They named me Elijah Everstone.
Elijah.
Everstone.
Even the name sounds like a second-rate protagonist from a bad bard's romance novel. How far I have fallen.
Once, my name alone made kingdoms tremble. Banners burned, priests wept, heroes fled—well, not always, but they should have. I was Gusoyn, the Demon King, Scourge of the Seven Sanctums, Wielder of the Abyssal Crown, Devourer of—
"Who's my wittle Elly-bean? Hm? Who's Mommy's adorable pumpkin?"
Don't. Call. Me. Elly-bean.
This is my curse.
Not fire. Not chains. Not damnation.
But baby talk.
At first, I could not control my body. My limbs flailed like a drunk goblin. I drooled. I drooled, by the gods. My head bobbed around as if it were attached to my neck by pudding. The indignity nearly killed me a second time.
But I was determined.
If I could rebuild my throne from a battlefield of corpses, I could surely figure out how to sit up unassisted.
And eventually… I did.
Then came crawling.
Ah, crawling. A deceptively difficult art. You'd think that as someone who once commanded armies of monsters and hurled mountains into holy cities, I could conquer floor mobility. And yet, there I was—flopping around like an undercooked fish. It took me months to figure out knees. I've fought dragons with less resistance than gravity.
But once I mastered it—oh ho ho—the humans learned fear.
I crawled into the pantry. I knocked over every single jar. I chewed a book. I bit the dog. His name is Waffles. We now have a mutual understanding. He avoids me, and I no longer try to eat his tail.
I was starting to feel powerful again—small, yes, but deadly.
Then, she came.
Snow Everstone.
My elder sister.
One year older. One thousand times more irritating.
She toddled around the house like she owned it. She had the gall to pat me on the head. I nearly incinerated her with my mind.
She would say things like:
"Elijah's so quiet. He must be sleepy!"
No, Snow. I'm not sleepy. I'm plotting. I'm deciding whether to rule this new world… or burn it.
But then… came the discovery.
The heartbreak.
The soul-crushing truth.
There is no mana in this world.
None. Not a drop. Not a spark.
No ley lines. No ancient runes. No cursed relics. No elemental spirits. Not even a lowly imp hiding in a broom closet.
I tried everything.
Screamed incantations in my baby voice (which mostly sounded like I was choking on mashed peas).
Drew summoning circles with crayons.
Sacrificed a beetle on a cracker.
Nothing.
Not even a flicker.
And so, for the first time in a thousand years… I felt lost.
Truly lost.
What am I… without magic?
What is a Demon King in a world where there are no demons? No kings? Only taxes and baby formula?
I looked at Snow—laughing, clapping her hands, spinning in a circle. She fell and started crying until mother kissed her on the forehead and gave her a cookie.
And I… wanted that cookie.
In that moment, a horrible realization crept into my mind like a cold wind through a battlefield tent:
I am no longer a king.
I am a baby.
With a sister who drools less than me.
But no matter.
If magic is gone, then I will find another path. I have risen before. I shall rise again. This world may be dull and magicless, but it is mine now. I will uncover its secrets. I will bend it to my will.
They may call me Elijah Everstone.
But one day… they will remember Gusoyn.
And Snow? Enjoy your cookies while you can.
Your brother is coming for the throne.
Oooo
By age two, I had officially lost the ability to terrify anyone.
My growls were no longer mistaken for threats—they were "adorable." My glares were met with coos. I threw a spoon across the room in rage, and my mother clapped and said, "So strong for such a little boy!"
You fools. That was a gesture of declaration! That spoon was your warning shot!
Still… something curious happened this year.
I learned to speak.
Not the guttural, ancient tongue of demons. Not the refined dialect of high infernals. No. English.
At first, I loathed it. The humans slurred every word, and everything sounded like a sneeze or a yawn. But soon, I discovered the sheer power of knowing what they were saying… and saying it back.
"Juice," I demanded one day.
And it was brought to me.
Behold! The first step to reclaiming dominion: beverage-based extortion.
