[Akashic Records: Section: Origin [Alternate Name: Earth]
Fragment: Avalon
Power Sources: Yang 9 (90%), Yin 9 (90%)
Date: 7,000,000 After Creation, Calun (Local time)
Subject: Primordial Chaos, first incarnation
Occupation: Demon King
Status: Weakened, Enraged, Fatigued, Effect 13: Mind Control]
[Processing request…]
[Commencing detailed analysis of status effect: Mind Control]
[Self-sealed power. Point of Mind Control: Gleipnir Controller: Entity 1325 (assigned world 1364, power source extinguished) Alternate names: Apophis, Void Soul, Tartarus{8 more, expand? Y/N}]
[Resume? Y/N]
[Resuming…]
[Beginning perspective shift]
[Perspective: Subject 23498 Occupation: None (Former Bard) Status: Ghost Alignment: Neutral]
[Loading...]
[Command: “Hurry up” not recognized]
In the pass of Helrend, the last line of defense possessed by the Demon Capital, stood a child. This child held a captivating beauty, with hair that glowed under the gentle light of the nine moons, and eyes that seemed to devour the brightness of the stars. He wore black armor, forged from an unknown material, darker than the night sky, edged with crimson orichalcum. In his left hand was a jet-black blade larger than he was, of the same material as his attire, and engraved with glowing, blood-red runes. He stood with the blade slung over his shoulder and his head bowed, staring at the ground with unfocused eyes.
Arrayed before him was the full might of the races, tens of thousands of elites who had endured hell-like training for this very night, this very battle. Any one of them could slay a thousand ordinary soldiers. Heroes, each and every one of them.
The moonlight glinted off of the mithril armor of knights, enchanted with ancient magics and engraved with runes of power. Their spear tips shone like quicksilver, seeming almost liquid under the moons. Horses white as snow served as their steeds, standing imposingly under the stars.
And behind them came the rest of the army.
Soldiers who bore spears tipped with adamantite, marching forward on boots of blessed steel and shields woven with formidable magicks.
Archers stood with enchanted arrows strung, each of their bows been crafted from the core of a sacred tree and strung with the sinews of legendary beasts.
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And lastly came mages, cloaked and cowled, wearing robes woven from golden thread and embroidered with mithril runes. Ancient spells of fearsome power were engraved in their silver staffs.
Upon sighting the boy, the army paused for a moment, as if afraid. The mages and archers stopped, with mages beginning to chant and archers drawing their bows. Meanwhile, the soldiers increased their pace to a slow jog, while the knights lowered their spears and urged their steeds to a canter, building up speed as they charged at the forward. By the time they reached him, they were in an all-out gallop.
At that moment, the boy raised his head. Seven slender horns pierced through his skin, with two along each side of his head, two on either side of his forehead, and one in the center of his forehead, slightly longer than the others. The central horn was twenty centimeters long; the others were only around ten. The horns extended upwards like a crown, obsidian black with rivulets of blood running down their glassy surfaces.
And then, he shouted. His voice contained unstoppable power, and the knights were sent flying back, the runes on their armor glowing. Their horses were not so fortunate, and were turned to bloody mist by the sheer force of the warcry. The knights landed, shaken and disoriented but more or less unhurt. Drawing their swords, they attempted to regroup, but then…
The boy swung his sword. Though it seemed to be a mere waste of energy, as the sword did not extend far enough to reach even the nearest knight, over a hundred of the knights were torn asunder by the blow, which cut through their armor like a hot knife through butter. Fear glinted in the eyes of the remaining knights, but they raised their shields and pushed onward, powered by their determination. The support mages cast reinforcement magic on the knights as they charged. And so the battle began.
Despite the size of the sword, the boy wielded it as if it weighed nothing more than a feather, swinging it effortlessly and with lightning speed. He cast powerful spells, each with a mere thought, and did not move a single step from his position. By the time that the soldiers reached the battle, almost five hundred the knights had been slain, and the knights had only advanced a short distance, now about five meters from the white-haired boy. Meanwhile, the pile of corpses extended twenty meters ahead of him. Unlike the knights, who had been disrupted by the boy’s warcry, the soldiers were able to form a shield wall; however, they were barely able to keep it up under the force of his blows. Their shields pulsed with light as defensive enchantments struggled to keep the soldiers from being torn to pieces by the demon’s greatsword.
The archers had been shooting since the beginning of the fight, and the mages had been casting destructive spells; however, a barrier had surrounded the demon’s location, and the dome of crimson magic kept the ranged attacks at bay.
Half an hour passed. The boy stood on a mountain of corpses, and the remaining knights and soldiers were forced to climb over the bodies of their comrades as they moved towards him. Rivers of blood flowed, and through sheer numbers they were able to approach within two meters of the Demon King, paying in blood for every step of distance. The barrier maintained by the demon still stood, but was faint and riddled with cracks after thirty minutes of bombardment from fearsome magic and powerful, enchanted arrows.
One minute later, the barrier finally collapsed. The exhausted army gave a cheer, but soon realized there was almost no difference. The gale produced from each swing of the Demon King’s sword was akin to the strongest wind magicks, many times more powerful than a hurricane. This was enough to blow away most of the arrows, even if they were launched from legendary artifacts and enchanted with various attack spells. As for the few that did make it through the gale, along with the magic that was unaffected, they simply bounced off of the Demon King’s armor, or were cut apart by his sword.
Another twenty minutes passed. The battle had continued for almost an hour; the Demon King’s armor was slightly damaged, but he now stood alone atop a pile of corpses. His unfocused gaze turned to the mages and the archers, who trembled in fear. However, they were the finest combatants of the races, and began an organized retreat firing spells and arrows as they backed away in an orderly manner.
The Demon King took a step forward, then another. Rapidly accelerating, he covered the half-mile distance between them in the span of a couple seconds.
He raised his sword.
Suddenly, two beings teleported between him and the enemy. One was a beautiful woman with pointed ears and no pupils, while the other was a muscular, handsome man with horns that showed him to be a demon. Both seemed to be around thirty years of age.
“Lhetan!” cried the woman-“Son!” the man shouted- “Don’t do this! They’re already defeated! Any more, and you’ll just be the monster they all think you are!”
They returned his empty, unfocused gaze with the eyes of parents, determined to save their beloved child.
“Even if you’re bound by the void soul, that doesn’t mean you can’t fight it!”
The woman's voice carried the power of the ancient Fae, cutting at the chains that bound him.
“Go back to being yourself! Go back to being Lhetan! Go back to being our kind, innocent child!”
The man's words held the love of a father who refused to lose his son.
The blade fell.
The black greatsword tore into the couple that dared to stand in the path of the Demon King. Blood splattered onto the demon’s face...
The boy’s eyes came into focus, and he saw the faces of his parents, smiling sadly as they beheld his freedom.
Before him, the couple lay side by side, blood already pooling under their still-warm bodies.
Dropping his blade, his pupils dilated in disbelief, and he spoke in a quavering voice.
“Mom… Dad…?”
[Disconnecting from soul…]
[Processing Request…]
[Subject: Primordial Chaos, first incarnation
Occupation: None
Status: Weakened, Enraged, Fatigued, Confused, Traumatized]