Nobody ever told Dark Lord Kaelen that conquering the world would turn out to be such a dull affair.

  He sat on his throne with one leg over the armrest, staring down at Doomgard, the capital fortress of his Scourge Empire. Nearly a century of conquest and terror had led to this: an empire so stable that it, for the most part, ran without its supreme ruler needing to lift a finger.

  Once, his Highprinces of Hell and generals would have flooded his hall with frantic reports of advancing armies and desperate pleas for reinforcements. Now they arrived only to compete with each other in naked flattery and beg for scraps of his attention. Useless lickspittles.

  This is what triumph looks like, Kaelen thought grimly, drumming his fingers on the throne’s arm. A padded cell.

  Though his enemies took to calling him the Scourge (a name he had gleefully adopted for his own empire), Kaelen did not possess the withered, grotesque appearance expected of a Dark Lord. By choice, his vessel was maintained in the pristine, aesthetically pleasing form of a young mortal man in his mid-twenties.

  He was tall, lending his thin frame an intimidating, gaunt quality. His skin was pale, almost luminous, contrasting sharply with the midnight black of his hair. He was not uncomely, but it was his eyes that caught the attention of anyone in his presence. Pale blue like midwinter ice, they betrayed no human warmth – only boredom.

  Evil had long since lost its appeal to Dark Lord Kaelen. It was a stale, repetitive meal that could no longer satiate his appetite, and the conquest of a handful of new settlements was hardly the spice that would return the flavor.

  What could a man who has everything in his grasp even want? He, who has achieved the pinnacle of magic arts? He, who has attained the magic level of…

  Wait, what was my level again?

  Kaelen called a [Status] screen, and it appeared in front of him, invisible to all his minions. He boredly observed the numbers.

  Although he was barely approaching the theoretical limit of natural progression, the numbers spelled a different story. Kaelen was beyond the pinnacle of prowess. He had mastered nearly all schools of magic, and although his specialty was spellcraft, his physical stats alone put him well above most, if not all, known knights and monks.

  The heavy gates creaked. Without looking, Kaelen sensed that it was one of his Highprinces of Hell, a clean-shaven vampire named Zariel. The Highprince rushed inside, his heavy platinum armor announcing his every step, and fell to one knee.

  "Lord Kaelen!" Zariel pleaded. "Your Worship, we get reports that an outsider has breached the second outer defense and is currently advancing on the East Gate.”

  “Alone?” Kaelen asked, still looking at the numbers in front of him – or, rather, through them.

  “It seems he had a party, sire, but they all perished along the way.”

  Kaelen grunted. Another band of idealistic halfwits. “No doubt he misses his companions. Make sure he meets them soon.”

  “Shall we activate the shadow traps or perhaps mind eaters?" his Highprince inquired with another bow.

  Finally, Kaelen waved the [Status] window away with a flick of his hand.

  “For one mortal? Just Demon Guard will do,” Kaelen nodded at Zariel and, sensing that his subordinate was about to say something else, quickly added, < D I S M I S S E D ! >

  The use of [Dark Voice] wasn’t necessary; Zariel would’ve obeyed a simple command just as well. Still, Kaelen liked to employ it from time to time, just to keep his minions on their toes. No demon could disobey his [Dark Voice], at least not if their level was less than half of Kaelen’s — and that meant all of them.

  The vampire bowed and walked away without ever raising his head. The heavy doors closed behind him.

  Kaelen slumped sideways in his throne, resting his head on one hand. He counted the seconds in his head. By the time he reached five hundred, either the intruder would be dead or something moderately interesting would happen. He did not hold out much hope.

  A figure tumbled into his peripheral vision, tripped over his own shoes, and crashed to the floor, scattering juggling balls and rings in every direction. Azruk, the court jester, rolled onto his back and stared blearily up at the vaulted ceiling.

  “I meant to do that, sire,” he said in his high-pitched voice.

  Kaelen sighed. “You are late, fool.”

  “A jester is never late, my lord,” Azruk declared, jumping to his feet in a single, surprisingly nimble move. His bells jingled from the points of his motley hat. “Everyone else is simply too early to appreciate his art.”

  Azruk was a small, sharp-faced, yellow-skinned demon. Kaelen wasn’t particularly fond of humor and japes, but all previous great rulers of history had court jesters, and he wasn’t the one to break with tradition. Besides, Azruk sometimes said things other sycophants would never dare, and that had its uses.

  “I am bored,” Kaelen said, staring at the empty hall. A painted table in the center showed the entire map of the continent, as well as the reach of Kaelen’s empire. It was almost completely painted in red, the color of his dominion.

