The chamber had grown quiet. The guards stood motionless along the walls, their eyes fixed forward, seeing nothing. The morning sun had climbed higher, painting golden rectangles across the stone floor. And in the center of it all, two figures faced each other—one on the bed, one in a chair—locked in a dance as old as humanity itself.
Cassian leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his golden eyes boring into Kain's soul.
"Tell me now," he said, his voice soft but carrying absolute authority. "What is this hero you spoke of? And how can I use them to defeat the demonic army?"
Kain's mind raced. He'd bought himself time, but now came the real test. Cassian wasn't interested in saving humanity—that much was obvious. He wanted power. Control. To rule over everything, demon and human alike.
He doesn't want to win the war, Kain realized. He wants to own the victory.
And for that, he needed heroes. Pawns. Weapons in human form.
Kain took a breath and began.
"There's a village," he said slowly, choosing each word with care. "Small. Remote. The kind of place no one notices until it's too late. A demon attack will destroy it—hundreds dead, maybe thousands. Innocent people, slaughtered."
Cassian's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened.
"Among the survivors—if you can call them that—a child will emerge. Orphaned. Alone. Burning with revenge." Kain paused. "That child becomes the hero. The one who starts the journey. The one who gathers others like them—six in total—and leads the charge against the demon army."
"When?" Cassian asked.
Kain met his gaze. "After the King declares war. After humanity stops defending and starts attacking. That's when the hero is born."
Cassian was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled—thin, satisfied.
"You're not lying," he said. It wasn't a question.
"No," Kain replied. "Why would I lie when my life depends on telling the truth?"
Cassian nodded slowly. Then his smile shifted—became something almost pitying.
"Here's the problem, little ghost." He leaned back in his chair. "My father—the King—has no interest in war. For a decade, we've done nothing but defend. Hold the line. Push back when we must, retreat when we can't. A full-scale offensive? Against the demon army?" He shook his head. "He'd never agree."
Kain's stomach dropped.
No war? But the game—the hero's journey—it always starts with—
He stopped.
Wait.
If the King wouldn't declare war... then how did the war start in the game? How did the hero emerge?
Unless...
Unless the war was provoked. By someone. For some reason.
Unless the Fifth Prince's execution wasn't just a footnote—it was the spark.
Kain's mind exploded with connections.
The King ignores Aldric. Treats him like he's useless. But the security around his room is insane. Mary—a high-class mage disguised as a maid. Physicians taking detailed notes. A diary hidden under the pillow, waiting to be found.
What if it was all an act?
What if the King loved Aldric more than anyone—and hid it to protect him?
The realization hit Kain like a physical blow.
Cassian doesn't just want to kill me. He wants to kill the King's favorite son. Make it look like possession. Drive the King mad with grief. Push him into declaring war out of rage and despair.
That's how the war starts. That's how the hero is born.
From my death.
Kain looked up at Cassian, and for the first time, he saw the full scope of the monster sitting before him.
Cassian smiled, watching Kain's face shift through realization after realization.
"Ah," he said softly. "You see it now, don't you? The shape of it. The beauty of it." He gestured vaguely. "A decade of peace, shattered by one prince's death. A grieving king, mad with loss, throwing his armies at the demon horde. Heroes rising from the ashes." He laughed. "And me, standing in the shadows, pulling every string."
Kain's hands clenched in the sheets.
This bastard. This absolute bastard.
"Do you know," Cassian continued, "how to rage a war between humans and demons? If you knew about the hero, I assume you know about that too."
Kain stared at him, his mind blank with horror.
Cassian's smile widened. "No? Then perhaps my original plan was better." He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his uniform. "The execution will proceed. A possessed prince, killed for the good of the realm. The King will be devastated. The war will begin. And I—"
"Wait."
Kain's voice cut through the air like a blade.
Cassian paused, looking down at him with mild interest.
"I know," Kain said. "I know why the King really treated Aldric like he was useless."
Cassian's expression flickered—just for an instant, but Kain caught it.
"Go on."
Kain's heart pounded, but he forced his voice to stay steady.
"The security. Too many guards for a useless prince. Mary—she's not just a maid, is she? She's a mage. High-class. Powerful. Hiding in plain sight." He was guessing now, but Cassian's face told him he was right. "The physicians, taking detailed notes. The diary, left where someone would find it."