I learned fast. I observed how they moved, how they asked for things. I began to mimic. I discovered sarcasm. And that… was a weapon.
Snow, who still saw herself as my superior, was often undone by my weaponized politeness.
"Oh, Snow, you tried to read that book? That's so brave of you."
Mother laughed. Snow pouted. I won.
At age three, I had the full vocabulary of a common peasant.
I had also discovered a fundamental truth of this strange world:
I lived in New York.
Not New York, a rival kingdom, mind you. Just… a city. An enormous, noisy, concrete chaos realm with shiny moving carriages, food vendors on every corner, and an aroma that mixed garbage, hot dogs, and dreams.
My father, George Everstone, ran a clothing store called Threaded & True. A humble establishment on 6th Avenue with suits, scarves, and the persistent scent of steam and starch.
My mother, Ava Everstone, was a writer. She typed furiously on a glowing rectangle called a "laptop," muttering about deadlines and editors. I once peered over her shoulder and saw her working on a romance novel involving a vampire duke and a barista named Claire.
This is what passes for literature in this world?
Still… Ava was a force. Her words bent editors to her will. She made entire stories from her mind. I found myself… admiring her.
And Father… he took pride in fashion.
Once, I found him stitching a custom jacket with silver threading.
"Style," he told me, "is how you wear who you are."
Style is how you wear who you are...
That stayed with me.
Maybe I couldn't raise undead legions anymore… but I could wear a miniature blazer and emotionally dominate preschool.
I had learned the names of the surrounding territories.
Our apartment was in a building called The Willoughby, located in a neighborhood called Brooklyn. Every day I was carted off to "preschool," a colorful prison of crayons, naps, and deranged snack distribution.
Snow went to kindergarten—one year ahead, always ahead. She still treated me like I was "her baby brother," even though I had ruled continents and she once ate a crayon because she thought it was blue candy.
At school, I kept to myself. The other children were loud and sticky. But there was one boy—Trevor—who tried to take my building blocks without permission.
"I will crush you," I told him.
The teacher gasped. Trevor cried.
I was given a time-out.
So much for striking fear into hearts.
That night, I sat in my room (which had glow-in-the-dark stars and a teddy bear I hadn't yet burned out of spite) and looked out at the glittering skyline.
I missed magic. I missed the taste of shadows and fire. I missed the silence of a kingdom too afraid to speak in my presence.
But I didn't cry.
Instead, I thought of my father's words: Style is how you wear who you are.
Maybe I couldn't be Gusoyn the Demon King anymore.
But I could be Elijah Everstone.
And Elijah Everstone was going to learn everything about this strange new world and rule it differently.
By five, I had discovered three new inventions:
Toast with butter.
Cartoons.
And something called "taxes," which sounded more evil than anything I had ever done.
My reading had improved. I had taken to Ava's bookshelf like a moth to flame—though I had to avoid her more scandalous titles, which she kept high on a shelf labeled "Not for curious little monsters." That… only made me more curious.
Snow and I fought constantly, as siblings do. She had a flair for dramatics—probably inherited from Mother. She declared herself a "knight" and insisted her stuffed animals were her royal court.
"I'm the Queen of the Bed Realm!" she proclaimed once.
"I'm the Chancellor of the Underworld and you are sitting on my throne," I replied.
Mother walked in and made us both clean up.
I attended my first real birthday party that year—complete with balloons, cake, and horrifying, squeaky clowns.
But I no longer feared clowns.
I'd once faced an angel made of glass and screams.
No balloon animal could unsettle me now.
And so, by the end of Year Five, I accepted something.
This world was not mine.
But it didn't have to be.
I had a name. A family. A bookshelf. A cereal preference.
I had no mana, no magic, and no throne...
But I had time.
And time… was my oldest ally.
Let the humans laugh and forget.
Let them raise their children and pay their taxes and worship celebrities.
I would watch.
I would wait.
And one day…
They will remember the name Elijah Everstone.
Because kings are not born.
They are reborn.