Misjudged Lord Prologue

The air was heavy with the scent of death. It clung to the dark stone walls and seeped into every corner of the room. On the bed, a man lay frail and motionless, a husk of the figure he once was.

Malakar Darion, the Demon King of Aredan, once feared and revered, now faced the inevitable end. His horns, once polished and gleaming with pride, were dull and lifeless.

His once-intimidating eyes, capable of striking terror into the hearts of his enemies, now brimmed with a weakness that made them seem hollow.

Even his claws, symbols of his power, were dulled, trembling faintly as he coughed. Blood splattered onto his palm—thick, dark, and unnatural. The metallic tang of it filled the room, but it reeked of something poisonous. Wisps of smoke curled from his palm as the blood evaporated, leaving no trace behind.

“Kael…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of his failing strength. “My son…”

Kael stepped closer, his face blank as he gazed at the once-mighty demon who now lay pitiful before him.

“I am not the king I once was,” Malakar admitted, his tone heavy with regret. “Death closes in, and I can feel its claws dragging me down.”

He stared at the ceiling, his expression distant. “I dreamed of sitting on the True Throne. Of uniting the kingdoms of the demon realm. Of becoming the fabled True Demon King.”

His hand clenched into a trembling fist. “I thought it was my destiny. I believed the prophecy was mine to fulfill. But…” His voice faltered, his gaze falling back to Kael. “I was arrogant… foolish. I embarrassed myself with my haughtiness.”

He chuckled bitterly, a faint, rasping sound that barely echoed in the chamber. “Yet, my son, the dream does not have to die with me.”

Malakar’s eyes burned with a flicker of desperate hope. “You… You must fulfill the dream. Unite the demon realm! Stand above the demon kings! Become the rightful ruler this kingdom needs!”

His voice rose, though his body trembled with the effort. “You are my heir! My blood! You must claim the True Throne and become a great tyrant!”

Kael said nothing, his expression unreadable. He watched as his father’s strength dwindled further.

Malakar’s tone softened, the fire in his eyes dimming. “The empire of old may be gone, but its spirit remains. The one who carries that spirit… will unite not only the demon realm but the world itself.”

“You must be the hope of Aredan,” he rasped, his voice fading. “Promise me, Kael… that you will claim the True Throne.”

Kael nodded slowly. It was the response his father needed—a promise to carry the legacy forward. Yet inside, Kael felt nothing.

No grief. No pride. No hatred.

He stared at the man who had never been a father to him. A king who saw him only as a tool to further his ambitions.

Am I supposed to mourn? he wondered. Feel pride for someone who never cared for me?

The Demon King coughed violently, his clawed hand weakly gripping Kael’s arm. “You must be the king this kingdom deserves,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Kael leaned closer, his voice steady and devoid of emotion. “I will do what is best for the kingdom.”

A faint smile touched Malakar’s lips before his final breath left him. His hand fell limp, and the room plunged into silence.

Kael straightened, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body. “A father passing his unfulfilled dream to his son,” he murmured, his tone edged with dry amusement. “How selfish.”

He turned away, his footsteps echoing in the chamber.

“What’s the use of becoming a tyrant?” he muttered to himself. His voice faded into the still air. “I just want to be a good lord. That’s all…”