The heavy door creaked open, and Vorthan entered first, followed closely by the elf boy. They both walked to the center of the room, where the flickering fire runes reflected off blood orbs illuminating the throne I sat on. Without hesitation, Vorthan knelt, pulling the elf down beside him. As he spoke, the demon’s tail swished back and forth with an almost childlike eagerness.

"Master, I have brought the elf. He has been fed and watered, and he is well-rested." Vorthan said, his voice tinged with pride.

I glanced at the elf boy, who fidgeted nervously in the dim light. His eyes darted around the room, lingering on the blood orbs floating lazily in the air. I should add more runes in here to improve the lighting, I mused, watching as he adjusted to the dim illumination. To my satisfaction, he seemed to see better this time, perhaps due to his slow adaptation to the darkness.

Raising the visor of my blood mask, I revealed the false face beneath. Its still, lifelike humanoid features seemed to comfort the boy. The tension in his shoulders eased as his eyes locked onto the mask. Good, I thought. The illusion works.

"Vorthan," I rasped, my voice intentionally hoarse and strained to avoid my natural, monstrous tone. "What is that light above the boy?"

Vorthan’s head tilted slightly, his fiery eyes glowing with enthusiasm. "Ah, Master, it is a spell—Parvus Sanguis Lux. Blood mages use it to create light by channeling mana into blood while saying the words. It’s simple but effective for the mortal races with weak dark vision," he explained, his tone unusually cheerful, as though pleased to share knowledge.

I nodded, the faintest flicker of interest sparking in my thoughts. My gaze shifted to the eight orbs of blood floating near the ceiling, their dark surfaces gleaming faintly. Let’s see how this works.

Focusing my mind, I channeled my mana into the orbs while carefully enunciating the words Vorthan had mentioned. "Parvus Sanguis Lux." My voice came out deeper, steadier, and more commanding than I had expected, resonating through the room.

Instantly, the orbs flared to life, each glowing brightly—far more intense than Vorthan’s single light. The new illumination cast sharp shadows around the room, illuminating every corner with a brilliance even stronger than the runes crafted by the fire imps. Satisfied, I willed the orbs to spread evenly, filling the chamber with an almost ethereal glow.

As I turned my attention back to the elf boy, I caught the emotions flickering across his face. His wide eyes betrayed fear, but beneath it, I saw something else—skepticism. His gaze shifted between me and the glowing orbs, as though he couldn’t quite believe I had cast the spell on my first attempt without preparation. Interesting.

I leaned forward slightly on the throne, my glowing mask fixed on the boy. “You seem skeptical, young boy. Is it truly so strange to master a spell on the first attempt? Or do you think this is all some staged power play to intimidate you?” A deep chuckle rumbled from my throat, and I allowed my monstrous undertone to slip free, rattling the air. “Though perhaps I should not call you ‘boy.’ You might very well be older than me, after all.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I felt it—his fear, raw and overwhelming. The boy’s mind spun with panic, likely assuming I was about to lash out or worse. His fear radiated so strongly that even with my limited social experience, I could sense the trauma eating away at him. This elf had endured horrors far worse than I had initially assumed. I felt a pang of pity, sharp and unexpected. But pity was weakness. Don’t forget who you are now, I reminded myself, crushing the rising emotions deep within.

“Sorry, Master!” the boy blurted out, his voice quaking. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Please, allow me to atone—punish me as you see fit!”

Before I could respond, he frantically tore off his tattered leather shirt, turning his back to reveal a patchwork of scars crisscrossing his pale skin. The sight of those marks, so vivid and cruel, made something dark stir within me. Rage—cold and biting—rose like a tide, threatening to drown out my control. My claws dug into the armrests of the throne, cracking the bones beneath the pressure. Wrath flared hot and wild, roaring for vengeance against the ones who had done this. For a brief, dangerous moment, I envisioned tearing through the elf village, reducing it and its inhabitants to ash.

But then Pride answered Wrath’s challenge, steadying my mind. You are no berserk fool. It reminded me of my purpose, anchoring me just enough to force the rage down. I closed my eyes, taking a slow breath, and when I spoke, my voice was steady, cold, and deliberate. “I am not like the filth that crawls within your village,” I said, my tone cutting through the tension like a blade. “Nor will I punish you for something as insignificant as an expression. There are only a few reasons I would punish someone in my service, and you have done none of them.” My eyes, glowing faintly beneath the blood mask, locked onto his. “Vorthan will explain my rules to you later. For now, put your shirt back on and sit down.”

I raised a hand, and the blood floating nearby responded instantly, swirling into the shape of a sturdy chair. With a snap of my fingers, the blood crystallized, freezing solid into a comfy-like seat. I gestured to it, my voice softening just slightly. “Sit.”

