In his previous life as Marcus, he had been one of the heirs of a great noble family—a respected, powerful, and influential house: the Groundhutt family. Yet from the moment he was born, everything had already been decided. His mother died giving birth to him, and he was born without mana.
In this world, being born without mana was the same as being born useless.
From an early age, he was labeled as trash—a being without value, someone whose very existence was a mistake. The looks cast his way were never neutral; they were heavy with disappointment, contempt, and sometimes even shame. And so, slowly, almost against his will, a burning desire was born within him: to become stronger. Not to be admired, but simply to no longer be crushed.
The elders of his family could not accept that a piece of trash carried the title of heir. To them, his mere existence stained the name of the house. He was a living insult to their prestige. And so, what was inevitable came to pass—they conspired to erase him. Not openly. Not brutally. No. They chose a clean death, one that would leave no trace.
They decided to send him on an expedition deep into the Demonic Forest, a place where even seasoned knights hesitated to set foot. He had no chance of returning alive. In truth, they were not sending him on a mission—they were sending him to die. And deep down, he understood that they wanted him to die as he had lived in their eyes… as trash.
The moment they arrived, everything collapsed. The knights accompanying him were slaughtered before his eyes, without even understanding what was happening. Blood, screams, terror—everything blurred together. His mind went blank, replaced by primal fear.
He ran.
He ran without thinking, driven only by the instinct to survive, until he stumbled upon a dark, unnatural cave. He rushed inside, hoping to find shelter. But the monster was still chasing him. Every step echoed like a countdown.
And yet, as he ran, memories resurfaced.
Since childhood, he had always been a quiet child. Silent. Observant. He was considered a genius, because he learned quickly—too quickly. His ability to understand surpassed that of other children, to the point that many believed he was destined to become the head of the house. He almost believed it himself.
But on the day of the mana awakening ceremony, everything fell apart.
Where a revelation was expected, there was only emptiness. Not the slightest trace of mana. In an instant, he fell from genius to trash. The looks changed. The smiles vanished. That day, he understood that everything he had been until then was worth nothing.
As time passed, their mockery and indifference stopped hurting him. Not because he was numb to it, but because he was hollow. He took refuge in books—thousands of them. He searched for a solution, for hope, for a different path. But the more he read, the more he realized that the world had no place for someone like him.
So he waited for death.
In silence.
And that death was now right behind him.
Yet at that precise moment, as he ran through the cave—hunted, exhausted—something changed. A sudden desire to live surged within him. Violent. Desperate. As if his soul refused to vanish like this.
He kept running until his body finally gave out. He collapsed, unconscious.
When he woke up, the world had changed. The air, the sensations—everything was different. With time, he came to understand the unthinkable:
He was in Hell.
That was where his true story began.
And that was where he met Daark.
The entity that would help him conquer the infernal realms. Through Daark, he ruled Hell for five hundred and forty years—which corresponded to ninety years in the human world—and became far more than he had ever been in his past life. He went from Marcus Groundhutt to Almus Zaksus, a name he chose to mark his rebirth.
And now, he found himself back at the starting line once again, this time under yet another identity—one he would have to accept.
Was this another trial imposed by life, or simply the result of chance, something he had never truly believed in?
It did not matter.
He had conquered Hell in his previous life, and in this one…
He would conquer the world.
As he reflected on his past life, he continued walking, searching for something to eat and a way to leave this place. That was when he encountered an old man.
"My child, you look unwell," the man said as he approached slowly.
Myrn remained silent, unable to discern his intentions. In a place like this, distrust was a matter of survival.
"I don't have anything," Myrn replied, stepping back. Around them, everyone looked like beggars—human shadows with hollow eyes.
"There's no need to be so wary," the old man said calmly.
Myrn could not afford to follow a stranger to an unknown place. His body was too weak, incapable of defending itself properly. And yet… hunger gnawed at him. After a brief moment of hesitation, he decided to follow, staying on guard.
They walked together. The old man did not speak a single word along the way. Eventually, they arrived at his home. Myrn looked around, searching for the right words to describe it. It was a small wooden shack covered with a worn tarp. Around it grew several flowers, surprisingly healthy despite the surrounding misery.
"It's nothing special," the old man said with a faint, proud smile.
Perhaps it wasn't special, but compared to everything Myrn had seen so far, the place felt almost peaceful. The interior was tiny, with wooden walls eaten away by moisture and uneven planks that let light seep through. The air carried a mix of soil and dust, yet beneath it lingered an unexpected calm—almost comforting, as if time itself had forgotten this place.
Inside, Myrn noticed bowls filled with dried plants lining unstable shelves, and a dusty floor. On a small counter sat simple food: pieces of bread, roots, and water stored in clay flasks. Against his will, his gaze lingered.
"Do you want some?" the old man asked, noticing his stare.
"You… ahem… are you really going to give me food for free?" Myrn asked, still wary.
The old man seemed to expect him to pounce on the food without thinking. That would have been understandable. Anyone else would have.
"Of course not. In exchange, you'll take care of my plants for three days. During that time, I'll feed you."
He handed him a piece of bread along with some water.
The opportunity was too valuable to ignore, even if everything felt strange. Myrn took the bread.
Thinking back on it, feeling joy over a single piece of bread left a bitter taste. Even as trash in the Groundhutt family, he had never gone hungry.
He ate—but the hunger remained.
Myrn then proposed a deal: two pieces of bread per day, morning and evening, in exchange for four days of work instead of three—the fourth day for free. The old man thought for a moment, then agreed.
