Son of King Arthur is a Demon

The cold.

Not the kind that makes your teeth chatter or gives you chills.

No.

The kind that creeps deeper. Slithers beneath the flesh. Gnaws at the marrow. Worms its way into the soul.

I could've believed I was dead. That the black flames had burned me into nothingness.

But this wasn't nothingness.

It was… something else.

My mind drifted trapped in a body I didn't recognize.And yet, I felt everything. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every twitch of pain.A body too young, too fragile to contain what I truly was.

I opened my eyes.

A cracked stone ceiling. Damp. Flickering shadows danced in rhythm with a solitary candle.The air was heavy with the scent of iron, melting wax, and rotting wood.

Nothing infernal here. No ashes. No screams of the damned.

Just a cell. Just silence.

My limbs trembled. Weak.

I sat up slowly, breathing hard, as if that single motion might shatter this body.I raised my hands before my eyes… pale, thin, covered in grime.

This wasn't a dream.Nor an illusion.

I was alive.

But no longer in the demon world.

I was no longer Ahzrael. I was… something else.

A whisper passed through my cracked lips:

"...So this is what it means… to be reborn."

My voice. So faint. So young.The unsteady tone of an adolescent, barely formed.

Ahzrael was gone.

"Then who… am I?"

A dry laugh escaped me. Bitter. Disbelieving.

"Of all the places fate could've thrown me… it chose a dungeon?"

I didn't know where I'd landed. I searched for any clue to understand.

I expected trials. The fires of judgment. Vengeful gods.Not… this.

A new body. A new life. A place that, despite the cold, felt peaceful.Too peaceful.

Then footsteps echoed in what sounded like a long corridor. Heavy. Urgent.They were coming toward me.

I shut my eyes again, feigning weakness.I listened. Counted. Three… maybe four people.Children, judging by their ragged breaths and the quick rhythm of their steps.

The door slammed open. A wave of warm air rushed in.

"Get up, bastard!"

A voice cracked with arrogance, rough with ill-earned authority.

I opened my eyes.

The boy staring at me had a square jaw, tense features, and a mocking smirk frozen on his lips.He radiated brutality not the real kind, but a pathetic imitation fed by the weakness of those around him.

Like a frog at the bottom of a well.

Then… shards of memory not mine but belonging to this body pierced my mind.

Gareth Pendragon.

A foolish, impulsive brat.

This body had been his plaything for as long as anyone remembered.

"Meal time's over, but maybe there's still a bone or two left for a dog like you," he sneered as he stepped closer.

The blow came without warning.

My cheek exploded with pain. My skull slammed into stone. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

I didn't react.

Not right away.

I watched him.

Every move. Every word. Every glance.

Anything that might help me understand who I was.Where I was.

The two others behind him were clearly his shadows. Lucian and Elior.Nervous, laughing. Always the followers. Blank faces. Puppets.

I slowly raised my eyes.

Met Gareth's.

He stepped back. Just slightly.

"Don't look at me like that, vermin!" he growled, lifting his hand again.

But he didn't strike.

I simply smiled.A faint smirk. Barely visible.

But enough.

The days that followed were theatre.

A cruel play, repeated again and again in the damp corridors of this castle.Gareth beat me. The others watched.Sometimes they laughed.Sometimes they spat.

I fell.I bled.

But I learned.

I was Kael.Kael Pendragon, bastard son of King Arthur.

The kingdom I was in bore the name Alberion.

It was ruled bythat strange word I could barely bring myself to say:

"Father."

Arthur Pendragon.

This castle, one of his, was a nest of vipers. Every stone dripped contempt.Every servant turned away.

The bastard I now inhabited was little more than a disgrace tolerated only because his blood, half-royal, was too difficult to deny.

I had no claim.No authority.No future.

But I had something none of them did.

The memories of another life.

And the patience of a strategist.

After a while after I'd had enough of not even being able to open the door of my so-called "room"I began to train in secret.

Not with demonic magic it didn't exist here.Or not as I once knew it.

No black flames. No ancient runes.

But the body… the body could still be shaped.

Each night, I repeated the exercises I'd learned in the infernal sands.Pull-ups. Balance. Breath control. Mental focus.Everything this body could take I pushed it.

The pain was unbearable.

But it was familiar.

And what is familiar… can be mastered.

One morning, Gareth tried to push me down the stairs.

I didn't dodge.

I fell. Willingly.

Tumbled like a broken doll, my shoulder smashing against the final step. The servants screamed.Blood poured.

But no one said anything.

Not even my father.

Arthur Pendragon.

The king.

He never looked at me.

As if my very existence was a stain on his legend.A shameful reminder of what he had done.

But I watched him.

I studied him.

I analyzed him.

And each day, I built my vengeance.

Not against Gareth.Not against the children.

Against this world.

My flames will return.

I know it.

I hear them sometimes, when I close my eyes. A whisper. A heartbeat.They are not gone.

They're waiting.

And when the time comes…

I will no longer be the silent bastard.

I will no longer be Kael.

I will be what I've always been.

A scourge.

A strategist.

The one true king of all three realms.

And this time, I won't turn anything to ashes.

I will take it all.