The boy froze, wide-eyed, his breath hitching. He didn’t move, likely expecting some cruel trick, a sudden lashing the moment he complied. He was waiting for pain because that’s all he had ever known. Those bastards broke him completely, I thought bitterly, anger simmering beneath the surface once more.

But I waited, unmoving, watching him closely. If nothing else, I could teach this boy that I was not the same as the ones who had scarred him.

----------------------------------------

It took some time to coax and reassure the elf into sitting down. His every movement was hesitant, his gaze darting toward me as if expecting sudden punishment. When he finally lowered himself onto the blood-formed chair, I let out a sigh, more out of weariness than anything else—but even that startled him. His body tensed, and he began to rise again, preparing himself for what he must have assumed was inevitable discipline. Before he could fully stand, I raised a hand, and a band of blood snaked around his torso, fastening him securely to the chair. He froze in place, wide-eyed, as the blood solidified into a firm yet painless restraint.

“Keep trying to get up without permission, and I’ll keep you tied down,” I said in a cold, steady tone, my voice brooking no argument. “Now, sit still.”

Turning my attention to Vorthan, I motioned toward an empty space nearby. “Vorthan, make a seat for yourself. I’d like us to have a proper conversation with the elf.”

Vorthan nodded, his tail flicking with enthusiasm. With a few practiced gestures, he conjured a simple but sturdy chair from the ground, its design matching the somber aesthetic of the throne room. He seated himself, his glowing eyes focused on me attentively.

I glanced back at the elf, studying him closely. Something was… different about him. His aura, his scent—everything seemed subtly altered. “Vorthan,” I said, my voice low but laced with curiosity, “did you do something to the elf? He seems different from last night. His blood feels thicker… richer. And it smells better.”

Vorthan tilted his head, his crimson eyes narrowing in thought. “Master, I didn’t do anything unusual,” he began, his tone careful. “I only gave him sustenance—your spare blood mixed with mine and a little mana to ensure he didn’t die of thirst. He’s mortal, but I believe his affinity for blood and magic is reacting to our influence. He’s… adapting. Also, I should tell you that has been given a choice to choose new classes since his affinity was unlocked due to drinking the blood.”

“Adapting?” I echoed, intrigued but cautious. “Explain.”

Vorthan’s lips curled into a pleased smile, his tail swishing slightly as he spoke. "While the boy slept, I took the liberty of examining him—his blood in particular. What I discovered was... exhilarating. The boy possesses blood ties to a half-demon. Intrigued by this, I thought it prudent to awaken that dormant side. Using both your blood and mine, I’ve begun the process of guiding his demonic heritage towards that of a blood demon.”

I leaned forward slightly, my interest piqued. “You mean to tell me this was intentional?”

Vorthan nodded eagerly, his pride evident. "Precisely, Master. His demonic bloodline was sealed, suppressing his potential and weakening his mana affinity. That seal has likely been in place since birth. Without it, his affinity for blood magic—and magic in general—would be far stronger. Judging by the purity of the dormant blood, I suspect one of his parents was a Nephilim—a hybrid between an elf and a demon."

I glanced at the elf, noting his bewildered expression. His eyes darted between us, confusion etched across his face. For a fleeting moment, anger flashed in his gaze when Vorthan mentioned the seal. “Nephilim?” I asked, turning back to Vorthan. “What is that?”

Vorthan’s grin widened. He clearly relished the opportunity to lecture. "Ah, Nephilim. They are hybrids of two distinct races, divided into three primary types. The most powerful are the Demon-Angel Nephilim—royalty among their kind and often rulers of their planets. Second are Mortal-Angel hybrids, skilled artisans, and healers. Finally, there are Mortal-Demon hybrids, typically warriors or workers. Nephilim are feared and revered, with their reputation reaching back to ancient times. Long ago, royal Nephilim were hunted as abominations that defied the natural order. However, after one of their kind ascended to godhood, the tides changed. Now they govern entire worlds, and only a fool would challenge a royal Nephilim.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He paused, his expression darkening slightly. "To clarify, the other types—Mortal-Angel and Mortal-Demon hybrids—were not hunted. Before the Nephilim god rose to power, they were simply called Angelic or Demonic Humans, depending on the mortal race they were it could be elf/demon like the boy or something else like that. Only the royals faced such persecution and were hunted by pure-blooded demons and angels. Half breeds like him were hunted depending on which ones they were related to. Angelic hybrids could be hunted but were mostly forced into churches as priests of the gods, while demonic hybrids were almost always hunted down. The only way they survived was either by being combat slaves or in militaries bound by tons of soul contracts keeping them from doing anything they were not ordered to do."

“Interesting history,” I said, my gaze shifting to the elf. “But is he a Nephilim?”

