Kael Neverdie remained standing motionless for a long moment in the center of the throne room, as if he feared that the slightest movement might cause this new reality to collapse.
The silence was oppressive. No distant battle cries, no roars from his legions, not even the constant hum of corrupted mana that once filled his palace. There was only the wind slipping through the cracks in the colossal walls and the occasional creak of stone giving way under its own weight.
He began to walk.
His heavy footsteps echoed through the empty corridors. Everywhere his gaze landed, the same spectacle of decay greeted him: rotting tapestries, rusted armors still worn by skeletons frozen in their final poses, murals depicting his past victories now stained with mold and dampness. Roots had pierced the black marble floor in several places, as if nature itself was trying to reclaim what had been stolen.
He stopped in front of an immense banquet hall. The tables were still set, cups overturned, the wine long evaporated leaving black stains like dried blood. He remembered the feasts he had held there. Demonic generals laughing, human slaves trembling, conquest plans whispered between two sips.
It all felt so distant now.
"Ten years…" he murmured, running a clawed hand over the back of a secondary throne — the one once occupied by his most loyal lieutenant, Valthor. "And yet, in my head, I lived much longer in that prison of lies."
He continued onward, descending to the lower levels. The servants' quarters were empty. The armories had been looted long ago. Only the archives room, still vaguely protected by ancient seals, contained a few intact grimoires. Kael entered and brushed his fingers over a book whose wyrm-skin cover was cracked.
He wasn't looking for legendary weapons or powerful artifacts. Just clothes.
His royal armor, once imposing and covered in burning runes, was far too recognizable. Even damaged, it screamed "Demon King." He eventually found, in a forgotten chest belonging to his former personal servants, simpler garments. A long black cloak with worn edges, dark reinforced leather pants, a gray tunic with wide sleeves, and a hooded coat whose fabric seemed to absorb light. Nothing luxurious. Nothing that shouted "I am important."
He looked at himself in a miraculously still-standing cracked mirror. His curved horns remained visible, as did his pale skin and red eyes. It was impossible to completely hide his demonic nature. But that wasn't necessary. In this new world, half-demons, hybrids, and frontier creatures had become more common than before. As long as he masked his overwhelming aura, he would pass for a dangerous traveler, not the Demon King.
With a fluid gesture, he suppressed his power. It wasn't complicated cultivation — just an old concealment technique he had mastered for centuries. His aura dropped to the level of an experienced minor demon. Enough to deter the weak, discreet enough not to alert the strong.
"Good," he murmured, adjusting his hood. "Let's see what they've done with my world."
He left the palace on foot, without a mount, without an escort. The cold mountain wind accompanied him as he descended toward the verdant valleys. The further he went, the more the contrast struck him. The lands once ravaged by war were now fertile. Model farms had replaced the burned fields. Clean villages with blue-tiled roofs stretched along magical roads.
After two days of walking, he reached the first major human city: Lumara.
The gates stood wide open. Guards in light, shining armor checked entrants, but without real suspicion. Kael passed without issue, his hood lowered, his demeanor casual. No one gave him more than a quick glance.
Inside, the city buzzed with activity. Floating lanterns illuminated the streets even during the day. Stalls offered mass-produced magical artifacts: communication crystals, cheap healing potions, enchanted farming tools. Magic was no longer reserved for nobles or the powerful. It had become… accessible.
Kael settled into a crowded tavern near the central square, ordered a local beer and a simple meal, and simply listened.
Conversations flowed freely.
"…and that's how Elara the Sacrificed sealed the monster," an old soldier was telling a group at a nearby table, mug in hand. "She held the spell alone for ten years. What a woman."
A young man beside him added enthusiastically:
"They say Neverdie was screaming in rage inside his dream. That he kept reliving his defeat. The bards even made a song about it, you know? The Broken King in His Prison of Illusions."
Kael tightened his grip slightly on his mug, but his face remained impassive.
A merchant woman added:
"Thanks to that, the Alliance of the Seven Kingdoms was able to form. No more internal wars. We studied the remains of the demonic army, reversed some of their runes… Look where it led us. Agricultural golems, mana trains, academies open to all. Without meaning to, Neverdie gave us a golden age."
Approving laughter rose.
Kael listened for hours. The versions of the final battle varied, but the core remained the same: he had been on the verge of total victory when Elara sacrificed her soul to trap him in an eternal nightmare. He was considered dead, or at least condemned to endless madness. His name had become a dark legend, useful for scaring children and glorifying fallen heroes.
No one expected his return.
As he finished his beer, a troubadour stepped onto a small stage and began to sing:
"In his black palace, the Demon King laughed,
But Elara's light broke him…"
Kael stood up calmly, left a few coins on the table, and stepped out into the night.
Outside, he stopped on a bridge overlooking the illuminated river. The city lights reflected in the water like fallen stars.
A cold, almost amused smile slowly stretched his lips.
"They rewrote history to reassure themselves," he murmured to himself. "Good. No one is looking for a dead man."
He adjusted his cloak and headed toward the nearest inn. For now, he didn't need to strike. He needed to understand this new world, its weaknesses, its new rules.
And especially, what had become of his former generals and those still loyal to him.