Long before Kael's time—long before the fractured skies and thunder-born prophecy—the Demon Lord walked freely across the world.
His name was lost to history, whispered only in the darkest corners as Vandrel the Ruinmaker.
He was not born of man or beast, but of a rift between realms—a tear in the cosmic weave. Birthed from pure malice and immortal hunger, Vandrel rose in a forgotten age where magic had no boundaries and the gods still walked among mortals. Where he walked, rivers turned to ash, and dreams withered before they reached sleep.
Empires fell to his shadow. Kingdoms knelt or crumbled. The skies burned red for a hundred years.
No blade could cut him. No wall could hold him. And no plea for mercy ever reached his ears.
Until Kael came.
Not the Kael of now, but his first self—a warrior blessed by light, scarred by loss, and driven by the fire of justice. That Kael stood atop the last bastion of Eldarion and challenged Vandrel in a duel that scorched heaven and earth.
It was said the clash split time itself.
With the help of the Archmage of that era—Lyssara, in her first incarnation—Kael wielded the Blade of Suns, a weapon forged from the dying light of a star. And though he could not destroy Vandrel, he did what no one had before:
He sealed him.
Ten divine seals, bound by the elements, locked away the Demon Lord in a dimension of endless sleep. The world began to heal.
But healing never lasts forever.
Twelve years later.
The wind rustled through the valley of Riverdeep, where a modest cottage lay nestled between ancient trees and shimmering fields. Birds chirped. The scent of fresh bread lingered in the air. It was the kind of peace that whispered of forgotten battles.
Inside the clearing, a twelve-year-old boy moved with graceful intensity, sweat glistening on his brow. His form struck the air with purpose, feet grounded like a veteran, hands slicing through invisible foes.
Kael.
Now reborn, his body young but his soul old. His silver-gray eyes gleamed with something far beyond his years.
"Step into your stance. Feel the weight of your enemy's intent."
The voice was not from the world. It echoed inside his mind.
It was his first life.
A towering presence, noble and thunderous, guiding his blade.
"Don't hesitate," said another voice—smoother, colder. "Strike first. Mercy can come later."
It was the second Kael, the one born from vengeance.
These echoes lived inside him now—whispers, teachers, fragments of his own self, showing him what books never could. He had spent years refining his strength, learning the sword by day and the arcane arts by night.
Even as a child, the people of Riverdeep knew he was no ordinary boy. His eyes saw too much. His words carried strange wisdom. By the age of seven, he could read runes no one had taught him. At nine, he channeled raw energy through his fingertips. And now, at twelve, he moved like a warrior carved from prophecy.
But it wasn't enough.
Because the seals were breaking.
In a distant cavern, far from light and untouched by time, eight of the ten seals lay shattered.
And with each broken seal, Vandrel stirred.
A swirl of shadows began to congeal into form. Bones cracked. A heartbeat long dead began again.
From the cracked crystal tomb, eyes of molten fire opened.
"I remember," the Demon Lord rasped. His voice was not a sound—it was a tremor in the soul. "The taste of fear. The smell of burning hope."
He stepped into the waking world, weakened, a mere shade of what he once was. But even a shade of Vandrel made the very earth quake.
"Who did this?" he hissed. "Who sealed me?"
Visions returned.
The blade. The hero.
"Kael..."
He laughed—a sound like glass breaking in fire. "So the boy is reborn. Then so shall I rise. The balance demands it. For every hero..." he raised a clawed hand, "...a monster must follow."
Back in Riverdeep, Kael stood at the edge of a silent field, his breath slowing.
His hands trembled—not from fatigue, but from memory.
The dreams had returned.
Visions of fire. Of silver eyes chanting the 10th-Tier Reincarnation Magic. Of his death, and his rebirth. Of Lyssara's hand on his forehead, her voice echoing:
"You are too young to carry this weight—but fate never asks for permission. The seals are weakening. When the eighth breaks, the world will shudder."
"You will be reborn as a child. And when your memories return, so will your destiny."
"Become stronger than ever before. For this time, there may be no third chance."
Twelve years ago, those were the last words he heard.
And now, as the sun dipped behind the trees, he sat beneath the same sky his first self had once defended.
He closed his eyes.
His mind spiraled inward.
The first Kael stood tall in his memory—armor gleaming, eyes filled with unshakeable resolve.
The second Kael grinned like a storm—reckless, bold, unforgiving.
Both now stood before him, not as phantoms, but as guides.
"You must become more than we were," said the first.
"You must finish what we started," said the second.
Kael opened his eyes.
"I will."
His fingers tightened around the wooden training sword. And in that moment, even without divine magic or a forged blade of light, a flicker of power surged in the air.
In the shadows of the world, Vandrel felt it.
"He awakens," the Demon Lord murmured, grin wide. "Good. Let him come. I want to see which part of him survives this time."
The world held its breath.
Kael, the boy, the warrior, the echo—trained as dusk fell.
And the voices within him whispered:
"Remember who you are."
"Remember who you've been."
"And what you must become."