Darkness stirred.
Not the comforting void of sleep, nor the all-consuming black of death—but something deeper. Ancient. Endless.
And in that darkness, a voice rumbled—low, regal, tinged with tired amusement.
"Velzareth," it echoed, "Lord of the Ninth Flame, King of the Endless Calamity… They called me many things. Godslayer. Tyrant. Devil."
The voice was calm, yet laced with thunder.Velzareth lay upon the broken stone steps of his throne room, his dark armor cracked and seared with divine light, his crimson mantle torn to ribbons by the final strike of a man who should have been his equal… but not his better.
He exhaled slowly.
"For centuries, I ruled the southern skies in fire. Armies turned to ash in my presence. Kingdoms swore themselves to my mercy—or burned."
Blood ran down his brow, hot and dark. The taste of iron lingered on his tongue.He shifted his fingers slightly, closing them around the hilt of the broken sword beside him—once wielded by the hero hailed as the world's last hope.
"And then came him," Velzareth murmured.
"Seren Albrecht, the Radiant Hero. The boy chosen by the gods, raised on prophecy and purpose. They say his blade could cut through sin. That his soul burned brighter than any mortal flame."
He chuckled, low and bitter.
"And yet... I won."
The memory was fresh. The sound of clashing steel. The taste of ash and lightning. The sky itself had split beneath their power, two titans locked in glorious ruin.And in the end, it was Velzareth who remained standing—barely. Crippled, scorched, breath ragged... but alive.
"A world without its strongest hero," he whispered. "How dull it shall be."
Footsteps echoed.
Seven sets.
Velzareth turned his head—slowly, painfully.
They approached like shadows—regal and terrible, each bearing a different aura, a different sin. They had ruled beneath him, served him, slaughtered nations at his command. The world knew them as monsters, and rightly so.
They were the Seven Deadly Sins.
"Gluttony" led the group, massive and silent, his armor still wet with gore from the last battle.
"Lust" walked beside him—graceful, feline, a sly smile playing on her lips.
Behind her, "Greed," "Sloth," "Wrath," "Pride," and "Envy" moved as one, cloaked in magic and menace.
They stopped before him, but did not kneel.
Velzareth's eyes narrowed.
"Why do you hesitate?" he growled, forcing himself to rise on one elbow. "Come. Aid your king. There is much to do."
They said nothing.
"I said… aid your king." His voice sharpened like steel on stone. The air around him grew heavy, thick with embers of rising fury.
Still, they stood.
Then Pride stepped forward—his golden armor gleaming, his eyes unreadable.
"Your rule ends here, Velzareth."
The silence shattered.
"What?"
"The gods have spoken," said Lust, tilting her head. "They see what we see. That you grow too strong. That no blade forged by man can kill you."
"So they offered us a deal," Greed added, grinning. "One we'd have been fools to ignore."
Velzareth's heart did not race. It burned.He stood—slow, wounded, but tall. His mana flared like a dying star refusing to go cold. The very castle trembled beneath his will.
"Treachery," he hissed. "You think me so weak that your coward's pact will save you?"
"Not weak," Envy said softly. "Just… outmatched. For once."
They moved in unison.From their cloaks they drew a circle—etched in divine symbols, pulsing with godly malice. A sigil older than time itself, meant to sever even immortality.
Velzareth froze.
"The Pact of Severance…"
"Granted to us by the gods themselves," said Pride. "We bind it now with your blood… and ours."
Velzareth roared.
The ground split. Fire and shadow surged as he unleashed his full wrath. The castle shuddered, pillars crumbling. Wrath was flung back, his armor cracking from the impact. Lust screamed as her illusions burned away.
But still the circle held.
His body—already weakened—betrayed him. Magic bled from his core, unraveling. The contract wrapped around his soul like chains.
And they watched, silent, as Velzareth of the Ninth Flame knelt for the first and final time.
"This… this world was mine," he rasped, vision fading. "You think the gods will let you rule? You are nothing without me."
Pride stepped close, whispering in his ear.
"That's where you're wrong. We were never yours. And soon… this world won't be either."
Velzareth's final scream tore through the sky—
And then, nothing.
"LORD DREVARRIS! WAKE UP!"
The scream pierced through the void like a dagger.
Velzareth's eyes snapped open.
Blinding sunlight poured into the room. A woman stood above him—red-faced, apron fluttering, hands on her hips.
"For the last time, you spoiled wretch, if you don't get up I'm dunking your head in the well!"
He blinked.
The ceiling above him was carved wood. The air smelled of soap and rosewater—not brimstone and steel.His limbs… soft. Weak. Small. He looked down.
A human body. A prince's nightgown.
Disgust flooded him.
"What… is this?" he whispered.
The maid rolled her eyes. "Don't start with the theatrics again. You think just because you're a prince you can pretend to be possessed or cursed or whatever this week's excuse is?"
She stormed out, muttering curses.
Velzareth—no, Lucien Drevaris—rose slowly, staring into a gilded mirror. A pale face stared back. Soft silver hair, sunken eyes, and a frame that looked like it hadn't lifted anything heavier than a wine glass in its life.
"Lucien Drevaris," he murmured.
Memories surged in.A weak, cowardly prince. Seventh son. No magical talent. No political value. Publicly shamed for dueling a noble and crying afterward. The court called him "Trash Prince."
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"How poetic," he said softly. "You cast me into the lowest pit… so I may rise again."
His eyes, once molten gold, were now a dull green—but the fire behind them had not gone out.
Not yet.