Faris stood before the mirror in silence, studying the unfamiliar face that had become his own.
An eighteen-year-old youth. Thick black hair, slightly messy. Deep brown eyes, calm and steady. Well-proportioned features, handsome in an ordinary human way. Nothing exceptional. No glow. No power. Just… an ordinary young man.
He slowly raised his hand and touched his cheek with his fingertips. The skin was soft, warm, alive. His human heartbeat was slower than he was used to—lighter, weaker, yet steady. Even his breathing felt different—shallower, less heavy, lacking the weight carried by demonic lungs.
"Handsome…" he murmured to himself, a faint smile flickering in his eyes. "But…"
He paused, his gaze deepening slightly.
"…weak."
It wasn't an insult. Just a fact. Frey Castle's body was weak by demonic standards. Weak even by the standards of human fighters. But weakness was not the end of the road. It was merely a starting point.
He turned away from the mirror and sat on the edge of the bed. The room was simple, clean, quiet. No sounds of battle outside. No screams. No smell of blood. Just… a strange peace he wasn't used to.
As he tried to understand the limits of this new body, Frey's memories began to flow again—clearer this time, more organized. It felt as if Frey's mind was slowly opening its doors, allowing Faris into every corner.
Skills.
The information flowed like a calm river. In this human world, most people gained their skill at the age of eighteen. An innate ability that appeared suddenly, almost from nothing. Sometimes completely random—an ability unrelated to the user's personality. Other times, it reflected their mentality, their hidden desires, their true nature.
Some noble families possessed inherited skills passed down through generations. Yet even these abilities never manifested in exactly the same way, because the mind and will influenced how they took shape. A son might inherit his father's ability, but it could appear stronger or weaker depending on his own spirit.
Faris closed his eyes, absorbing the information.
Completely different from demons.
Demons did not wait until eighteen. They did not acquire their abilities. They were born with them. Power was part of their being, carved into their souls from the very first moment. No randomness. No waiting. Just raw, innate strength.
A faint smirk formed on his lips. Even in how they gained power, the two races were entirely different.
Then another memory surfaced.
Frey's ability.
Mind control.
Faris opened his eyes abruptly. That… was rare. Dangerous, even. But according to Frey's memories, the ability wasn't strong yet. He had only managed to use it on small animals—birds, cats, small dogs. Even that caused severe headaches that lasted for hours.
He hadn't mastered it. He hadn't understood its limits.
Then… he died.
Faris closed his eyes again, focusing more deeply this time.
He tried to summon the sensation from Frey's memories. That faint mental pressure, the will extending beyond the body, reaching toward another mind—attempting to control it.
He waited.
Nothing.
He tried again, concentrating harder, pushing his awareness outward.
Silence.
He slowly opened his eyes.
The ability… was gone.
A bitter smile appeared on his face. Of course. His demonic soul taking over this body… had erased the original ability entirely. It was expected.
But another question suddenly surfaced in his mind.
Frey…
Was his soul still there?
Faris stopped moving, his gaze fixed on empty space.
Was it trapped somewhere inside this body? Silent, powerless, watching without control?
Or had it been erased completely?
A long silence.
Then another question, more dangerous.
"If it's still here…"
he whispered quietly, as if speaking to a ghost.
"…would I give him his body back?"
He paused.
Then he laughed.
A short, mocking laugh—full of self-ridicule.
"Of course not."
A cold smile formed on his face.
"This body… is mine now."
He looked at his hands and slowly clenched them.
"I won't give it back. Ever."
Silence returned to the room.
Faris felt no guilt. No regret. This was the nature of demons. Survival. Power. Control. No place for weakness. No place for excessive compassion.
As he calmed down, more information flowed from Frey's memories.
Styles.
Skills were innate powers, but styles… styles were methods of using mana. Learned combat techniques, training systems, patterns for directing energy inside and outside the body. Humans had developed thousands of styles over the centuries, ranked by tiers.
Z-Rank styles — the weakest, primitive, easy to learn but limited.
Then gradually rising…
Y, X, W, V, U, T, S…
Until reaching A-Rank — legendary styles, extremely rare, terrifyingly powerful.
A person without a skill could become strong—even frightening—if they mastered a high-rank style.
And someone with a rare, powerful skill might remain weak their entire life if they didn't know how to use mana, how to direct it, how to fight with it.
Styles were the true core of strength.
But every style, every technique, every form of power… depended on one thing.
The Mana Core.
Faris closed his eyes and focused inward, searching deep inside his body.
He found it.
A small, faint flow at the center of his chest. The mana core. The point where energy was generated, stored, and distributed.
