The White Rose Of Damnation

Hell doesn't begin with flames.

It begins with a heartbeat that shouldn't have been heard.

A step no one expected.

A glance not filled with fear, but curiosity.

A white rose petal fell to the ground as five demons tore apart the one once called prince.

He didn't speak. He didn't beg.

Not even when his blood was swallowed by the earth and his name was lost among the bones.

But someone was watching.

Someone whose footsteps were followed by neither angels nor demons. Only silence.

The girl no one wanted stood over the dying demon.

And made a choice.

The demon survived. The girl almost didn't.

But in every story, there is a moment when fate slips.

When Hell looks back at you—and you look back at it.

That was the moment.

The world of demons has never known mercy.

In that realm, loyalty only lasted as long as it was useful, and blood had been the most precious commodity for millennia.

There was no room for weakness, no place for ideals.

You weren't born for the throne—you killed for it. Again and again, until no one was left to question your right to sit on it.

And Kael knew this. All too well.

Deep in the dark forest, where the trees bent toward each other like twisted shadows, a clearing breathed with the anticipation of ruin.

The ground was gray, as if some long-dead power still seeped from beneath it.

The air vibrated thick with demonic magic, the space around them cracking in brief moments, as though reality itself was recoiling from what was about to unfold.

Kael stood alone, ready to fight, though every part of his body ached from earlier blows.

What remained of his clothes barely qualified as such—tattered scraps soaked in blood, shattered pieces of armor that hindered more than they protected.

His blade was steady in his hand, pulsing red with demonic energy, as if it had a will of its own—knowing this might be the last time it would fight at its master's side.

Five stood against him.

Not just anyone—each a former member of the Demon Council.

His brothers.

They had once knelt before him.

Now, each of their backs bore the red sigil: the mark of the throne's new ruler.

Their betrayal had become law, and what they were about to do was no longer a crime.

Only necessity.

Kael said nothing.

His eyes burned crimson, his face cold and stone-like, yet fire raged behind his gaze—untamed, unextinguished.

Every movement radiated tension, like a man who couldn't afford even a second of weakness.

Despite the blood running down his shoulder, he still stood like a prince.

Not broken. Just wounded.

Not yet defeated.

"You waited too long," said one of the brothers—the eldest, Kael's half-brother.

His voice was cold, but devoid of hatred.

Detached, as if he'd long since let go of all memory.

"Or you came too soon," Kael replied hoarsely, spitting blood from the corner of his mouth.

"You didn't even wait for me to bury our mother."

The other demon smiled.

A pitying smile, but laced with disdain.

"She's been dead for a long time, brother.

You were just clinging to the illusion that someone still mattered."

Those words cut deeper than any blade.

But Kael didn't flinch.

He only tightened his grip on the hilt and stepped forward, as if to reject the meaning of everything around him.

He wouldn't beg.

He wouldn't falter.

This was the world he knew.

And if he had to fall, he would meet his end standing.

The attack didn't start with a sound.

No shout, no warning.

The air simply tore open as the first demon lunged, his sword aimed straight for Kael's heart.

Kael dove to the side, his blade clashing against his attacker's with a spark.

The motion was swift, precise—but no longer perfect.

The next strike hit from the side, slicing deep across his shoulder.

The pain was hot, yet sharpened his focus.

From then on, there was no time to think.

The attacks came like a storm—slashes, kicks, blades laced with magic, claws and smoke.

Kael struck back with everything he had.

He wounded one, forced another to his knees, but they were too many.

And he was no longer what he once had been.

His body began to fail.

His lungs clawed for breath, his vision narrowed—as though with every second, he lost a piece of himself.

Eventually, his knee gave way—not from will, but weakness.

His sword slipped from his hand.

Before him, they all stood. Silent. Dressed in black.

There was no triumph in their faces.

This wasn't victory.

It was cleansing.

Order through blood.

"The throne is no longer yours," one whispered.

Kael raised his head.

His crimson eyes still burned.

And then, he said only:

"It was never yours.

And as long as you serve the new ruler—

it never will be."

The final blow struck his heart.

The demon prince collapsed, the cold, damp earth swallowing his body.

His wings spread out in the dust—shredded, gashed to the bone.

Blood trickled down his neck, soaking the leaves beneath him.

And with a single, ragged breath, the world fell into silence.

The five demons stood over him in silence.

Then turned their backs.

Nothing needed to be said.

The body was left behind.

No further mark was needed for the throne.

The deed was done.

The past, buried.

But they did not see—

the demon prince...

was still breathing.