This is part 1 of Chapter 4.
Feng Deming sat upon a golden throne in the Flare Wing Palace of Middle Astara. Despite appearing to be in his early twenties by human standards, in Astara, he held the title of King of Kings—an unmatched authority. His presence commanded both fear and respect, marking him as the most powerful man across all realms.
Deep in thought, Deming reflected on his accomplishments. "I have restored order after the chaos left by the previous Supreme Leader," he mused. His cold eyes narrowed as he envisioned his next steps, driven by an undying thirst to destroy the Fairy Realm, sparing no one who stood in his way. "I shall reclaim Astara's lost lands and historical artifacts from the Fairy Tribe... Yet, this is merely the beginning."
His mind drifted back to the day he ascended to the position of Astaran Supreme, earning the title of King of Kings as a teenager. He had entered the Fairy Realm as an innocent child but returned to Astara devoid of emotion, showing no mercy as the harbinger of destruction.
"My lord," a soldier clad in bulky black armor knelt before Deming. "The King of the West has defied your order. How shall I convey your response?"
Snapping out of his reverie, Deming's piercing gaze cut through the soldier, like ice through warm flesh. "It seems my benevolence has been mistaken for weakness," he growled, his deep voice sinister, sending shivers down the soldier's spine. His jaw clenched, a subtle sign of the anger simmering beneath his composed exterior. "However, there is indeed a message I demand to be conveyed."
The soldier trembled under Deming's intense scrutiny as the Demon King rose from his throne. Each step echoed ominously in the grand hall, telling a tale of the destruction he had unleashed and the countless lives he had mercilessly crushed beneath his heel, their anguished cries of despair haunting their memories.
Deming stood tall before the soldier, radiating regal elegance with his dark-brown hair flowing down to his thighs, as if drawn with a quill and ink. He wore multi-layered black garments and a golden half-crown. The horn-like protrusions on either side of the crown emphasized his esteemed status as the Demon King.
With eyes blazing like molten gold, Deming commanded, "Lock him away. Let his fate serve as a warning to all who would dare cross me."
"Yes, my lord!" The guards seized the soldier with vice-like grips, their hands clamping down hard on his arms.
Stunned by the swift judgment, the soldier protested, "But why, my lord? I'm inno—"
"Innocent?" Deming interrupted with a mocking sneer. "Do not insult my intelligence. Your loyalty has been compromised, and you know it full well."
With a nod from Deming, the guards dragged the soldier away, his pleas drowned out by the heavy thud of the closing chamber doors.
Alone once more, Deming turned to the window, his aloof eyes narrowing as he gazed out over the moonlit landscape. The night whispered its secrets, but darker ambitions consumed his thoughts. "West Astara shall kneel at my feet," he whispered to the darkness, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Soon."
With that, he turned away from the window and headed for his chambers, seeking to embrace the night's darkness as he prepared for rest.
.
.
.
As Deming entered his chambers and lay down on the bed, he drifted off to sleep. Vivid memories from his past crept into his dreams. He found himself back in the dimly lit dungeons of the Fairy Realm, where he had once endured unimaginable torment day after day. The chilling echoes of his suffering reverberated through his mind, each memory a reminder of the pain that had shaped him into the man he had become.
Young Deming found himself in shackles, his small frame shaking with fear and confusion. The air in the dungeon was heavy with an acrid smell, and the cold stone walls seemed to close in on him. "Is someone there? Why am I your prisoner?" he implored, his voice trembling with innocence.
Muchen's response was as cold as the dungeon's chill. "You shall not be around for much longer. There is no need to ask such a question." His voice echoed off the stone, bouncing back to Deming.
Deming's breath caught in his throat. "What for? Are you planning to... to kill me?" His eyes widened with terror, and his breathing grew more rapid as he strained to hear Muchen's approaching footsteps.
"Yes," came the cold reply, landing the word like a stone in the silence. Muchen's steps drew closer, slow and ominous, like impending doom.
