something deeper than war.
A guard stirred. A low-ranking soldier groaned on the side of the courtyard. Another one blinked, their body bruised but alive. The brother's eyes widened further.
"You even let them live?" he whispered, stepping back.
The Demon King, cold and quiet, finally spoke. "They were not enemies. They were… guardians."
With that, he stepped into the black-iron chariot waiting below. His brother climbed in beside him, his mind racing to keep up. The horses snorted, cursed beasts from the Demon Realm, but even they moved slower—as though they too sensed something had changed.
As they rolled away from the palace, silence hung in the air. For minutes, it stretched, heavy and sacred.
Then the brother broke it. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you spare them?"
No answer.
Then, quietly:
"Because I was defeated."
The brother blinked. "Defeated? What—? No one laid a finger on you. You crushed their defenses. Even the Queen's barrier—"
"She was stronger than me," the Demon King said flatly.
"But… you broke her spell! You walked through it like it was mist!"
He looked at his palm. Blood had begun to drip from his fingertips. Long, slow rivulets. "My body broke it. But not my mind."
He gazed at the wound for a long while. Then said with haunting calm:
"It's been fifteen years since I last bled."
The brother sat back, stunned. The chariot rocked as the road shifted. Wind blew through the broken crests of Verdantia's borders.
The Demon King continued.
"That barrier… it wasn't made to harm. It was made to judge. The more hatred you held, the more it crushed you. I've walked through fire, poison, blades, and curses. I've endured dungeons and torment… so I no longer feel pain. That's the only reason I passed through."
The brother looked down, his voice barely a whisper. "So you mean… your suffering saved you?"
A cruel, mirthless smile twisted the Demon King's lips. "No. It only made me empty."
The bleeding slowed. He stared at it, thoughtful. "Her kingdom… it was beautiful."
His brother flinched. "Ours once was too," he muttered. "Until—"
"Until a demon child was born," the Demon King finished coldly. "Yes."
They fell into silence again.
The Demon King rested his head against the side of the chariot, looking up at the passing sky. "Do you know why I didn't kill them?" he murmured.
His brother shook his head.
"Because for the first time… no one looked at me with hatred. Suspicion, yes. Fear, yes. But not hate. Even those who tried to stop me… they did it not to destroy me, but to protect someone they loved."
He turned his head slowly, eyes distant. "Do you know what that feels like? To walk among people who do not desire your death? Who would kill for love—not for sport? I don't."
"They weren't kind," he added. "They didn't kneel. They didn't flatter. But they were… normal. And after everything I've endured… normal felt divine."
His voice cracked on that word. Divine.
Then he leaned forward. "But in that chamber… there were five who felt like home."
His brother shuddered. "You mean—?"
"Yes. I felt them. Five auras, drenched in bloodlust, corruption, and ambition. The same kind I grew up around. The same kind that ruled the Demon Realm. They were the true monsters in that kingdom. I didn't hesitate."
He stared at his bloodstained fingers.
"I didn't spare the kingdom out of mercy. I spared it… because it didn't deserve death."
His brother asked softly, "Then why did you leave? You could've taken the throne. No one could've stopped you."
There was a pause.
Then, with something almost like… confusion, the Demon King said:
"I don't know."
The wind picked up. For the first time in years, uncertainty shadowed the eyes of the man once called the Pinnacle of Evil.
"She reminded me of myself," he said at last. "But… not the one I became. The one I could've been. It was unbearable."
His brother leaned forward. "You're saying… the Queen? She's your age, right? How did she end up ruling? Kings rule in this world, not queens. There's no precedent."
The Demon King said nothing. His expression was unreadable. But his silence was not from lack of interest.
His brother called forward, and a figure climbed into the chariot: the robed guide who had led them from the Demon Realm across the continents.
The Demon King glanced at him but said nothing.
"You want to know," the guide said softly, sensing the interest. "Very well, my lords. Let me tell you the tale. Not of a Queen who inherited a throne… but of a girl who forged it with her own hands."
And as the sun dipped behind the hills, and the cursed chariot rumbled across the dirt roads between kingdoms, the story began.