But it was… small.
Weak.
Unstable, as if trembling in fear.
He opened his eyes, a sarcastic smile on his face.
Humans classified mana cores using a simple system, matching style ranks. Starting from the weakest:
Z — an extremely weak core, barely producing any energy.
Then rising gradually…
Y, X, W, V, U, T, S…
Until reaching A — a legendary core, appearing perhaps once a century.
Faris didn't need deep analysis to know Frey's core… wasn't high.
Perhaps X. Or even Y at worst.
He remembered something from Frey's memories. A passing detail, but interesting.
The strongest humans today… did not exceed U-Rank.
He smiled faintly.
His father, Number 6, was A-Rank.
A demon capable of destroying a planet like Earth in a single strike.
The gap between races… was enormous.
But it didn't discourage him.
Instead, he felt a faint excitement.
"From zero…" he murmured. "A fitting beginning."
Then darker memories surfaced.
The world.
Two hundred years ago, Earth had been divided into two great kingdoms. The Northern Kingdom and the Southern Kingdom. Centuries of political and military conflict. Wars, alliances, betrayals. A long history of division.
Then…
The demons appeared.
The invasion came suddenly, from the north, like a black storm that could not be stopped.
The northern continent was the first to face them.
The war lasted three years.
Three years of pure hell.
Demonic power surpassed everything humanity possessed. Terrifying abilities, brutal combat styles, dense black mana corrupting everything it touched.
Entire cities destroyed in a single night. Armies wiped out in hours. Fertile lands turned into dead, contaminated wastelands.
After three years…
The northern continent fell.
It became the Dead Land.
Most who remained were no longer fully human. Their blood mixed with demonic energy. Their bodies warped. Their nature changed. They became Half-Demons—beings between races, hated by both, belonging nowhere.
The true survivors—warriors, soldiers, the few families who escaped—fled south.
And there, in the southern continent, something unprecedented happened.
Humanity united.
For the first time, all kingdoms, all noble families, all armies… stood together.
One enemy.
The demons.
Faris slowly opened his eyes.
A strange feeling passed through his chest. Not guilt—he hadn't taken part in the invasion. He hadn't even existed then. But neither did he feel pride. He knew the nature of demons. Their brutality. Their endless hunger for destruction and control.
He wasn't innocent of blood.
His soul was demonic. His past filled with violence.
Yet now… he wore a human body. Carried the memories of a human child whose family had been killed by half-demons.
"How ironic…" he murmured.
A demon carrying the memories of a victim of demons.
He rose slowly.
Time to try something.
Standing in the middle of the room, he closed his eyes and focused on the small mana core in his chest.
He summoned old memories. Demonic styles. Techniques he had used for years. The simplest one—Demonic Circulation—compressing mana, pushing it through specific pathways, accelerating the flow, strengthening the muscles.
He began.
He compressed the mana—
—his body shook violently.
Sharp pain exploded in his chest. A powerful dizziness struck his head. His breathing halted. The mana inside him rebounded wildly, chaotic, as if the body itself rejected it.
He staggered back, then fell to one knee, clutching his chest. Cold sweat covered his forehead.
"Damn…" he whispered hoarsely.
It took a full minute before his breathing stabilized, before the rebellious mana calmed.
He sat against the wall.
Of course.
Demonic styles weren't suited for humans.
Different bodies. Different mana flow. Even the nature of energy differed.
But…
He smiled faintly.
There was another style.
One mocked by most demons for being primitive and weak.
Mana Charging.
The idea was simple: instead of compressing mana, just… coat a part of the body with a thin layer.
No complexity.
No pressure.
Just a layer.
He raised his hand.
Gathered a tiny amount of mana.
Let it flow gently toward his arm.
It spread across his skin.
A thin, translucent layer.
His hand trembled.
But it held.
He clenched his fist.
A slight difference.
Tiny… but real.
After seconds, the mana faded.
But he smiled.
"A beginning…"
He walked to the window.
The city was calm. Streetlights glowing. Distant sounds of cars. Ordinary human life.
Then one final memory surfaced.
Tomorrow.
The Origin Test.
The test every eighteen-year-old must take.
A test to determine potential.
But its true nature…
Unknown.
Faris looked at his reflection in the glass.
Frey Castle.
An ordinary human.
But beneath…
A demon's soul.
He smiled.
"Let's see…"
"How a former demon…"
"…will look in a human test."
He lay down.
Closed his eyes.
Tomorrow…
His real journey would begin.
And he fell asleep.
For the first time…
Peacefully.