Simon had lost count of the years, but he had not lost count of his failures.
They lived in his bones.
Every bruise that once bled, every bone that once shattered, every breath that once fought to return — all of them formed the rhythm of his life here.
A rhythm of breaking, rising, breaking again.
Until the morning came when everything felt… different.
The air was still.
Too still.
Not the calm of peace — but the quiet before a blade strikes flesh.
Simon sensed it the moment he opened his eyes — the weight of inevitability resting on his shoulders like an invisible chain.
Orba stood before him, arms folded behind his back, obsidian armor reflecting faint crimson light. His presence alone distorted the air, as if the world feared him — or obeyed him.
"Stand," the Demon King commanded.
Simon rose without hesitation. The old instinct — obedience shaped by survival — had long become habit.
"My lord."
Orba looked at him with the same cold arrogance as ever, but today… there was something sharper beneath it.
Expectation.
"Your training has stagnated," Orba declared. "Your blade grows, but your heart sleeps."
Simon clenched his jaw, fighting the instinctive reply.
"I'm improving—"
"Improvement without killing is theory. Knowledge without blood is delusion."
Simon fell silent.
He had never killed anyone here.
Never been allowed to.
He had fought only Orba.
Died by Orba's hand too many times to count.
But never killed.
Orba extended a hand, and the air rippled. A map formed — lines of abyssal script glowing like molten veins.
At the center: a black sigil pulsing like a heartbeat.
A location.
And a name.
Vala — the 42nd Demon King.
Rank: Thrall class.
A lower demon king — but still a monarch among monsters.
"You will go," Orba said, voice expanding until it filled the world around them, "and you will kill him."
Simon stared.
His heart beat once — slow, heavy, disbelieving.
"…Alone?"
"Alone."
No hesitation.
"That's suicide."
"That is your test."
Simon's fists tightened around the hilt of his metal sword. Light — faint, but real — gathered in his eyes.
"You expect me to assassinate a demon king? One ranked 42?"
"No." Orba's voice was colder than stone. "I expect you to fail."
Silence rippled outward from the words — vicious, final.
"You will be devoured. Torn apart. Reduced to ash."
Orba stepped closer, shadow swallowing Simon like jaws.
"And when you resurrect here… your training will begin anew."
Simon's heart twisted.
So that was the plan.
Not to win.
Not to prove strength.
But to die.
Again.
An eternity of death and revival until Orba was satisfied.
Simon swallowed the acid rising in his throat. His voice broke, not from fear — but frustration.
"You want me to fight an Abyss King level foe while I'm barely… what? A Thrall?"
"A Thrall who refuses death is stronger than a cowardly monarch." Orba turned, cloak trailing behind him like a serpent. "And power is not measured only by rank."
Simon's breath shook.
"Why? Why send me now? After all this time?"
Orba paused.
For a single moment — so brief Simon could have sworn he imagined it — Orba's expression shifted.
Regret?
Memory?
Expectation?
"You have learned to survive me," Orba murmured. "Now you must learn to survive the world."
Simon lowered his head, jaw tense. "And if I refuse?"
The temperature dropped.
Reality itself shuddered.
Orba did not shout. He didn't need to.
"You do not refuse me."
It was not a threat.
It was a law.
Like gravity.
Or mortality.
Or pain.
Simon exhaled slowly.
"…What's the target's weakness?"
"There is none," Orba replied.
Simon blinked. "…Then how—"
"You will find one. Or you will die."
Orba raised a hand and the ground rumbled. A circle of abyssal runes erupted beneath their feet — swirling in black flames.
Teleportation.
Simon's heart lurched.
"Wait—!"
"Go," Orba commanded, voice absolute. "Bleed the world. Break. Rise. Kill. Or perish forgotten."
Simon's vision blurred with heat and fear and something else — excitement.
He wasn't being trained anymore.
He was being unleashed.
And then — the circle ignited.
A violent pull yanked Simon's soul forward. The air howled. Space twisted.
And in a flash, the endless stone plains of Orba's realm vanished — replaced by a harsh, howling wind and jagged mountains piercing a storm-filled sky.
Snow swirled in violent spirals, stinging Simon's skin like needles. The world was sharp, hostile, merciless.
A hidden valley stretched below — lit by violet flames, crawling with twisted demonic beasts. Ruins carved into the cliffs formed a crude fortress — primal and ugly, more den than kingdom.
This was no palace.
This was a hunt ground.
A place where a predator ruled.
Simon's breath misted in the cold air.
"I'm supposed to kill a demon king here?"
He steadied his grip on his sword.
No magic.
No armor.
No allies.
Just steel.
And a will that refused to die.
Simon exhaled — slow, sharp, controlled.
"…Fine."
His voice didn't tremble.
"I'll kill him."
Something moved in the valley — a roar vibrating through the stone. Shadows shifted. A monstrous presence stirred, ancient and violent.
Simon stepped forward.
He was no longer a student.
No longer a prisoner.
He was a blade walking.
