World“s First Demon Lord Chapter 1: Prologue
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He coughed up blood, making sure to get as much of it on his assailant's face as he could. He grinned as he watched his murderer wipe the red out of his eyes in disgust.
"I hope it stains," he croaked. His voice carried in the spacious room, despite how crowded it had become. "I hope you have to throw away that ridiculous undershirt."
The murderer narrowed his eyes. The man laughed, amused at his confusion.
"The mind of a dead man is truly incomprehensible," said the murderer, gripping his spear tighter.
"You'll find out what it's like eventually," the man grinned. "Better to use my dying wish to make the rest of your life mildly more annoying."
"Why 'mildly annoying' and not 'cursed for the rest of my days?'" the murderer couldn't help but ask. As mentioned, the man's dying thoughts made no sense to him.
"A mage has more important things to focus on than your tiny life," said the mage. He could feel his life slowly slipping away, along with his time. He needed to focus.
Easier said than done. Dying was a lot like falling asleep, the mage found; very hard to hold back if you were tired. And it seemed that having a spear rammed through his chest took a lot out of him.
Focus. Death was inevitable, but if he could just focus for a little bit…
"I do hope...we never...meet again," the mage whispered, using his final bit of strength to release the spell he had placed on himself. His body began to glow, his pain fading away. He wondered if that was part of the spell, or if that's just what bleeding out was like.
He watched the murderer's eyes widen, hastily stepping back. The mage managed a weak chuckle.
"Don't...not...you..." he whispered. It was difficult getting the words out, partly because it seemed like his body didn't want to listen to him, and partly because he didn't really care anymore.
Ah, whatever. He couldn't be bothered with it anymore; it wasn't like the rest of this life mattered anyway.
He died there, spear holding his body upright, in the middle of his throne room. His blood spread evenly across the white marbled floor, staining for centuries to come.
The murderer stood back for a moment. He shook his spear a little, making sure the old mage was dead. Once he was satisfied that he wasn't going to get back up, he turned back to the crowd of soldiers behind him.
They all looked upon him anxious. The atmosphere was tense, but calm. They knew what was coming. They dreamed of it, hoped for it, and worked, so very hard for it. All of that work lead here, to the throne room, the breaking dawn filtering colored lights through the painted glass windows.
"The Mage King is dead!" yelled the murderer, no, the Hero.
"The reign of the Abominations is at an end!"
They cheered, raising the roof off the castle. Some fell to the floor sobbing, relieved. It was over. It was finally over. In the hall of the Mage King, after centuries of working, fighting, and dying, they were victorious.
The news spread fast; by the time the sun rose, the entire city was celebrating. By the time it set again, the frontier towns were raising a glass to their Hero for ending the rain of the Abominations.
The celebrations were recorded for the millennia to come. The dawn of a new age, an age for the common folk reigned supreme for three thousand years, before it was overthrown by the common folk once more. A story as old as time, a story about the folly of humanity.
This is not that story.
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