He took a breath.
"Aldric wasn't useless. He was the favorite. The King hid it to protect him. From you."
Cassian stared at him for a long, horrible moment.
Then he laughed.
Not the mocking laugh from before. This one was different—genuine surprise mixed with something that looked almost like respect.
"How did you know?" Cassian asked. "When did you possess this body? How did you find this out?"
Kain shook his head. "I didn't possess anyone. I woke up two days ago. But I saw how I was being treated. The level of security. Mary's true nature. I put it together." He met Cassian's eyes. "I was guessing. But you just confirmed it."
Cassian's laughter died. He stared at Kain with new eyes—no longer dismissive, no longer mocking. Something else entirely.
Slowly, he began to clap.
"Bravo," he said softly. "Bravo!"
He clapped three times, each one deliberate, each one echoing off the stone walls.
"If you had been born a peasant," Cassian said, "I swear on my throne, I would have hired you. Made you my closest advisor. Treated you like gold." He shook his head admiringly. "Your ability to analyze a situation... it's on another level."
Then his expression shifted, becoming almost sad.
"But you were born in the wrong place. At the wrong time. And you're standing in the way of my plans." He shrugged. "I have to sacrifice you. There's no other way."
Kain slid off the bed.
His legs were weak—barely recovered from a year of coma—but they held him. He dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor, his head bowed, his hands clasped before him.
"Please," he said. "I beg you. Hear my request."
Cassian looked down at him, disappointment flickering across his features.
"Don't beg," he said quietly. "You know who I am. If you're anything like me, you know begging is useless."
Kain raised his head. His eyes were dry.
"I know your plan," he said. "I know I can't stop it. But I don't want to die like this. Unworthy. Humiliated. Executed like a criminal in front of a crowd."
Cassian's eyebrow rose. "Unworthy?"
Kain pressed on.
"I was born in a noble family in my world. My grandfather was a great general. I carry his blood in my veins." It was a lie—his grandfather had been a factory worker—but Cassian didn't know that. "I want to die honorably. On a battlefield. With a sword in my hand. Fighting."
Cassian studied him for a long moment.
"You're noble," he said slowly. "From another world."
"Yes."
"And you'd rather die fighting than be executed."
"Yes."
Cassian was quiet. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—not mocking, not cruel. Almost... pleased.
"You know," he said, "I think I believe you. And I think..." He paused. "I might be able to arrange that."
Kain's heart leaped.
"Really?"
Cassian nodded. "The southern front is always active. Small skirmishes, border raids. I could send you there. Give you a sword. Let you die with honor." He smiled. "It would serve my purposes just as well. A prince dying in battle is almost as useful as one dying by execution. Maybe more."
Kain bowed his head.
"Thank you."
Cassian turned to leave, then paused at the door.
"One thing," he said without looking back. "If you survive... if you somehow make it through... don't come back here. Don't try to return, although it's impossible to escape from demon. But if you do return to this place, I'll kill you myself. Slowly."
The door opened. Closed.
He was gone.
Kain stayed on his knees for a long moment, his head bowed, his heart pounding.
Then, slowly, he looked up.
The southern front, he thought.
He'd bought himself time. And a way out of the castle.
Now he just had to survive long enough to use it.
The Game of Crown had just given him a path.
He intended to walk it.
PLACE:- DEMON LAND (Infernal Dominen).
The Demon Realm stretched endlessly beneath a sky of perpetual twilight. Red-tinged clouds hung low over landscapes of black rock and crimson soil, illuminated by the faint glow of distant volcanoes. Rivers of molten lava carved glowing paths through valleys, their light reflecting off obsidian spires that pierced the darkness like frozen lightning.
In the heart of this realm, carved into the side of the largest volcano, stood the Obsidian Throne—a fortress-city that served as the seat of demon power for millennia.
The war chamber was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with torches that burned with eerie blue flame. A massive circular table dominated the center, carved from a single piece of volcanic glass, its surface etched with the map of Eldrath Prime.
Around this table, the demon generals gathered.