And today, the blade would taste blood.
Even if it killed him.
---
The wind did not merely howl — it screamed.
The mountains groaned beneath the storm, and snow whipped sideways, carving lines across Simon's skin like invisible blades.
He stood at the cliff edge, cloak fluttering in tatters behind him, breath fogging the frigid air.
Below, the valley seethed like a nest of shadows come alive.
Not quiet.
Not peaceful.
Alive with violence waiting to happen.
Beasts crawled in the dark — hunched, twisted figures with bone spines and glowing jaws.
Violet fire burned in scattered pits, smoke rising like serpents into the storm.
Every instinct in Simon's body told him one thing:
You will die here.
His fingers tightened around his crude sword.
He had held this weapon for years — decades, perhaps — until it felt like an extension of his bones. Yet now, the metal felt embarrassingly light in his hands. Bare. Insufficient.
He swallowed.
Fear, once a quiet companion in his chest, slithered up his throat.
A simple truth settled into him like ice:
He was alone.
No Orba to drag him back.
No death to reset him gently inside a training ground.
No warning shout.
No mocking grin from his captor-turned-tormentor-turned-teacher.
Here, death might not be a lesson.
It might be the end.
Simon whispered to the frozen wind,
"…Cowardice won't save you now."
A shiver crawled down his spine — not from cold, but from understanding.
Once, in his old life, he thought misery was permanent.
He thought failure was inescapable.
But despair was a cage only as long as you stayed inside it.
Here, death was freedom — and danger — and meaning.
He laughed.
A soft, strange sound carried away by the storm.
"I didn't have a life before," he murmured. "Just days."
He took his first step down the steep slope, boots crunching through snow.
"And if I die here… at least I die doing something."
A rumble echoed across the valley.
Not thunder.
A roar.
Deep. Jagged. Heavy enough to make snow fall from the cliffs above.
Simon exhaled slowly.
"Good," he whispered. "I want you awake."
Halfway down the icy canyon pass, the air shifted.
Silence tore apart as a beast lunged from the fog — a thing with too many joints and too many teeth. Gray flesh rippled, bone plates jutting from its shoulders like jagged wings.
It screamed — a high-pitched, hungry shriek — and pounced.
Simon didn't flinch.
His blade came up in a clean arc — not elegant, not magical, not flashy.
Just right.
Steel met flesh.
Bone split.
Warm blood sprayed across the snow, black and steaming.
The creature stumbled — then collapsed, gurgling and twitching.
Simon exhaled, staring down at it.
His voice was quiet.
"…I didn't hesitate."
He lifted his sword again, forcing his breath steady.
He did not feel joy.
Nor horror.
Just necessity.
He moved again.
Down the path.
Through shadow and snow and broken bones buried in drifts.
Beasts came.
Claws, fangs, talons, horns.
And every time, his sword answered.
He bled.
He gasped.
He staggered.
But he did not fall.
Not yet.
Hours — or minutes — or days passed.
The storm cared little for time.
Simon reached the valley floor, breath heavy, sword dripping black blood that hissed in the snow.
And there — in the center of the ruin — sat a throne carved from jagged crimson stone.
Not regal.
Not noble.
Predatory.
A massive figure sat upon it.
Vala.
The 42nd Demon King.
His skin was the color of burned bone, cracked like volcanic rock. Horns swept backward like blades, and his eyes glowed with cold golden malice.
He was not like Orba — elegant death wrapped in power.
He was raw brutality given shape.
Vala's voice rolled like thunder dragged across gravel.
"Another fool come to die in my valley?"
Simon's heart hammered.
His grip tightened.
He felt the weight of those golden eyes — old, ancient, hungry.
Vala leaned forward, amused.
"No herald. No army. No banner."
His grin split, revealing jagged teeth.
"Pathetic. But brave."
Simon lifted his sword, neither bowing nor flinching.
"I'm here to kill you."
Silence fell like a blade.
Then — laughter.
Deep, shaking laughter that shook the cracked ruins and rattled Simon's ribs.
"You?" the demon king roared, rising to his full height — towering, monstrous, terrible.
"You are nothing. A thrall. A cub biting at the throat of a lion."
Simon's voice was steady.
"I don't need to win."
Vala paused.
"…Bold words for a corpse."
"I just need to survive long enough to make this mean something."
His breath froze in the air, sharp as steel.
"And every scar after this will remember your face."
Vala's grin faded — replaced by curiosity, then irritation.
"You speak like death is beneath you."
Simon lowered his stance, blade angled, breath calm.
"Death is my training partner."
For the first time, shock flickered across the demon king's eyes.
And in that heartbeat of silence — Simon attacked.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Only motion.
Sword flashed.
Snow exploded.
The storm swallowed both of them in howling fury.
The first clash rang like thunder against steel.
And Simon felt his bones shudder — pain ripping through muscle —
but he did not fall.
Not yet.
Today, he had chosen to fight the impossible.
And impossible did not scare him anymore.