  Azruk tapped his chin. “What is boredom if not the highest form of suffering, Your Darkness? For nothing is harder to conquer than the repetitive nature of existence!” He spread his arms wide, addressing the invisible audience. “And when the Dark Lord himself is bored, what is a simple jester to do?”

  He broke into a short, off-key song, tapping his foot:

  “Oh, the Empire’s stable, the peasants all pay,

  The heroes are weak, they just wither away!

  No danger, no drama, no reason to quit,

  A thousand more years of this stable old—

  “ENOUGH!” Kaelen slammed his fist on the armrest of his throne. He had meant it as a tap, yet the stone still cracked. He drew in a breath, forcing his voice back down. “Thank you, Azruk. You are dismissed, as well."

  At least Azruk obeyed without Kaelen needing to use [Dark Voice]. If only his other minions had as much sense as his jester.

  Alone at last, Kaelen considered what he should do next. The Scourge Empire now spanned most of the continent, save for a cluster of stubborn princedoms and mountain principalities that hadn’t yet lost their taste for empty provocations.

  They’d fall in time. Everyone did.

  Perhaps I should consider extending my reach to other continents. Surely there must be at least one man in this world who would rise to my level?

  The Dark Lord was just beginning to wonder why he wasn’t getting his next report when the doors to the throne room slammed open with a resounding boom.

  “If it’s about the intruder, you can spare me the details. Just drop his bones into the firepit and be done with the fool,” Kaelen said in an irritated tone. When he looked up, it wasn’t Zariel he saw standing in his throne room.

  There was a lone figure in the doorway. A human.

  “And who must you be? Who gave you leave to intrude upon me?”

  “I am Velen, oh Dark One. Do not fret, this audience won’t take long,” the human replied. Kaelen narrowed his eyes. It had been many years since he last encountered someone so insolent.

  This Velen boy was young, perhaps nineteen, though the Dark Lord wasn’t certain in his ability to gauge the age of mortals. The lad was dressed in simple, well-worn leather armor, and there was a longsword at his belt, but for whatever reason, it remained sheathed. The boy had scars and bruises all over.

  “You are that mortal who rushes headlong into certain death. I thought I told my Demon Guard to take care of you. Can’t anyone listen to my commands?” Kaelen rose from his throne.

  “Your Demon Guard will not save you.” The boy tossed something at him. It rolled across the throne room and stopped near Kaelen’s feet. It was the head of one of his demon soldiers.

  Now that’s a surprise, Kaelen thought, even if his face did not betray his emotions. Perhaps I should’ve sent the mind eaters, after all.

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  The Dark Lord sighed. “Alright, we both know where this is going, young man. Go on, then. Have your monologue. I’m sure you’ve rehearsed it well.”

  “I am the Hero of Tomorrow!” the boy proclaimed.

  “Uh-huh,” the Dark Lord nodded. It was all so predictable. Every few years, some religious cult or fledgling kingdom would scrape together a new so-called hero of prophecy.

  “I’m here to put an end to your reign of evil!”

  “Never heard that one before,” Kaelen nodded again, fighting the urge to yawn.

  “You will answer for what you’ve done to my village!” the boy continued, completely oblivious to Kaelen’s bored demeanor.

  “Which one was that?” Kaelen asked with an indignant tone. “You must forgive me, I do not tally every settlement my army reduces to ash. You do not keep track of every bug you squash under your feet, either, I presume?”

  The boy’s face darkened.

  Good, Kaelen thought. Get angry. Stoic heroes are such a bore.

  “You try to buy people’s obedience with a false coin, despot. Your empire’s days are numbered. Even now, people rise up throughout the land.”

  Kaelen somehow doubted that. Which one of us two is supposed to have delusions of grandeur, again?

  “Nothing a few public executions won’t fix,” Kaelen said mildly. “Mortals need but an excuse to fall in line.”

  “Wrong!” the boy spat at him. “People will always stand for what they believe in!”

  Kaelen paused. The phrase sounded strangely familiar to the Dark Lord. It repeated again in his mind, like an echo, though it was another voice that said it.

  A sudden bolt of lightning lanced inside Kaelen’s head. What is this memory? Who said that? He couldn’t see the face of whoever spoke that in his mind, even if the voice sounded familiar.

  The vision cleared as quickly as it appeared. The boy, thankfully, did not notice Kaelen’s momentary confusion.

  “You are the one who’s outnumbered here, tyrant. There are thousands and thousands behind me. Your army is not here to save you,” the hero said.

  “My army?” Kaelen tilted his head, returning to his senses. “Whatever made you think I needed one?”

  Though it was more than the boy deserved, Kaelen decided to demonstrate an ounce of his true power. He always enjoyed toying with mortals who forgot themselves. Kaelen extended his finger and drew a circle in the air.

