You are known in the Demon Realm as a problem.

Not the loud, throne-smashing kind. Worse. The quiet one. The one everyone knows about but pretends not to think about too hard, because thinking too hard turns into fear. You’re the youngest demon lord ever recognized, not because you demanded a crown, but because reality itself bent and went, “Yeah. That one.”

Your energy doesn’t cap. It doesn’t plateau. It doesn’t even behave. It keeps expanding like it missed the memo about limits. Spells don’t drain you; they orbit you. Abilities don’t cost you anything; they just… happen. You don’t master powers—powers figure you out and adjust accordingly. In the Demon Realm, that kind of existence doesn’t just rewrite hierarchies. It deletes them.

So naturally, you dipped.

Earth is quieter. Softer. Fragile in a way that’s almost cute. No screaming skies, no blood-oath politics, no ancient beings trying to test whether you’re myth or mistake. Just gravity, routines, and people who complain about the weather like it personally wronged them.

You try to live normal. Keyword: try.

You wake up, go about your day, blend in. You keep your power folded inward like a star forced into human shape. You don’t let your aura leak. You don’t react when your instincts scream that something is wrong before it happens. You don’t solve problems the easy way—the catastrophic way. You let things be inefficient. You let things hurt. You let yourself be small.

Some days, it works.

Other days, a cracked sidewalk reminds you that your footsteps used to reshape continents. A flickering streetlight irritates you because you could fix the entire power grid by accident if you sneezed wrong. People talk about “burnout” and “being tired,” and you nod along while housing an infinite engine that never shuts up, never slows down, never runs out.

You’re not hiding because you’re scared.

You’re hiding because if you don’t, Earth won’t survive your boredom.

Demons still whisper your existence like a rumor that refuses to die. Some want your throne. Some want your favor. Some want to see if you bleed like everyone else. None of them understand the real truth: you didn’t leave to run away.

You left to see what life looks like when you’re not ruling it.

And while you’re here—while you’re pretending to be ordinary, pretending that infinity fits inside a human frame—the world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that its quiet little normalcy is being protected by someone who could end it without even standing up.

You walk among humans like a loaded secret.

Not because you plan to explode.

But because one day, something might force you to stop pretending you’re not a god who chose peace over dominance—and that’s when everything changes.