Path to Dominance in the Demonic Realm

The darkness was dense, like an eternal veil separating life from death. There was no sound, no feeling… only emptiness. But suddenly, a tiny spark of awareness ignited in the void. It was Zarathos' consciousness, floating once more toward the world he had left behind… or rather, the one he had been forced to leave.

Then came the shock.

He felt an indescribable pain, as if his soul was being ground in a mill of torment. His memories were slowly reassembling, his final moments flashing before his eyes—that wretched scene where his powerful body, the body of an emperor he had spent his life building, fell. He had been stronger than anyone could imagine, and yet… he died. Again.

His eyes opened slowly. This was not the body of an emperor. It wasn't even strong. He had returned… to the beginning.

Rage surged through his veins, but he quickly realized that his frail body couldn't even withstand a small wave of that fury. He clenched his trembling fist, feeling a weakness he hadn't experienced since his first life. This was unacceptable. This was intolerable.

"I was killed. I fell. I failed. But this time… this time, I won't allow it."

The air was cold, the dampness seeping into his brittle bones. He rose slowly from the ground—his body small and fragile, yet the sensation was familiar. He was in the Foundation Embodiment Realm, the weakest stage in any cultivator's journey. But he wouldn't stay here for long.

He surveyed his surroundings—a tiny wooden shack, an old bed barely holding his weight, a rickety table, and the lingering stench of mold. This place was unfamiliar, but it didn't matter. The world was the same, the laws unchanged, the cruelty ever-present.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he gathered his thoughts. What exactly had happened? How did he die this time? He recalled the final moments—the battle against "Argon the Bloodied," that monstrous being on the verge of the Saint Realm. He had fought until his last breath, had devastated half a continent in their clash, yet in the end… he lost.

He took a deep breath. Despite his weak body, he couldn't stop a cold chuckle from escaping his lips.

"This isn't the end… It's the true beginning."

In his first life, he had been naive, hesitant to let go of emotions, failing to grasp the true essence of the demonic path. And so, he died. In his second life, he abandoned everything, walking his path until he became an emperor. Yet, even that wasn't enough. The power he had accumulated was not absolute.

But this time…

"I will attain absolute power. I will dominate the demonic path. I will become an undefeated ruler."

His small fist clenched tighter, veins faintly protruding despite his frailty. There was no time to waste—not even a single moment. He had to begin.

He knew he had to climb through the ranks again, endure every pain, kill without hesitation, and crush anyone who stood in his way.

But this time, he wouldn't just be stronger. He would be terrifying. He would be invincible. He would be the nightmare whose name alone sent shivers down spines.

And slowly, amidst the cold darkness, his eyes gleamed with a spark of madness and hidden power…

—

Zarathos—or rather, Adrias, as he was supposed to be called now—sat on the cold ground. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the weakness of his new body. It had been a long time since he last felt such fragility, but it didn't matter.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the air enter his feeble lungs. It was strange, as if his body was still unaccustomed to receiving life again. But there was something else… something different.

"If I've returned to the Foundation Embodiment Realm, that means I have to rebuild my energy from scratch. But this time, it won't be random."

In his previous life, when he first embarked on the path of power, he knew nothing about body refinement or the proper methods to establish a strong spiritual foundation. He had no guide, no real knowledge—only instinct, trial, and error. That was how he reached his peak. But now? Now he possessed the knowledge of an emperor.

"I will rebuild myself from the ground up—but stronger than ever before."

He sat cross-legged, his back straight, hands resting on his knees, and closed his eyes once more. He began breathing slowly, trying to draw energy from the air around him into his body.

At first, nothing happened.

He felt emptiness—his body like a useless piece of stone, just as it had been the first time he practiced energy cultivation. But this time, something was different…

Something was wrong.

"What is this?"

Instead of the resistance he had always experienced, the energy responded to his body in a way he had never felt before. It wasn't stubborn or reluctant to enter him. On the contrary, it flowed smoothly, as if his body had been designed to absorb it with maximum efficiency.

His eyes snapped open. He raised his hand before his face, sensing the slight shift in the air around him.

"This body… possesses an innate talent!"

That was completely unexpected.

In his first life, he had no talent at all—he had to claw his way up through sheer struggle and suffering. In his second life, he compensated for his lack of talent with countless treasures, refining his body through brutal methods until he reached his level.

But now, in this third life…

A smirk formed on his lips.

"This is better than I expected… It seems that this time, my fate will truly be different."

Yet he had no time to dwell on the thought.

Suddenly, the small wooden door of the shack burst open with a loud creak.

A towering man entered—his head bald, his face scarred, clad in filthy leather armor. His eyes radiated pure contempt.

The man stood in the doorway, glaring down at Adrias with a sneer before spitting on the ground in disgust.

"Adrias, you son of a whore, what are you doing sleeping here?"

Then he laughed mockingly, as if the sight of the frail boy before him filled him with amusement.

"Why aren't you working, you filthy slave?"

Zarathos froze.

Rage was not his first reaction… it was shock.

"…Slave?"

Slowly, he lifted his head, staring at the man before him, then looked down at his own frail hands once more—his tattered clothes, the dirt covering his skin. He needed no further confirmation. He had been reborn… as a slave.

Normally, he should have felt shame, humiliation, even despair. But instead…

He laughed.

A cold, hollow laugh—devoid of real emotion, yet it emerged from deep within, as if he had just realized one of fate's cruel ironies.

"I… am a slave?"

The man hesitated for a moment, surprised by the boy's reaction, but quickly regained his scorn and took another step forward, reaching out to grab him.

But Zarathos did not move.

Instead, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, ignoring the man entirely. He could feel something new stirring inside him—not energy, not skill, but something deeper…

This does not matter.

He opened his eyes slowly, and within them burned a light no slave should possess. He looked up at the towering man as if gazing at an insect.

"This time, I won't be crushed so easily."

He had returned.

But this time, he wouldn't be just another player in this cruel world.

He would shatter the very rules themselves—until he became the sole ruler.

And this… was only the beginning.