The story began in a dream.

A dream of solitude and cold. An endless sea of darkness stretched as far as the eye could see.

He slowly "opened" his eyes, shifting his body—but it felt as if he’d slept for eons. Exhaustion seeped through every limb. In this pitch-black world, sight was useless. Opening his eyes revealed only a darkness thick with unease, like the deepest night.

Silence pressed in, heavy and terrifying.

He’d expected rage and hatred to consume him. Instead, his mind replayed vivid, ordinary things: fun games, dazzling films. But they all dissolved into snow-like static. Only memories of delicious food remained.

*So hungry.*

His very soul screamed it. Not physical hunger—a hollow emptiness from overconsumption of his spirit. Even thoughts crawled sluggishly.

It took ages to remember: he was no longer an ordinary human on Earth. He was Virgil, the Demon King of Darkness, reborn in another world. The irony? This Demon King was starving to death.

*Would the Holy Light Church throw month-long celebrations in their holy city if they knew?*

Their lifelong goal was nearing a farcical end.

Time blurred—

Then—

*Light.*

A sliver of radiance burst before Virgil’s eyes, swelling into blinding white. Through hazy senses, he glimpsed a shadowy figure darting away at impossible speed.

The seal binding him had shattered. He was free. But centuries of imprisonment had rotted his body. Only a soul remained—flickering like a dying candle, too weak to regenerate.

Survival demanded one thing: *feed*. Steal souls to reignite his own. Yet Virgil was too frail. His spiritual sense barely stretched a meter.

Nothing lived nearby. Nothing to devour. *So hungry.*

Of course nothing lived here. All creatures instinctively avoided this Sealed Realm. For him, it was a death sentence.

Becoming an Undead was the only option. But skeletons and shambling corpses? Mindless fodder waiting for blades? A pathetic existence.

No choice remained.

*Wait. Every cloud has a silver lining.* He comforted himself. Really, he was just procrastinating—a bad habit from his otaku past.

Years passed.

He’d drained every drop of energy from his soul. The scent of death coiled around him. Distant, ghostly chants swirled like a funeral dirge in his ears.

Through the haze, a skeletal figure in tattered armor beckoned from a gray-white Abyss.

—*Hey. I’ve come for you, bone pile.*

Virgil steeled himself.

*(O Akreld, Sovereign of Death, I offer my spirit, my soul in your name…)*

The ritual to become Undead began. His fate seemed sealed—

Then—

A surge of immense life energy approached.

Something silver-white plummeted from the sky, crashing into his "body."

His fragile soul nearly shattered. Virgil wailed in agony. The Undead transformation snapped mid-cast. Death’s chill swallowed his unmoored spirit.

He screamed, burning his soul’s remnants to escape the void.

But it chased him. Relentless.

No choice. Virgil fled into the nearby life source—a desperate stray dog scrambling for shelter.

Death’s chill dared not follow. But the being’s consciousness was a boiling ocean. His fractured soul? A melting shard of ice.

He was evaporating. His last flicker of awareness—a leaf adrift in a storm.

*Mama…* A blurred woman’s face surfaced. *Save me.*

The entire sea of consciousness trembled.

A sliver of light pierced the murderous dark. He lunged toward it.

She was Empress of the Holy Dragon Clan. Nine years pregnant. One year from hatching her royal-blooded heir. Then came the ambush. Filthy, insignificant humans had deceived her. To them, it might become another "dragon-slayer" legend. To her, it was the end.

She fought free, though every path brimmed with death traps. Each step was a dead end.

Yet somehow, this pampered, battle-inexperienced Empress broke through the human hunters’ circle. Mortally wounded. Bleeding. But alive.

Her child longed to see this world. To see its mother.

Tragedy struck first. Her unborn dragon—still curled within her womb—was pierced by a magic arrow. Before the concentrated barrage, even the Holy Dragon’s near-magic-proof scales and the egg’s unbreakable shell crumbled like dry leaves.

A blinding pillar of light tore skyward, splitting the clouds. Golden sunlight rained down.

The Holy Dragons’ trait—carrying eggs internally for protection—had become her cruelest sorrow.

Her massive silver wings fluttered weakly. Sunlight gilded her bleeding form, beautiful yet broken.

Crimson blossoms of blood bloomed across her scales.

She crashed to the earth. Waiting for the end.

—*Mama… save me.*

Her child’s voice. Still alive.

Strength surged. She heaved herself up—only to collapse again.

Up. Down. Up. She swayed, standing. A human stood before her.

Pure white robes. An elegant, slender staff.

A girl. Beautiful. Grieving. She’d watched the dragon for a long time.

Only when the Empress stood did she whisper: "I’m sorry." Her staff blazed with light.

The dragon’s pleading eyes stopped her. *Since when do Holy Dragons beg?*

Seeing her hesitation, the dragon’s hope flared. "Please… spare my child."

Understanding dawned on the girl’s face. Her grief deepened. She nodded.

The Empress gathered her last strength into her womb. Unseen, Virgil’s shattered soul slipped inside, fusing completely with the infant dragon’s spirit.

Dead flesh sparked with life. The hatchling tore free from her ruptured belly—a miracle woven from death and broken souls.

"A girl. Name her Nevia." The dying Empress nuzzled her child weakly. "In the Dragon Tongue, *niveus, -a, -um*… meaning pure white as snow."

Rain began to fall. In its gentle veil, she closed her eyes forever.

The girl lifted the hatchling. Grief and guilt knotted her heart.

*I’m sorry…*

*This is for humanity’s future.*

She raised her staff. Light gathered at its tip. *Only the dead hold no grudges.* She’d end the dragon’s life.

Then—radiance erupted from the hatchling. In its glow, the tiny dragon shifted… into a human infant. A newborn girl.

Pink skin. Delicate features. But her cries were heart-wrenching wails—as if mourning her mother’s loss.

The girl’s breath hitched. The infant’s sobs made her hands tremble. Something primal stirred within her.

*…You left one last trick. You win. She’s healthy.*

The light faded. The staff slipped from her fingers. She cradled the baby, tears—or rain—streaming down her face, bitter on her lips.

In the shadows, unnoticed, a cloaked figure watched silently.

Holy Light Calendar, Year 3423. A year of upheaval.

The ancient Demon King Virgil had broken free from the Sealed Realm. His whereabouts unknown.

That same year, human heroes ambushed and slew the Holy Dragon Empress. News leaked. The Dragon Emperor struck back. The next year, Divine Grace City—the capital of Arael Empire, the continent’s mightiest realm—fell. Emperor Levi, unable to withstand the Dragon Emperor, took his own life. The Holy Light Church, stalled in prior battles, marched into Divine Grace City. The Church had entered the war.

The dragons retreated.

Princess Helen declared herself Empress. But the young ruler couldn’t command loyalty. Nobles hoarded armies. The empire, standing five centuries strong, crumbled in truth.

One truth never recorded in history: After the war, Princess Shirin—Emperor Levi’s sister—vanished for a year. She returned to the capital cradling an infant girl, claiming her as her own daughter. The nation reeled. Then Shirin disappeared from public view forever.