The young demon's heart pounded as he struggled to make sense of his fate. Every sound in the dungeon seemed magnified: the distant dripping of water, the static sounds of his phantom chains as he tried to break free. "B-but... why?" he choked out, his hands trembling against the unforgiving shackles biting into his skin as his captor's words sank in.
"Because you exist," Muchen's voice sounded malicious, his gaze like a blade as he stared down at Deming, revealing himself.
'It's him.' The young demon shuddered under the intensity of the stare, fear gripping him as his eyes locked with Muchen's.
As Muchen's words echoed in the chamber, Deming's mind spun with disbelief and horror. In that moment, the harsh reality of his existence crashed over him, drowning him in a sea of darkness and despair. The realization that his very existence was a crime in Muchen's eyes threatened to suffocate him.
Desperation took hold of him, and Deming pleaded, "But I haven't done anything wrong! I'm inno—"
"Innocent?" Muchen, looming over him, sneered with disdain. "In the eyes of our kind, your innocence is a myth. Your bloodline is tainted, cursed from the moment you drew your first breath."
Tears welled in Deming's eyes as he struggled against his restraints, his young heart heavy with the knowledge of his impending death. "Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I don't want to die."
Muchen's gaze remained cold and unaffected. "Your fate was sealed the moment you were born," he declared, his tone as harsh as the stone walls. "I cannot allow you to live, nor can I release you, knowing the power that you possess."
And so, in that dark and forsaken chamber, Deming's childhood dreams shattered, replaced by a harsh reality that punished him simply for being born. As his innocence gave way to bitterness, a fierce will to survive ignited within him, sparking a defiance that would shape the tyrant he would one day become.
Muchen, a sworn enemy of demons, tormented Deming without mercy. Though the strikes and energy blasts left marks that would fade but never be forgotten, Deming refused to break. Muchen appeared to enjoy his control over the defenseless child, finding satisfaction in Deming's struggle.
Yet despite the torment, Deming survived each brutal session, losing his compassion and gaining hatred for the Fairy Realm. The fire within him burned brighter with every strike, with every insult, with every attempt to crush his spirit.
As weeks turned into months and months into years, Muchen grew frustrated. Try as he might, he could no longer break Deming's spirit or extinguish the defiant spark that had grown into a raging flame. He could not foresee the rise of a powerful enemy escaping the twenty seals, forming the demon into a tyrant whose will would one day shake the very foundations of their world.
In the final days of Deming's captivity, as he reached his late teens, the air in the chamber grew heavy with the scent of sweat and the dampness of the dungeon walls.
"You thought you could defy us, boy?" Muchen sneered, his voice dripping with malice as he delivered another blow, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
Deming gritted his teeth and scoffed, refusing to show weakness despite the chains that held him down. "More... I demand more," he sneered. His golden eyes burned with fierce hatred, and his fingers twitched with the desire to retaliate.
Muchen's cold and hollow words echoed through the chamber. "How amusing," he taunted, surprised by Deming's defiance.
With a flick of his wrist, Muchen tightened another chain around Deming's throat, slowly increasing the pressure. As the energy chain tightened, Deming's breaths became shallower, and he struggled for breath. But despite the pressure, his eyes blazed with rage and a thirst for revenge. Muchen watched him fight against the suffocating grip, seeming to enjoy his gasps for air.
"Tomorrow, we shall resume this session," Muchen declared, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "After all, you have survived so many times before."
Even as Deming struggled for breath, a sinister smirk crossed his lips. "I shall... reduce this realm... to mere dust... with the first light of dawn," he whispered through his constricted throat.
Muchen's lips curled into a cold smile. "How entertaining," he mused, tightening the chain even further, enjoying the sound of Deming's struggle to breathe. "But mark my words, demon, this is merely the beginning."
The dream shifted, jolting Deming awake. He sat upright in bed, his heart pounding as he gasped for breath. He blinked away the remnants of the nightmare, sweat beading on his forehead. He took a deep, steadying breath and whispered, "My past still haunts me to this day."
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