The air in the house was thick with the scent of dried lavender and the metallic tang of a cold winter morning. Within the modest stone walls of a home in the mid-districts, a silence had fallen that felt heavier than the earth itself.
As Vero opened his eyes for the first time in two millennia, the world did not greet him with the roar of battle or the singing of choral hymns. Instead, he saw two faces, blurred by the flickering light of a low-burning hearth. A woman with hair the color of autumn leaves and a man whose brow was etched with the deep lines of a scholar who had seen too much toil.
"Your name shall be..." the mother began, her voice a fragile thread of hope. She had a list of names—names of ancestors, names of kings, names of saints.
But before she could finish her sentence, the atmosphere in the room shifted. It was not a violent change, but a profound one. It was as if the laws of the room had been edited by an invisible hand. A name appeared in the father's mind, not as a thought, but as a fundamental pillar of reality. It was a name that carried the weight of the horizon.
"Vero Malum," the father whispered. He looked at his wife, his eyes wide with a confusion he couldn't name. "His name is Vero Malum."
The mother blinked, the names she had prepared vanishing like smoke. She looked down at the infant. Vero did not cry. He did not reach out with the desperate, flailing limbs of a newborn. He simply watched them with eyes the color of a dying sun—a deep, ancient crimson. In those eyes, the parents didn't see a child; they saw a presence that had traveled a very long way to find a place to rest.
Vero looked at his parents—the people who had birthed his new vessel. He saw their fraying sleeves and the way they looked at him with a love that expected nothing in return. For a being who had spent an eternity being worshipped or feared, this simple, human warmth was the most "Real" thing he had encountered. He didn't see them as tools or subordinates; he saw them as the only two anchors holding him to this new, fragile life.
He knew he could not remain a burden in this state. He needed a body that could walk, speak, and command the silence.
Over the next seven days, the house was draped in a strange, shimmering stillness. The neighbors remarked that the birds had stopped singing near their roof. Inside, time was being treated not as a master, but as a suggestion. On the third day, the infant sat up and spoke in a voice that shook the dust from the rafters. By the dawn of the seventh day, the "baby" was gone.
Standing in the center of the kitchen was a young man of sixteen. His hair was a startling, bone-white, and his crimson eyes held the steady glow of embers. He was lean, dressed in a simple tunic, and he moved with a grace that made the stone floor seem soft.
"Vero?" Elara, his mother, whispered as she entered the room. She dropped the bundle of firewood she was carrying.
Vero stepped forward and caught her before she could stumble. His touch was gentle, his hands large and steady. "I am here, Mother. I am sorry for the shock. The years needed to be bridged."
Kael, his father, walked in, stopping dead in his tracks. He looked at the white-haired youth who stood taller than him. He saw the power radiating from his son—not the flashy, noisy power of the modern age, but a deep, structural authority.
"The knights will be here soon," Kael said, his voice thick with a mixture of pride and dread. "For the Evaluation."
As if summoned by his words, the front door was kicked open. Three Imperial Knights stepped in, their silver armor clanking with an arrogance that filled the small home. They were men of the "Resonance Age," a time where magic was measured by how much noise a soul could make.
"Vero Malum!" the lead knight barked, pulling a heavy, notched bell from a leather case. This was the Resonance Bell, a relic forged to detect the "vibrations" of a soul.
"Every youth must be measured," the knight sneered, looking Vero up and down. "You've grown fast, boy. Let's see if your soul has kept pace with your skin."
Vero stepped forward. He felt the worry radiating from his parents like heat from a stove. He reached out and placed his palm against the cold, black metal of the bell.
The room held its breath. The knights waited for the bell to scream, to ring, to shatter the windows with the force of a genius-level resonance.
But the bell remained silent.
It didn't even hum. It didn't vibrate against the knight's hand. To the observers, it looked as if Vero had no magic at all. But to the bell itself, it was as if a god had placed a hand on it and commanded it to never speak again. The relic was so overwhelmed by the "Truth" of Vero's presence that it lapsed into a respectful, terrified silence.
"Nothing," the knight spat, shaking the bell in frustration. "Not a peep. You're a hollow, boy. A void."
He pulled out a stamp and slammed it onto a piece of parchment, marking Vero's record with a jagged, broken symbol. "Rank: Apexe. You're a misfit. You have the potential of a handful of dirt."
The knights turned on their heels and left, their laughter echoing down the street. Vero turned back to his parents. He took the "Apexe" badge and pinned it to his chest with a faint, amused smile.
"I wish to go to the academy," Vero said.
"Vero, why?" Elara asked, her eyes filling with tears. "They will be cruel. They worship resonance there. They will treat you like a servant."
Vero walked to the window, looking out toward the distant, golden spires of the Royal Academy.
"I have spent lifetimes being the monster in the dark," he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that made the air feel still. "I hope that after giving up my status as the Demon King, I can finally find the peace I sought. But peace is not something that is given. It is something that must be protected from those who would turn it into noise."
He looked at his father. "The academy is where the world learns how to scream. I will go there to teach them how to be silent."
The following morning, the sun rose over the gates of the Royal Academy. It was a place of high walls and even higher egos. Students from the wealthiest families paraded through the gates, their auras shimmering in gaudy displays of gold and azure.
Vero walked through the gates with his head down, his white hair shadowed by the hood of his cloak. He wasn't hiding; he was simply letting the world exist as it was for a few more moments. The "noise" of the academy—the constant, desperate humming of thousands of students trying to prove their worth—felt like a dull headache behind his eyes.
Now that I have been reborn, he thought, his boots clicking rhythmically on the marble path, I can finally archive the goals I set so long ago. World peace isn't found in a louder song. It is found in the silence between the notes.
He walked past the gardens and the training yards, ignoring the whispers about his strange hair and the "Apexe" badge pinned to his chest. He didn't stop to admire the statues or the grand architecture. He headed straight for the grand auditorium, where the entrance exam was being held.
The double doors were made of heavy oak, reinforced with mana-conductive steel. As Vero reached out to push them open, he felt the chaotic energy of hundreds of students inside, all vibrating with a desperate need to be noticed.
He pushed the doors open.
The Great Hall was vast, filled with light from high, arched windows. At the far end, a group of proctors sat behind a long stone table, and in the center of the room sat a massive, glowing crystal.
"Vero Malum. Rank: Apexe," a voice called out, echoing through the hall.
Vero stepped into the room, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd. Every head turned. The laughter was quiet at first, then grew into a steady murmur as he walked toward the center of the hall. He didn't look at them. He looked only at the doors ahead, ready to take the first step into a world that had forgotten who he was.