He was given a place to sleep: a small corner near a window half-blocked by wooden planks. The smell was awful—a mix of damp wood and wet earth—but he had no luxury to complain. The bed was nothing more than a straw mattress covered by a torn blanket, but it was enough to lie down and recover some strength.
Two days passed.
Working his body while tending the plants was a good start—but it wasn't enough. His body also needed to be forged. And for that, nothing was better than creating a core.
In his previous life, Myrn's unique ability—demonic energy absorption—had compensated for his lack of mana. Unlike other demons, who converted their mana into demonic energy, he could absorb it directly. Every demon possessed a demonic energy core, the true source of their corrupted power. For Myrn, that core was merely a reservoir. Where others had to wait for their energy to regenerate, he could simply absorb more.
But this time, his body seemed compatible with mana. He needed to create a core to properly forge his physical vessel.
"Daark, how long will it take me to create a core?" Myrn asked, sitting near the flowers.
"Master, you already possess a core," Daark replied.
"…What?"
Shock hit Myrn head-on.
"What do you mean I already have a core?"
Daark confirmed that he did indeed possess one. Myrn then asked why he couldn't feel it. Daark explained that it was as if he both had it and did not have it at the same time. In short, the core was undetectable. Daark had only been able to perceive it because he was directly bound to Myrn's soul.
"Then how can I sense it myself?" Myrn asked, calmer now.
"It is not a simple matter. To sense it is to activate it, and that seems impossible for now, as your mind would not be able to withstand it."
Despite those words, Myrn was convinced he could succeed.
He went behind the flower fields, to a small, secluded spot hidden from view. The flowers were denser there, and the slightly damp earth helped keep his body steady.
"How long will it take me?" he asked as he settled down.
"In your current state, you cannot succeed. But if we assume you had the necessary capacity… at least three hours."
"That should be enough," Myrn murmured, thinking of the old man.
He sat cross-legged and took a deep breath.
An unusual coolness spread through his mind. The musty smell faded as his consciousness slowly detached from his body. The sense of a healthy environment vanished abruptly, replaced by a sinister vision.
Myrn was walking across a sea of blood.
Anyone else would have fainted or lost their sanity. But he had almost lived in places like this his entire life. His mind was far too resilient to waver.
Fortunately, these are only mental attacks. If they were physical, I would be wiped out the instant I stepped foot here.
He continued forward until he saw a man seated on a throne. The space was vast and dark, with broken pillars and debris scattered across the ground. The air was heavy, saturated with a malevolent energy that felt almost tangible.
Myrn approached slowly.
"…That's me."
The figure appeared asleep. With every step forward, the surrounding energy grew denser, heavier, more sinister. After a few more steps, Myrn stood face to face with his double.
He reached out and touched it.
The form vanished instantly.
At the same moment, his consciousness was pulled back into the physical world.
This time, Myrn felt it clearly—the core was beating within his chest.
The process had succeeded.
"Daark… how long was I in the spiritual world?" Myrn asked, out of breath.
"Two hours. And the core has been successfully released, which I do not understand," Daark replied.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
Daark explained that given Myrn's current condition, this should have been impossible. He understood perfectly. Contrary to what one might think, Daark had no emotions. He spoke only when he had relevant information to convey to his host. He seemed programmed solely to assist them.
And now, his host was no longer Almus… but Myrn Avlord.
"His mistake is understandable, considering he analyzed me as Myrn," he thought with a faint smile.
As he was about to leave, he suddenly stopped.
"Wait. Now that I think about it… why didn't my body react to the release of the core?"
Release?
Myrn fell silent for a moment, then continued his reasoning.
"I didn't create a core… I released it. That's why my body didn't react."
A shiver ran down his spine.
"Daark, is it possible for me to create another core?" he asked, intrigued.
"Normally, no. But in your case… it is possible," Daark replied.
Under normal circumstances, as Daark had said, a person could only possess one core. Attempting to create a second almost always resulted in the heart exploding. In Myrn's case, that risk still existed. Yet he chose to trust his intuition.
But not yet.
"For now, let's go back."
When he returned, the old man did not seem to notice his absence—at least not outwardly. The day passed smoothly, almost peacefully. Myrn decided that the creation of his second core would take place on the night of the third day.
When morning came, he resumed his usual tasks. The old man appeared strangely restless. As for Myrn, he already felt better—his body had regained some strength, and his face looked less worn by fatigue.
Then night fell.
The moment of truth had arrived.
Myrn settled himself as before, closed his eyes… and began the creation of his second core.
Unlike the previous time, the sensation was extremely pleasant. He felt his body grow warm, sweat covering his skin. It was the first time he had ever felt mana, but the method of creation remained the same, whether it was pure mana or demonic energy.
He circulated the mana throughout his body, guiding it toward a precise point near his navel. His veins felt as though they might burst, but the flow was steady, and his chances of success increased with time.
A sphere of mana began to form within him, and at the same moment, an intense pain seized him. It was severe—but bearable. Myrn could feel his body undergoing transformation.
A moment later, Daark announced:
"Congratulations, Master. A mana core has been created."
The sensation was extraordinary. His scrawny body felt gone, and he felt far lighter.
"I really did it," Myrn thought, a confident smile forming on his lips. "In the end, it was easier than expected… now I possess two energy cores."
What he had just accomplished was extraordinary—even as Almus, he could not have achieved such a feat.
The path toward his goal now lay open before him.
It was a tremendous step forward.