The Pretender's Crown

In the throne hall of the Demon King's castle—the Abyss of Naraku—even the air itself seemed frozen in dread.

Beneath the massive vaulted ceiling formed of ancient ribs, emerald crystals cast an eerie glow, illuminating the figure known only as the Black Blood Emperor. For three centuries, he had ruled Arcadia with an iron fist—so long that his true name had faded from memory. All that remained were whispers of his throne forged from rebels' bones and how each breath he drew carried the anguish of entire civilizations.

"Iron Fist Rogue... you dare question my decision?"

Though soft, the Demon King's voice pierced every noble's eardrums like white-hot needles.

Before the throne knelt a battle-hardened demon general. His massive arms—powerful enough to shred dragon scales—trembled slightly, not from fear but from barely contained rage.

"Sire! The orcs of Gray Mountain are merely struggling to survive! This isn't rebellion! Surely we could approach this with more—"

"Diplomacy?" The Demon King let out a chilling laugh. "Have you forgotten what we are, Rogue? We are demons. Mercy is our greatest weakness."

Without even raising a hand, a wave of pure darkness enveloped the general. No explosion, no screams—the legendary Iron Fist simply disintegrated into black dust, scattering in the hall's slight breeze as though he had never existed.

"Anyone else care to share their... concerns?"

Deathly silence fell over the hall.

---

Far from the capital's blood-soaked atmosphere, above a thundering waterfall, a floating citadel housed a more refined form of cruelty—one cultivated with scientific precision.

This was the Demon King Academy.

Built entirely of obsidian, grotesque gargoyles perched on every spire—not mere decorations but vigilant sentinels. Their crimson eyes constantly scanned the grounds, ensuring no hint of dissent could take root.

Here, the sole graduation requirement was simple: become the next Demon King. All others would serve as either stepping stones or footnotes in history.

Outside the academy's deepest underground training facility, a young man with raven hair and violet eyes leaned against the cold stone wall, still as a statue yet poised for movement.

Sakurai Hayato, seventh candidate in the Demon King succession.

The wall's chill bit into his back like ice daggers. As he drew a deep breath, a flicker of humanity still warmed those purple eyes. Then he closed them, and when they reopened, that warmth had vanished behind a mask of cold indifference.

His palm pressed against the iron door, its frigid metal numbing his skin. With a firm push, the massive portal swung open on grinding gears.

The show was about to begin.

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