The night had barely loosened its grip on the camp when silence settled over the gathering. A hundred pairs of eyes, scarred and broken by exile, looked toward him—their lord, their monster, their last hope.
The fire's glow painted him in shifting shadows. Horns still jutted faintly from his skull. His claws, though restrained, bore the faint shimmer of black fire. He did not look wholly human, nor wholly demon. He looked like something born between, a creature shaped by hunger and defiance.
And yet… he stood tall.
The Codex whispered within him, its runes thrumming like a heartbeat.
> "They bow because they fear you. Bind them, vessel. Make their fear into chains, or their loyalty into blades."
He ignored the whisper for once. Not out of defiance, but because he already knew what he wanted to say.
The Gathering of Outcasts
The exiles knelt in rough rows before him—raiders, broken soldiers, even slaves freed from the warlord's cruelty. Their eyes burned with a desperate need for purpose.
For years they had been discarded, forgotten, mocked by the Empire that spat them out. And now they stared at him—the forsaken prince who had survived sacrifice, who had risen from the pit they all knew too well.
His breath left him in a slow exhale. He remembered their laughter at the ritual. His siblings, radiant in their cruelty. His father, watching from the throne, unmoved. His body broken, his soul screaming as flames consumed him.
He should have died.
Instead, he had crawled back from the abyss.
The Oath
"I was forsaken," he said, voice low, carrying across the silent camp like thunder muffled by distance.
The exiles raised their heads, listening.
"I was the weakest. Cast out. Mocked as less than a servant. They threw me away like refuse, unworthy even to kneel at their feet."
His claws curled into fists, black fire flickering between them.
"But I lived. The flames that should have devoured me now burn in my veins. The power they feared to give me—I seized it with my own hands."
He raised one hand, flames licking the air, dark and hungry. The shadows bent toward him, as if the night itself bowed.
"They wanted me dead. But I will return. Not as the cripple they mocked. Not as the sacrifice they discarded. I will return as the one they fear."
His voice deepened, raw with promise.
"I will be their nightmare. For every slight, I will take blood. For every mockery, I will take souls. For every exile cast into the dust, I will raise an army of fire and shadow."
The Codex thrummed, purring like a beast at his oath.
The exiles shuddered. Some wept. Others beat their fists to the earth, chanting his name—the only name they had given him, whispered in reverence and terror.
"Nether Prince."
"Nether Prince."
"Nether Prince!"
The chant rose until the camp shook with it, the sound carrying into the borderlands like a storm breaking.
Lira's Offering
When the roar finally faded, Lira stepped forward. Her hands shook, but her eyes held steady fire. From her cloak she brought out the jade token left by the dying general. Its faint glow pulsed, as if it had been waiting for this moment.
She lowered herself to her knees, placing the token at his feet.
"This is yours," she said softly. "A key, a guide, a reminder. Your mother's blood runs in you still, even if the Empire denies it. This token points the way to what she left behind."
He looked down at the jade, its light catching on the black veins still etched faintly into his skin. His chest tightened. A memory flickered—his mother's voice, quiet and distant, the only one who had ever looked at him with something like love.
He knelt, touching the token. It was warm, alive with some hidden resonance. The Codex pulsed in answer.
> "A legacy awaits. Ruins sealed by blood, opened only to heirs. Claim it, vessel. Or let it rot in the dust of your weakness."
He closed his hand around it, veins flaring with black light.
"No," he whispered. "Not weakness. Destiny."
The Dawn of the Nether Prince
When he rose, so did the exiles. A hundred scarred faces stared at him, no longer with doubt but with conviction.
He lifted the token high, its glow bathing them in pale green light.
"This is our path," he declared. "A ruin that holds more than inheritance. It holds proof that the Empire was wrong to cast us aside. And when I claim it, we will march—not as outcasts, not as refuse, but as the army of the Nether Prince!"
The chant erupted again, louder than before, shaking the sky.
Lira's lips trembled, but she smiled through it. She saw the monster in him, yes—but she also saw the leader. And she chose to believe.
