Averon died.
That part was done correctly.
The blade went through his chest from behind, right between the ribs, straight into the heart. Clean. Precise. One of his own generals did it—someone Averon had promoted personally, which honestly made it better. Betrayal was expected at that point. Loyalty always rotted faster at the top.
He remember thinking, vaguely, So this is it.
The throne room was a mess. Blood on the steps. Blood on the throne. Blood soaking into the black stone like it finally belonged there. His empire was burning outside, but Averon didn't turn to look. He had already seen it fall a hundred times in his head.
He didn't scream.
Didn't beg.
Didn't regret.
He just stood there, hand tightening around the armrest of his throne, and waited for the darkness to finish the job.
It did.
And that should have been the end.
—
Averon woke up gasping.
Air tore into his lungs like it had been denied to him out of spite. His chest burned. His heart slammed wildly, fast and uneven, like it had no idea what it was doing.
He rolled onto his side and gagged.
The floor was hard. Wooden. Cold.
"…What," he croaked.
That was not the voice of a Demon Emperor.
That was thin. Rough. Too young.
Averon froze.
He pushed himself up, expecting pain—and got it immediately. Not the grand, distant pain of fatal wounds or divine backlash. This was sharp, petty pain. The kind that came from weak muscles and a body that hadn't been through enough.
His hands were shaking.
That was new.
He stared at them, blinking slowly.
Smaller.
Not damaged. Not injured.
Just… human.
"No," he said.
The word came out stupidly quiet.
He stood up too fast and immediately regretted it. The room spun. His vision blurred. He grabbed the nearest thing—a table, crooked and splintered—and leaned on it while his stomach twisted violently.
The smell hit him next.
Old wood. Dust. Sweat. Something sour.
Poor.
This place was poor.
Averon lifted his head and saw his reflection in a cracked mirror nailed to the wall.
Black hair, messy. Sharp eyes, but dulled by exhaustion and confusion. A face that hadn't yet learned how to look down on the world properly.
Too young.
Too alive.
"…Aren," he muttered.
The name surfaced on its own, dragging memories with it. A life he had lived once. A starting point he had abandoned centuries ago.
His jaw tightened.
So this was what fate had decided.
Not resurrection.
Regression.
And not even a proper one.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, instinctively searching for the vast, crushing presence that had once bent demons, gods, and worlds to his will.
His core.
His authority.
His everything.
There was nothing.
Just emptiness.
A hollow silence that stretched on no matter how far he reached.
Averon laughed.
It came out wrong—too breathless, too human.
"You took everything," he muttered, voice low. "And left me this?"
As if offended by the question, his body answered first.
Heat flared suddenly, sharp and unwelcome. His breath hitched as something ugly and physical surged through him, crawling under his skin, settling low in his body with no shame whatsoever.
Lust.
Crude. Loud. Unfiltered.
Averon staggered back a step, teeth grinding.
"No," he snapped. "Absolutely not."
His stomach twisted next.
Hunger—real hunger—clawed at him, sharp enough to make him bend slightly at the waist. His body felt hollow, empty, demanding something immediately and without explanation.
This body was needy.
Disgustingly so.
He pressed a hand to his face, breathing slowly, trying to force the instincts down with sheer will.
It barely worked.
Someone had planned this.
Stripped him of power.
Thrown him back into a fragile human body.
Left him drowning in instincts he had mastered long ago.
The thought burned.
Then—
Something shifted.
Not inside his body.
Behind it.
The air grew heavy. The room felt smaller, like it was holding its breath.
Aren's head snapped up.
The world stilled.
And then a sound rang out inside his skull.
DING.
He flinched.
Crimson letters bled into his vision, hovering calmly as if they had every right to be there.
[SSS-Ranked Sin System initializing.]
[Host confirmed: Averon—Error.]
[Correcting identity… Host reassigned: Aren.]
Aren stared.
"…What?"
Another line appeared.
[Core authority lost.]
[Sins detected: ACTIVE.]
His heart slammed violently.
The hunger surged again—stronger this time, sharper, like something inside him had just been acknowledged.
Before he could process any of it—
A scream cut through the night outside.
Human.
Close.
Very close.
Aren turned toward the sound.
His pupils dilated.
His mouth filled with saliva.
And against his will, a smile crept onto his face.
Not Averon's cold, practiced smile.
Something messier.
"Ah," he whispered.
The system pulsed.
The hunger roared.
And a single word echoed softly in his mind, patient and eager.
Eat.