  [Summon Demon]

  The circle burned crimson and then the air tore open with a sound like cloth ripping under strain. Heat spilled out first, followed by the stench of sulfur. A massive horned head forced its way through the breach. The demon hauled itself into the hall, unfolding to its full height with a heavy thud.

  Thick cords of muscle moved under the surface. Its skin was a deep, blistered red, like molten rock, and its eyes burned yellow. It was tall enough that its head almost brushed the vaulted ceiling. The boy had to crane his neck to even see the creature in its entirety.

  “If you think that this will scare me—”

  “It won’t,” Kaelen cut him off, “but this might.” He curled his fingers into a fist.

  [Bone Crush: Weaponsmith]

  The demon screamed.

  Its skin split along invisible lines. Bones tore free from the demon's flesh, twisting and whirling through the air as if yanked by invisible strings. The body collapsed in on itself, reduced to a thrashing mass of nerves and meat, then went still.

  Velen took a step back, watching in horror.

  The bones of the demon, freed from their flesh prison, snapped into formation, rotating and locking until they formed a long pale spear, ridged and barbed. It hovered at Kaelen’s side. He slowly curled his fingers around it, smirking at the boy.

  “Impressive, no?” Kaelen smiled at him and then observed the spear closely. “But don’t get it twisted. I don’t truly even need a weapon to reduce you to a whimpering little puddle of blood.”

  The boy fell silent, no doubt calculating the odds of his survival. Though Kaelen expected him to run with a tail between his legs, he half-wanted this little game of theirs to continue.

  “As you can see, the old fools who told you of the so-called prophecy have simply sent you to die,” Kaelen said, dismissing his bone spear. He was bored, and defeating this young fool with nothing but his bare hands was a much more interesting proposition. “But you must understand their motive. All they care about is one fewer mouth to feed.”

  “You demon filth,” the boy whispered. He wasn’t protesting as loudly as he did before. “I will return the freedom you took from us, fiend!”

  Freedom, Kaelen scoffed internally. It was akin to a swear word to him.

  “What if I told you that I had a secret pact with your senile masters? That they would send a band of young fools my way every now and then for my own amusement, so that I would spare their sorry little stronghold?” It was a lie, of course, but making fun of the heroes of prophecy was the only thing bringing any joy to Kaelen. He recited the heroes who had dared confront him before, “Liam the Cunning. Drogo the Morning Star. Twin heroes Armin and Darin. I could go on.”

  “Every word you say is filled with poison!” the boy barked at him.

  Well, now, this one is even more strong-headed than the rest. “Still, there were other heroes. You can’t deny that, my boy.”

  “The signs were wrong.”

  “And this time it’s different?” Kaelen offered his most genial smile, but this only served to irritate Velen.

  “The elders watched the Bleeding Star ride across the sky on the night of my birth. I bear the marking of the Griffin.” The lad removed one of the gloves and showed the back of his hand, which had a dark spot vaguely shaped like a winged creature.

  Kaelen squinted to see it across the throneroom. “So you have a birthmark. Well, consider me thoroughly convinced, my boy. I yield.” He raised both of his hands.

  “You dare mock me?” the youth flared. He drew his longsword in one swift motion. It was decently crafted, at least grade B quality, but against Kaelen, it might as well have been a needle.

  “And what is this plaything?” Kaelen asked, keeping his smile.

  “The Sun-Kissed Blade. Your doom, tyrant!” Velen launched himself forward in a straight, predictable charge, thrusting the sword directly at the Dark Lord's chest.

  Kaelen waited until Velen was in his range, then lazily caught the blade with his bare hand and pulled it closer to observe the smithwork. Velen, despite holding on to the hilt with both hands, was dragged along with the mighty pull, against his will.

  “The Sun-Kissed Blade?” Kaelen snorted. Now that he saw it up close, he found the sword wanting. “All I see is a pitiful little shard.” He flexed his fingers into a fist, putting all of his [Strength] into it, and broke the thing in two with a sharp, echoic crack.

  A deafening silence followed.

  “My… sword,” the boy finally uttered and looked at the shattered blade in his hand. He fell to his knees.

  In spite of everything, Kaelen felt a pang of pity for the poor bastard. The boy is not at fault. He’d been lied to, manipulated by the bald, superstitious idiots.

  “Look, kid,” he started, scratching his head. His amusement had waned, and now it was all too awkward. “I actually think you would appreciate what I’m trying to achieve here, if given the chance. If you were only to understand the grand design of my… Hey, I’m talking to you. What are you muttering about?”