“Not yet, Master,” Vorthan replied, shaking his head. “His demonic bloodline was suppressed. For him to fully awaken as a Nephilim, his demon blood must be strengthened—either through evolution or by consistently consuming your blood and mine.”

The elf’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he stammered, “Wait... part demon? And what do you mean by a seal? I thought I was cursed! The demigod who rules this world has cursed countless others whose parents defied him.”

Vorthan scoffed, dismissing the notion with a wave of his clawed hand. "No, boy. You are not cursed. Those small bumps on your forehead are the beginnings of horns—they’ll grow as your demon side develops. And no, not all demons are evil. We are chaotic, yes, and our penchant for combat and bloodshed often earns us that label. But true evil? That is the domain of devils. Devils are cruel, calculating, and inherently malevolent. If you had devil blood, I would never have awakened it."

The elf fell silent again, visibly weighed down by the memories he had unearthed. I studied him, noting the way his fingers clenched into fists as though trying to hold himself together. His emotions were a storm: disbelief, anger, sadness, and shame all colliding at once. Despite the chaos in his expression, there was a flicker of defiance—a spark that intrigued me.

“So, elf,” I said, breaking the silence, “what is your name? It grows tiresome to keep calling you ‘elf’ or ‘boy.’”

He looked up at me, his eyes clouded with pain and resignation. His voice was low, almost trembling, as he replied, “I used to have a name... but when the bumps on my head started to grow, they stripped me of it—of everything. My name, my place in the village, my family. All taken from me.”

His gaze dropped to the floor as he continued, the words pouring out like a confession. “They burned my mother at the stake. Told me she had committed heresy... said she chose to repent by the fire while I slept.” His voice cracked, anger lacing his grief. “They told me she went willingly, but I don’t believe them. And my father... I haven’t seen him since I was a toddler. My mother always said he was summoned back to his homeworld to fight in some war to save his family. I tried my best to prove my worth to the village so that one day I was strong enough so I could avenge her, but because of how weak I was I wasn't able to go that far away from the village or I might have died.”

The elf’s fists tightened. “When I asked to be sent to my father, or even to send him a message—they refused. They stripped me of everything the village had ever given me. They even took the gifts my father had given me before he left. The only things they allowed me to keep were broken, discarded gear that wasn’t worth anything to them piled outside the village walls.” He hung his head, his shame and anger palpable. “They took my name like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”

I leaned forward, my gaze boring into him. “They stripped you of your name? How? And why?”

The elf hesitated, his expression tightening with the effort of recalling something long buried. “I... I don’t know how. All I remember is the pain. It was... unbearable. Like my very soul was being torn apart.”

Vorthan, ever the scholar, interjected smoothly, his tone almost clinical. “Ah, yes. The elves have a ritual for such things. Each race has its methods of severing a name from the soul, but the elven version is particularly... invasive.”

The elf flinched as Vorthan continued, his voice tinged with fascination. “The ritual not only removes the name but also the memories of the event. All that remains is the pain—a searing wound upon the soul. Even after the soul heals, the name and the memory of the ritual are lost forever. It’s an act that damages not only the one subjected to it but also those who perform it. Casting such a ritual inflicts pain on the caster as well so they use pain-transfering magical tools to send the pain to the victim, doubling the pain. The one who is stripped? They carry the scars forever.”

I let Vorthan’s words settle in the air, my gaze flicking back to the elf. His shoulders trembled slightly, but he kept his head down, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to meet my eyes. His story stirred something within me, though I buried it deep beneath my cold resolve. The elves had broken this boy, but not beyond repair. No... he could still be molded, become something far greater than what they had tried to erase. “You’re not nothing,” I said finally, my tone firm but devoid of pity. “They tried to make you believe that, but they failed. You are here now, in my domain. Under my guidance. And here, you will forge a new name—a new identity. One that no one can strip from you. I shall give you the power you seek to have your revenge and all I want in return is eternal loyalty to me.”

The elf’s head lifted slightly, his eyes searching mine as though trying to discern whether my words were genuine. The flicker of defiance I had noticed earlier seemed to burn a little brighter, and I allowed myself a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

“Your past is gone,” I continued, my voice growing sharper. “But your future? That is yet unwritten. And here, it will be written in blood.”

"We both walk the path of vengeance, though yours will be far easier to achieve than mine," I began, my voice cold yet unwavering. "So, will you serve me willingly, gaining the power you seek? Or will you be forced to serve, enduring unimaginable pain to claim the strength you need? The choice is yours."

A fierce determination ignited in his eyes as he met my gaze, unyielding even before my monstrous presence. His voice, steady and resolute, broke the tense silence. "I will serve you for all eternity. Even if I fall, I will belong to you forever." He bowed his head, sealing his pledge.