Above, the stars burned cold. Somewhere, far away, his siblings felt a chill in their bones. A whisper of a storm rising in the borderlands.
As the chanting continued, the jade token blazed brighter than ever. A phantom map etched itself into the night sky, visible only to him and Lira. Mountains, rivers, ruins veiled in shadow.
The Codex hissed with hunger.
> "Forward, vessel. The ruin awaits. The first step toward dominion. The first nail in their coffins."
The Forsaken Prince smiled, a cruel, jagged thing.
"Then we march."
The camp did not sleep that night.
The oath hung over them like a second moon, bright and burning, impossible to ignore. Men and women who once muttered in despair now sharpened blades with trembling hands, as though destiny had brushed them with its shadow. The air was alive, thick with smoke and hunger.
And at the center of it all—he sat, the jade token cradled in his clawed hand.
The glow seeped into him, threading with the black fire of the Codex. His veins lit faintly, as if his blood had become ink and flame at once. Every breath felt heavier, drawn deeper from some endless well. The Codex purred, alive and eager.
> "Yes, vessel. At last, you open your palm to power, instead of clutching the scraps of survival. This is not fear. This is not exile. This is dominion."
He closed his eyes, but the world did not fade. Instead, visions burst against his mind—
Mountains torn by fire. Rivers turned black. A throne shattered, its crown cast into blood.
And above it all, his own shadow, vast and unbending, spreading wings that devoured the stars.
His breath caught. For the first time, he did not feel like prey dreaming of revenge. He felt like a storm waiting for release.
The Followers' Binding
The exiles stirred uneasily. Some could not look at him, terrified by the light flickering beneath his skin. But others leaned forward, as if compelled. The jade's glow washed over them, seeping into scars, igniting something long dormant.
Lira's voice trembled, but she forced the words into the silence:
"You are not just ours—you are what we have waited for."
One by one, the exiles pressed their fists to the earth, swearing silently, their eyes fixed on him. No banners flew, no sacred rites were spoken. Yet something older, rawer, bound them in that moment. They were no longer broken fragments. They were a beginning.
The Codex swelled with satisfaction.
> "Your oath has become theirs. A tide rises, vessel. Not all will survive its pull, but those who do will drown the world."
The Burning Dream
The jade token pulsed hotter, as though testing him. He gritted his teeth, his body trembling as runes crawled across his arms, spiraling down his chest like molten brands. Pain knifed through him—but he did not cry out.
Instead, he let it burn.
Memories clawed back: chains on his wrists, laughter on the throne, blood on the marble. His siblings' faces, radiant and cruel. His father's silence.
The flames flared, black and green mingling, until the night bent around him. For a heartbeat, the camp was drowned in silence, every exile staring wide-eyed as his form blurred, shadowed wings stretching wide behind him.
He opened his eyes. Crimson and jade fire blazed in them, a storm's promise.
And he spoke—not to the exiles, not even to Lira, but to the unseen eyes he knew watched from the Empire.
"I am no longer forsaken. I am vengeance made flesh. Tell them… tell them the heir they buried has risen. And he does not forgive."
The Codex's Seal
The runes along his body sank into his skin, vanishing. But their echo remained—etched into his soul. The Codex's whisper coiled in his ear, silk and steel:
> "The page turns, vessel. The first arc ends. Now begins the march. Ruins await. Secrets awaken. And when you claim them, no empire will stand."
He lowered his hand. The jade token lay silent now, but its light lingered in the sky—the phantom map burned into his mind.
The Forsaken Prince turned toward the east, where mountains clawed the horizon. His claws flexed, his shadow long against the dying fire.
"Dawn comes," he said. "And with it—the march of the Nether Prince."
The camp roared behind him, a sound not of broken men but of an army being born.
Cliffhanger:
The jade token cracks faintly in his palm, a single line of green fire spilling from it—pointing toward something buried deep in the mountains. His destiny is no longer distant. It is calling.