MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

In a realm far beyond mortal comprehension, a place that seemed to exist within another dimension entirely, as though it were divorced from the reality that governed the galaxy, beings moved in endless swarms.

But these were not ordinary beings. No, they were Demons. Their numbers were beyond comprehension: hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, trillions, and more, an unending tide of existence so vast it eclipsed imagination itself.

It was as though the realm had no end, no boundary, and no limitation in birthing its dark children.

Here, Demons walked with an eerie sense of normalcy. A horned creature could be seen smiling faintly as it cradled a child Demon in its clawed hands, strolling calmly through crooked streets lined with structures that defied logic, buildings that stretched both outward and inward, as though the very laws of geometry had fractured and bent under the weight of chaos.

The air was suffused with a heavy, suffocating density. Chaos energy hung thick, choking, and poisonous, saturating every breath of existence. It was as if oxygen itself had been erased and replaced by corruption. For the weak, simply breathing here would mean death; for the Demons, however, it was life.

Everywhere, variations of Demonkind could be witnessed in all their horrific diversity. Some possessed massive wings that, with a single beat, propelled them high into the crimson-black skies.

Others bore horns, jagged, twisted things that protruded from foreheads and temples. Some had extra eyes, placed grotesquely on their foreheads. Some possessed long, scaled tails that coiled and uncoiled fluidly with every step they took.

The realm was alive with motion, yet at first glance, it held a strange sense of harmony. Families moved together. Voices murmured. Buildings thrummed with activity. But this harmony was a fragile, deceptive veil stretched thin over the true nature of this land.

In the distance, the illusion shattered. There, groups of Demons tore each other apart with wide, manic grins plastered on their monstrous faces. Claws raked flesh, teeth gnashed, and shrieks of agony and ecstasy filled the air.

Black blood splattered across jagged stones, soaking into the soil. Screams echoed endlessly, yet no one turned to watch.

It was simply normal. Routine. Expected.

The realm itself was a crucible of violence, and those who lived here treated death not as tragedy, but as inevitability.

One minor disagreement was enough to ignite a frenzy. A single glare, a shove, a spoken insult, and suddenly the fragile quiet would shatter, unleashing a battle to the death.

Death, in truth, was the eternal companion of this realm. It clung to it with greater intimacy than anywhere else in the galaxy.

Life here was fragile, fleeting, and inconsequential. A blink could separate existence from extinction.

One moment, a Demon might laugh and breathe. The next, it could be nothing but a mangled corpse. Here, life and death were dictated not by fairness, nor justice, but by whims and moods, by the raw measure of power.

This was the Abyss.

The dominion of Demons.

The cradle of corruption.

Everything in this infernal realm bore the mark of its essence. Black and red were the only colors that dared exist. Towering trees, their trunks gnarled and twisted, stood cloaked in pitch darkness, each one thick with corruption and radiating pure chaos energy.

Even the smallest creatures, such as insects that buzzed through the air, were tainted, their wings dripping with corruption as though they themselves were forged from chaos energy and curses.

Above stretched a sky unlike any other. Crimson bled into black in a ceaseless swirl, eternal and timeless. There was no morning, no evening, no cycle of day or night. Instead, a single astral body hung above the Abyss, impossibly vast and alien in its presence.

Half black, half red, it was a grotesque amalgamation of sun and moon, burning and rotting simultaneously, as though existing outside the normal order of celestial law.

And there, at a distance both near and impossibly far, rose the heart of this realm: a place none dared to approach, save for the One Hundred Demon Monarchs who bent their knee to its master.

From any vantage point in the Abyss, it could be seen, a colossal edifice, piercing the heavens like a spear of defiance, its spires rising higher than any mountain, its foundation spread wider than cities. It was a building designed to mock the divine, to stretch upward as if to pierce through hell and claw its way to the heavens as though defying the punishment of damnation.

Every Demon knew of this place. Even those who had never glimpsed its towering silhouette had heard the whispers. They knew who dwelled within.

Their King. Their Ruler. Their Sovereign. Their Lord. Their Strongest. Their Wisest. Their Unchosen. Their Absolute.

Within the great edifice, in a throne room vast enough to swallow entire kingdoms, sat a man who seemed to be the very origin of chaos energy itself. His posture was calm, regal, almost indifferent.

No unnecessary aura escaped his body, though every inch of him radiated an oppressive supremacy. It was as though the universe itself bent around him.

His name: Azrath Kaelthar Morvanyx Doomrend.

The one the Abyss revered as the Demon King.

At this moment, he sat quietly, his eyes closed, his lips curved in a faint smile. He had just received memories from a fragment of his own soul, a clone destroyed, but he did not mourn.

The destruction of such a fragment mattered little to him. Flesh could be regrown, and the soul, with enough mastery, could be reforged. What intrigued him were not the losses, but the revelations.

Anthony. Lucian. Aaaninja.

Three names. Three anomalies. Three existences too young, too unpolished, and yet already grasping power that defied reason. They bent reality, wielding abilities far beyond their years, like children who had stolen weapons of the gods.

Azrath's faint smile widened into a predatory grin. Perhaps one could be turned to his side.

The Celestial boy, the Time bearer, tempted him most of all. Time was rare, its wielders rarer still. Most who dabbled in it required artifacts or forbidden techniques to achieve even a fraction of control. But this boy, Aaaninja, he radiated Time itself.

His very existence was its embodiment.

'Those eyes…' Azrath thought, his smile darkening. 'They will be mine the next time we meet, boy.'

The Demon King knew well that a Celestial's pride would never allow allegiance. But rejection was merely the first step toward conquest.

Then his mind shifted to the human with black hair and eyes, Lucian. The boy who refused to confine himself to one art, who wielded abilities and skills with reckless versatility, as though reality itself bent to his overabundant talent.

'If I recall, he once called me Father-in-law.' Azrath chuckled softly, his crimson eyes narrowing. The idea amused him. It was not unheard of for humans and Demons to share beds, after all. Even he, the Demon King himself, had laid with humans and other races countless times.

Finally, he considered the white-haired boy, the youngest, yet seemingly the most refined in battle. His instincts, his experience, his presence, all too honed for one of such an age. He intrigued Azrath most of all.

'Too bad he did not accept my soul fragment,' the Demon King mused. The trap woven into that piece would have been delightful. To watch their panic, their confusion, it would have been entertainment unmatched.

Still, his grin deepened. 'It seems I have discovered three new toys. Three new flames to watch, to test, to play with.'

Talent, true talent, was his one weakness. And here, he had found it in abundance, concentrated within a single planet.

But then, his head turned, sharp and sudden. His eyes narrowed. Space itself had torn.

Someone was stepping into his throne room.

From the rift emerged a tall figure, calm yet commanding. Black hair, black eyes, and a presence that was refined to perfection. His stride was measured, his gaze serene, as though he belonged here, intruding yet unconcerned.

Azrath's pupils contracted. His throne room's silence thickened.

"Who are you?" Azrath demanded, his guard already raised. Even he, the Demon King, felt an unfamiliar ripple within his chest. For the first time in eons, unease stirred. The intruder's power was not random, nor ordinary.

Worse, Azrath realized something. His top ten loyal servants had not come rushing to his side. They had sensed nothing. Either this man had erased their awareness, or he had already destroyed them, and Azrath himself had failed to notice.

"Just an overprotective father," Klaus intoned, his voice calm, steady, and sharp as a blade. "One whose daughter you forced to bow… merely to indulge your hunger for Aura farming."