The Demon King Malachi was dying. Within the next hour, his body would completely shut down, leaving him an isolated mind trapped in a marionette without strings. Not long after that, his mind would collapse on himself. At the very last moment, his soul would be extinguished, completely eradicated from this world without a trace.

Malachi was lost in his thoughts, fighting against the weakening of his body, as he glided through the sky with his black wings, searching for a certain place that met his needs. His view was dominated by stretches of land covered by a sickening black fog — something they dubbed as "miasma." The occasional city, completely wrecked to ruins by his army, dotted the land here and there. Abandoned villages and homes told of the existence of a people who were long gone from this land by now.

This destruction, this desolation. All caused by him.

Twenty long years of conflict against the Alliance of the Nicaean Continent, in what was known as the Great Demon War. The races of Nicaea banded against the invading demons led by the Demon King Malachi, the harbingers of destruction, the enemy of the world.

And the Demon King had simply and utterly failed.

All of the atrocities he had brought himself to do. All of the people whose lives he extinguished without a second thought. All of the ones he loved who died a vicious death — all of it for naught.

And now his dying body refused to allow him a second chance.

A second chance.

He laughed cruelly, resenting himself for even the slightest thought of a “second chance.” Many second chances he had received, and all of them he had squandered. What would another one do?

He was forced to leave the matter of the war to Demon General Tareh, his most trusted subordinate among his four Demon Generals. Tareh was always the most level-headed of the four as well as the most sympathetic to the humans as far as demons went.

Tareh was also the head of the Vasalic clan, a sub-race of high demons characterized by white-hued hair and black wings. That authority would also serve as an aid in securing his authority in the power struggles that would arise after the Demon King’s death. If Malachi had to rely on anyone, it would be him.

Malachi’s eyes focused as he found the place he needed. A temple of stone on the side of a jagged, wooded mountain, somewhat hidden under the thick forestry. The mana that swirled in the air around it was exceedingly abundant. It was perfect.

Malachi descended, landing in front of the entrance of the temple. The abandoned sanctuary of stone showed signs of neglect; nature had started to reclaim it. Overgrown grass and vegetation surrounded the facade of the building.

Pushing the large doors open, he entered the lonely temple. Red rays of the setting sun penetrated the windows of the building and bathed the interior. Three statues depicted gods worshiped by the former residents of this land.

Slowly, step-by-step, Malachi made his way to the center. He lay on the floor his own black sword, a holy sword not his, and the fragments of a shield, as if offering tribute to his incoming grave.

And then he promptly collapsed.

He had lost all feeling in his limbs. His wings had melted away. His strength drained away. Blood from his yet-open wounds puddled around him.

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Shit, I don’t have any longer.

Muttering an incantation under his breath, he manipulated his blood to flow from his wound to the floor. With his blood as ink, he drew in front of him a magic circle inscribed with complex patterns on the ground. Once finished with the inscription, he muttered a spell of wind manipulation. The winds dragged his hand across the floor until the tips of his fingers made contact with the circle.

I hope this works.

Reciting a chant in Avestic, the ancient tongue of the demons, the magic circle started to glow. It would activate an ultimate demonic art unknown to all but the Demon King. [Transmigration of the Soul]. A spell that would carry his experienced soul and guide it to a new vessel in the future. A rebirth that would inherit his memories.

This was the only way he knew to make the best of his situation. Just a few hours earlier today, the Demon King Malachi defended his army against an unexpected ambush by an army from the Nicaean Alliance, led directly by the Six Heroic Paladins. Simultaneously, the Dragon of the North sent another army to attack the demons, leaving the Demon King to deal with an assault from two sides.

In this fierce battle, Demon King Malachi somehow triumphed. Slaying the Holy Sword Paladin, Roland, and the Holy Shield Paladin, Julian, he routed the Alliance’s army. And by dueling and killing the Dragon’s Champion who led the Dragon’s army in single combat, he secured a temporary victory.

The price he had to pay was the use of extremely destructive demonic magic. Magic that annihilated half of his own army caught in the crossfire. Magic that left the land ruined, covered in that malignant black fog, that miasma.

But the plans of his enemies lay beyond a simple surprise attack. He left the battle with a curse placed on him. [The Sword of Damocles]. A hallmark curse spell courtesy of that damned Dragon of the North. A curse that would annihilate its target down to their very soul. Their whole plan didn’t revolve necessarily around a tactical victory of warfare — but a targeted assassination of the one whom the war revolved around — the Demon King.

With his death certain, [Transmigration of the Soul] was a choice by Malachi to die by his own accord.

As he spoke the words of the demonic art from memory and magical energy began to surge from him into the magic circle, his mind began to wander, reflecting upon his imminent death.

What a coward I am. Many a times have I brought death to my enemies. But here I am seeking to break the natural course, to control my fate beyond this life. Truly wicked I am.

A worthless king I’ve been. Dragging my people into this damned war… nay, dragging the whole of this continent into this war. And for what, exactly? For good intentions? To fight for the right for my people to exist? To find a home? All pathetic excuses I’ve used. All I’ve done is but sow the seeds of hatred for the generations to come.

I… I wanted a place for demons to live in peace. I wanted the demons to coexist amongst the people of this continent. I wanted to live a long life surrounded by my loved ones.

I… I don’t want to die.

Malachi’s magical energy emptied out to the very last drop, circulating into the magic circle. With the incantation completed, the magic circle activated. The patterns of the magic circle began to absorb the bountiful mana in the air, in the temple, from the ancient trees outside.

How unfortunate it will be for the one who inherits this wicked soul. This baggage of regrets and unfulfilled hopes, this contradiction of intentions and actions. Will they witness a bright future that I could only pray for? Or will they live in a world permanently scarred by my thoughtless actions?

The Demon King could only wistfully smile as a bright light began to envelop him. The temple shook as the magic circle actuated the demonic art.

How embarrassing… If this spell truly works, they’ll know all the thoughts that ran through my head… including this one. Take care to listen to the thoughts of my pathetic last moment.

Hear this my reincarnation, if you will. Learn from the mistakes that plagued my life. Protect the ones precious to you. Work to understand the others around you. Live a life unlike mine.

The light expanded to envelop the temple in pure white.

Malachi replayed the merry moments and miserable tragedies that had made up his life as his body broke down into ashes and his soul fragmented, scattering into the sky.

When the light had dispersed, the body of the Demon King had disappeared.

***

Three hundred years in the future, in a quaint, quiet village in a land that was witness to the Great Demon War, a child of union between human and demon was born.