As he spoke, I felt the mark of domination I had placed upon him shift. It burrowed deeper into his essence, wrapping around his mind and heart like a vice. It was no longer simply a mark—it was a binding force that would tether him to me in every conceivable way.

Seeing his submission, I saw no further need to keep him bound. With a wave of my hand, the restraints dissolved. Freed, the elf knelt before me with the reverence of a knight before their lord. A rare sight, one that stirred a flicker of satisfaction within me. Rising from my throne, I summoned an orb of blood to my palm, shaping it into a blade. Its crimson edge glistened as I held it aloft.

"Elf... no," I corrected myself, letting the weight of my words carry through the chamber. "From this moment forward, your name shall be Nemesis—the name of a goddess who ruled over vengeance, retribution, and balance." I tapped the blood blade lightly upon each of his shoulders, cementing the declaration.

As the impromptu knighting ceremony concluded, the blade in my hand began to dissolve, its form breaking into shimmering fragments. The blood swirled around Nemesis, glowing with an ethereal light before transforming into raw mana that seeped into his body, reinforcing his essence. When the process ended, Nemesis spoke again, his voice carrying a newfound confidence. "My Lord, I have received a notification—I have been granted a new name. Thank you, my lord," he said, his words brimming with gratitude and, for the first time, a faint trace of happiness.

I tilted my head slightly, acknowledging his thanks. "Nemesis, do you have a question for me?" I asked, my tone softer yet still commanding.

"Yes, my Lord," he replied with hesitation. "I have been allowed to replace my broken class, and I am struggling to choose between two options that stand out above the rest. May I show you the choices?"

I nodded, intrigued. "Very well, share them. Afterward, we will discuss what you know of this world, its factions, and any useful information you possess."

Looking over the list of class options, I understood why Nemesis struggled to choose. The two standout options were Novice Demon Bloodkin Fighter and Cursed Blood Blade Apprentice—both rare classes. For a moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. My own class had been a common one, chosen during a much weaker phase of my existence. However, the envy quickly dissipated as I reminded myself that my current race, was far beyond a mere class, and eclipsed such limitations.

Among the two options, the Fighter class immediately stood out. Not only would it unlock and harness Nemesis's dormant demonic bloodline, but it also aligned with his mana affinity. I turned my gaze to him, my voice calm but instructive. "If your goal is to fully awaken your bloodline and embrace your potential as a Nephilim, the Fighter path is the obvious choice. On the other hand, if you wish to remain tied to your elven roots, the Cursed Blade option may suit you. But tell me, am I wrong in my assessment, Vorthan?"

The ever-knowledgeable demon straightened, clearly eager to share his thoughts. "No, my lord, your assessment is spot-on," he replied, his voice smooth and confident. "The Fighter class is undoubtedly the better choice, for several reasons. First, it naturally synergizes with Nemesis's dormant demon blood, strengthening his lineage. Making this path easier since it is in his nature due to his father's influence. Had he not been born with demonic blood from a parent and was trying to become an artificial nephilim I would have told him to choose the cursed option. Second, we are here to guide him, ensuring he uses this power properly. As for the Cursed Blade, while it may sound tempting, it’s fraught with challenges. It requires mastery of cursed swords—a resource we currently lack—and the curses themselves often attempt to consume or control the wielder. It’s a precarious path, one I’d not recommend."

I nodded at Vorthan's explanation, my gaze shifting back to Nemesis. "You’ve heard our reasoning. The choice is ultimately yours, but consider the guidance and resources at your disposal. Choose wisely, Nemesis. This decision will define your future."

Both Vorthan and I watched in silence as Nemesis deliberated, his expression a storm of thought and emotion. The weight of his decision was palpable, and though we could not immediately see which class he had chosen, the shift in the air told me everything. A faint ripple of energy brushed against my senses, carrying with it the unmistakable mark of demonic energy.

He chose the path of the Novice Demon Bloodkin Fighter.

The name of the class left much to be desired—it was clunky and uninspired—but the choice itself was sound. A good class, one with potential, and that was what mattered most.

As the transformation settled, I observed Nemesis closely. His breathing steadied, his body visibly adjusting to the changes brought on by the new class. Demonic energy coursed through him now, subtle but undeniable, like a flame reignited after years of dormancy. I could see hints of it in his posture, in the way his eyes held a sharper focus, and in the faint, almost imperceptible changes to his aura.

Once he regained his composure, Vorthan and I wasted no time. We began to question him, pulling every fragment of useful knowledge from his mind. Every detail about this world, its factions, its rulers, and its dangers—we wanted it all. Nemesis, still recovering from the transformation, answered us as best he could, his voice steady despite the weight of his new reality.

This was the beginning of his service, the first step on a path that would shape not only his fate but also mine.