They were a terrifying collection of beings—each one a nightmare given form, each one commanding legions that could wipe cities from existence. Fur, scale, and chitin mixed with leather armor and dark metal. Eyes glowed in varying shades of red, gold, and green. The air itself seemed to thicken around them, heavy with millennia of hatred and hunger.
A massive wolf-like creature slammed a clawed hand on the table, his fur bristling with barely contained rage.
"Why not send a full-fledged war?" he snarled, his voice a guttural rumble. "Crush them all at once! Take their cities, their women, their children—everything! Why do we waste time with these border games?"
Across the table, a serpentine demon uncoiled slightly, his forked tongue flickering with amusement.
"Have you forgotten about their Aura users, Fenrir?" His voice was silk over venom. "And the mages? Without proper planning, we'd take heavy damage. Perhaps even—" he paused deliberately, "—lose."
Fenrir's eyes blazed. "Are you saying our army is weak?"
The serpent demon's smile widened. "I'm saying you're too stupid to lead one."
"How dare you!" Fenrir's claws dug into the stone table, leaving gouges. "You speak of weakness in the royal meeting? You scaled worm! I'll tear out your—"
"Enough!"
The word came not from any general, but from the figure standing motionless beside the throne—a massive demon in black armor, his face hidden behind a helm carved to resemble a screaming skull. The High General. Second only to the Queen herself.
The room fell silent. Fenrir and the serpent demon froze, their quarrel instantly forgotten.
The High General's gaze swept the assembly, invisible behind his helm but felt by all. "You forget yourselves. The Queen watches."
Every demon present dropped to their knees as one. Heads bowed. Eyes fixed on the floor. Even the highest-ranking generals—those who had been laughing quietly at the argument—lowered themselves in submission.
"We ask for forgiveness, my Queen," the assembled demons intoned in perfect synchronization, their voices merging into a single resonant plea.
Silence.
Then, from the throne at the head of the chamber, a single pale hand rose.
The High General spoke without being addressed. "Rise."
The demons rose, but none dared lift their eyes to the figure on the throne.
She sat in shadow, this Queen of Demons—a silhouette against the red glow of the volcano behind her. Details were impossible to discern, but her presence filled the chamber like pressure before a storm. Every demon felt it. Every demon feared it.
Slowly, deliberately, she rose from the throne.
The sound of her first step echoed like a thunderclap.
Every demon lowered their head further, some pressing their foreheads to the cold stone floor. She walked among them, her pace unhurried, her footsteps measured. The generals trembled. The high generals held their breath.
She reached the map table and stopped.
Her hand—pale, slender, almost human—traced a line across the carved surface. Following her finger, the assembled demons saw her destination.
The southern gate of Austrai.
"The attack," she said, her voice soft as silk and sharp as broken glass, "will focus here."
Shock rippled through the assembly. Even the High General stiffened.
The serpent demon found his voice first—a dangerous act, but curiosity overwhelmed caution.
"My Queen," he ventured, "forgive my ignorance, but... why the southern gate? It's a minor passage. Barely defended. We could strike anywhere—their capital, their fortresses, their heartlands—and cause far more damage."
The Queen's lips curved into a smile.
"I found something interesting there," she said. "I want to see it for myself."
The High General stepped forward. "What is it, my Queen?"
Her smile widened.
"A toy."
Silence.
The demons exchanged confused glances, but none dared question further. The Queen had spoken. The plan was set.
She turned from the table and walked back toward her throne, her footsteps echoing in the absolute quiet.
"Prepare the legions," she said without looking back. "We move at the next dark moon."
The doors to the chamber opened, and she was gone.
For a long moment, no one moved. No one spoke.
Then Fenrir, his earlier rage forgotten, whispered to the demon beside him: "What toy? What could possibly interest her in that worthless corner of the human lands?"
The other demon shook his head slowly.
"I don't know. But whatever it is..." He swallowed. "I pity anyone standing near it."
The war council dispersed, leaving the map table alone in the flickering blue light.
On its surface, the southern gate of Austrai seemed to glow—marked by the Queen's finger, chosen by her will, destined for destruction.
And somewhere in that distant human kingdom, a dead boy from another world was about to walk straight into her path.
To be continue...
Here is the map for you, Mr Reader.