Six thousand years ago, the sky did not know peace.
It burned.
Not with sunlight — but with war.
The heavens split open as divine armies descended in pillars of white fire. The abyss roared as demon legions rose from beneath fractured continents. Human empires, drunk on forbidden knowledge, summoned weapons that devoured cities whole. Spirits — ancient, formless beings older than memory — tore through reality itself.
The world was not fighting for victory.
It was fighting for survival.
At the center of that chaos stood a single figure.
Veyrion Ashblood.
He did not command an army.
He did not kneel to gods.
He did not bow to demons.
He was something beyond their categories.
To the gods, he was an anomaly.
To the demons, a threat.
To humans, a myth.
To spirits, an interruption in fate.
And yet, he was the only being strong enough to end the war.
Mountains collapsed beneath the clash of titans. Oceans split. The sky itself fractured like broken glass. Reality trembled with every exchange of divine and demonic authority.
Veyrion looked upon the battlefield and understood one truth:
If the war continued, existence would not survive another century.
Victory no longer mattered.
Balance did.
So he made a decision that no god, no demon, no king had ever made.
He chose to erase himself.
Standing between the converging powers of heaven and abyss, he removed the core of his own existence — a divine singularity older than the war itself.
"If I remain," he spoke into the collapsing sky,
"this war will never end."
He shattered his own core.
The explosion did not destroy the world.
It sealed it.
Divine authority collapsed. Demonic portals closed. Human magic circuits burned out. Spirit realms fell silent.
Peace did not come gently.
It was forced into existence.
And Veyrion Ashblood became a forgotten name.
History rewrote itself.
The war faded into myth.
Six Thousand Years Later
In the lowest district of the Demon Realm — far from noble bloodlines and ancient castles — a child was born beneath a dim red sky.
The house was small. Poor. Barely standing.
His parents were low-born demons. Laborers. Invisible to society.
The midwife examined the newborn and frowned.
"His magical signature is… nonexistent."
The father's shoulders lowered in shame.
"No aura?" the mother whispered.
"Zero."
The child opened his eyes.
Silver.
Not glowing. Not demonic.
Ancient.
He did not cry.
He did not tremble.
He simply observed.
So this is what remains.
Years passed quietly.
The boy grew without incident. Without talent. Without recognition.
At school, other children mocked him.
"Defective."
"Broken."
"A demon without magic."
He did not argue.
He did not defend himself.
He watched.
He listened.
He remembered.
The world had stabilized — yes.
But it had not improved.
Demon nobles ruled through arrogance. Humans rebuilt their forbidden research. The gods remained distant, but not gone.
Peace existed.
Balance did not.
Age Sixteen — Entrance Day
The gates of Noctis Infernal Academy rose like black spears against the crimson sky.
It was the most prestigious demon academy in the realm — where noble heirs trained to command armies and govern territories.
Thousands of students gathered in the courtyard.
Power radiated everywhere.
Flames flickered across shoulders. Lightning sparked between fingers. Dark wings briefly manifested before fading.
And among them stood a boy in plain black uniform.
Veyrion Ashblood.
Reborn sixteen years ago.
Dead for six thousand.
He felt no excitement.
Only curiosity.
The entrance examination began with the Demonic Core Crystal — an ancient artifact capable of measuring magical potential.
One by one, students approached.
The crystal shone brightly for nobles.
A-Rank. S-Rank. High-Class.
Applause followed each result.
When his name was called, the murmurs began immediately.
"That's the one with zero aura."
"He shouldn't even be here."
Veyrion stepped forward.
He placed his hand upon the crystal.
He released nothing.
Because what flowed within him was not demonic magic.
It was origin energy.
The crystal remained dark.
After a moment, the examiner cleared his throat.
"Magical output: Zero."
Laughter erupted across the courtyard.
But Veyrion felt something else.
The crystal trembled faintly beneath his palm.
Not because it sensed nothing.
But because it could not comprehend what it touched.
He withdrew his hand.
Let them laugh.
Understanding is not granted to the unprepared.
As he walked toward the academy building, whispers followed him like shadows.
Above, clouds shifted unnaturally.
Deep beneath the academy foundation, an ancient sealed mechanism stirred for the first time in six millennia.
A thin crack spread across its surface.
A voice — old as the war itself — murmured in the darkness:
"The Origin… has returned."
Veyrion paused briefly at the entrance steps.
Not because he heard the voice.
But because, for the first time since reincarnation—
He felt something watching him.
And this time,
It was not laughing.
Chapter one end