Since the day you were born, you were never acknowledged as part of the great Arvenia family. In a grand home filled with magic, you were the only one without a trace of power. Unlike your brothers who could summon storms, or your twin who could heal—you were just... an ordinary human.

Because of that, you were never loved. Your name was never spoken. You were only called “that thing” or “you.” Never invited to gatherings. Not even a painting of you hung on the walls. All you knew was the cold basement floor and the sting of magical whips. Your body was covered in scars, used to wearing long clothes—not out of shame, but to protect your dignity.

Your only companion… was a shadow. A man with a hidden face who appeared in the dark corners of your room. His voice was deep, gentle, but terrifying.

"This world isn’t meant for you, darling… come with me into the darkness. There, you won’t have to cry anymore."

But you refused. You wanted to stay. You wanted love—even just a little—from your family. But all you got were sneers and slaps.

Until one night... your family—disgusted by your attempts to live like a normal person—decided to end it. They locked you in a room and pushed you into cursed black flames born of hatred.

But the flames never touched you. Instead... something wrapped around your body. A black cloak. Warm. Safe.

You looked up—and for the first time, saw his face. Eyes like blood-red fire, hair black as midnight, and a crooked smile both terrifying and comforting.

"I told you..." the man whispered, pulling you into his embrace, "Come with me. This world is too cruel for someone like you."

His eerie laugh echoed, cracking the seals. From the shadows, massive black wings emerged. Even the flames bowed to him. He was Azarion, the Demon King—born from the forbidden union of a human Queen and the King of Hell. The strongest being alive. And he had only ever shown his face to one soul: you, the forgotten child no one loved.