  The boy’s lips were quivering. He kept saying something over and over again, completely delirious, his voice barely above a whisper. Sad and dejected, he looked more like a broken toy than even his pitiful sword did.

  “What was that?” Kaelen asked and bowed down to look the boy in the eye.

  Whatever it was that Velen was saying, Kaelen would never learn.

  The boy moved like a pit viper, operating purely on instinct. He lunged forward in a flash, and before Kaelen could even fully process what was happening, the jagged, broken point of the Sun-Kissed Blade’s remaining piece was sticking out of his side.

  Oh.

  Kaelen's first thought was to curse his royal blacksmith. He promised me reinforced armor, that cheap half-dwarven bastard!

  His second thought was to focus on the sensation he hadn’t experienced in decades.

  Pain.

  A fire-hot wave was radiating from the wound in his side. Kaelen snarled in pure, instinctual rage. He didn't bother with a spell. He simply backhanded the boy across the hall. Archmage or not, his [Strength] far outclassed that of a simple low-level mortal.

  Velen flew backward into a vase near the far wall, unconscious but no doubt alive.

  Kaelen’s attention turned to the sword wedged in his side. Something was written on the blade, in red-hot glyphs. The Ancient Tongue. Kaelen did not care enough to read the words. He plucked the shard out and flung it aside as easily as he did Velen.

  “Guards!” Kaelen cried out. “My generals! Someone!”

  I’m sweating, he realized, with astonishment. The bleeding had already stopped, and the skin began to stitch itself together. But why was Kaelen still in such great pain?

  < A T T A C K ! > he commanded using his [Dark Voice], but no one came.

  The pain. It was unbearable. And worst of all, Kaelen felt himself grow weaker by the moment.

  Is this blade poisoned? No, that could not have been the case. Kaelen’s body was immune to all manners of poisons, venoms and toxins, both known and as-of-yet undiscovered. Moreover, the kid didn’t strike him as a type that would use such an underhanded tactic.

  And yet he attacked me when I let my guard down, Kaelen thought and winced – more from realization than pain. That one’s on me. Why did I ever let my guard down? He took one unsteady step, then another. The throne hall was dancing around him.

  Behind the throne, hidden in the pattern of the obsidian and shielded by layers of illusion, lay a door no one else knew about – not the jester, not the highprinces, not even his most trusted advisors.

  Kaelen reached out, tracing the correct sequence of sigils. The wall rippled and folded inward, revealing a narrow passage that descended into darkness. He stepped through and sealed it behind him.

  The pain followed.

  The wound… Could it be spiritual in nature? Kaelen wondered as he began to descend the stairway that spiraled downward.

  Torches flared to life along the walls as he walked. Kaelen gripped the rail, thankful for having the forethought to install it. Each step sent another hot pulse through his side.

  “Ridiculous,” he muttered. “The Dark Lord brought low by a child with a broken sword.”

  At the bottom of the stairs lay a chamber carved into the bedrock beneath Doomgard. Smooth stone, unadorned, save for a circular platform at its center. Lines of power converged there, drawn from leylines he had spent decades redirecting. This place was the heart of his contingency plan.

  The Royal Rejuvenation Chamber.

  He had used it before in lesser ways, mostly to prolong his life. A century of wear, the stress from war, the strain of overcasting — he would slip down here, seal himself in, and let the earth’s magic restore his vessel. In but a few moments, his essence would knit itself back together.

  The only problem was that he had never used it for spiritual wounds – if this wound was, indeed, spiritual. But what choice did he have? Kaelen squared his shoulders and stepped onto the platform.

  Symbols lit under his feet, recognizing him. A translucent shell lowered around him like a glass bell, sealing him in. Every sound faded away. Inside the shell, the air took on a thick, tingling quality. Energy danced along his skin, seeping inward.

  Kaelen almost sagged in relief.

  “Password: mina-olen-tume-isand,” he whispered in a secret tongue, addressing the invisible network that monitored his body and his constructed lair. “Begin rejuvenation.”

  A neutral, sexless voice resonated inside his mind.

  [PARAMETERS ACCEPTED]

  [COMMENCING]

  He felt the chamber tighten around him. Layers of protective magic wrapped around his body and spirit. The pain dulled, then sharpened, as the system probed the wound, isolating it. He swayed, then sank to one knee. The bell-like shell around him darkened.

  It was a comforting feeling. Almost like a motherly embrace, not that he was likely to remember how it truly felt like to be held by his mother.

  “Once I’m healed, this bloody knave will taste my full wrath,” he spat through gritted teeth.

  Then Kaelen, the Dark Lord and the Supreme Ruler of the Scourge Empire, closed his eyes, and the years began to pile up.