Dragon King: Throne of Demons and Gods

There was a name whispered in old barracks and faraway temples.

Mahvindra.

People called him many things, wanderer, swordsman, monster, hero, but none of those names ever felt big enough.

He was tall, red-skinned, and strong. Four arms, each one made for holding a blade.

He didn't serve any king. He didn't pray to any god. He simply walked. From one place to the next. Never asking. Never waiting.

One day, he passed through a city and found a slave market.

Children in cages, people sold like things.

He said nothing. But his swords moved. By the time the sun set, the market was gone.

Burned to ash. The slaves were free.

The kingdom panicked. Soldiers were sent after him. A hundred knights. A hundred adventurers. All trained.

Mahvindra fought them alone, and won.

But he didn't kill them. He never killed unless he had to.

That's when another legend came forth. Aurus, the first Hero.

They fought for hours. Dust turned to storm around them. Mahvindra lost, barely.

But when Aurus learned the truth, he dropped his blade and faced the king.

He knelt and begged for mercy. That day, Mahvindra was forgiven. That night, the two men shared bread as brothers.

And when the war was over, Mahvindra disappeared again.

Years passed. Then one day, he returned. Not as a warrior, but as a teacher. A quiet man with a deep voice, barking orders at a young boy too stubborn to give up.

Maël still remembered his voice.

And now… That voice had returned, wearing a different mouth.

In the mirror behind, Lyraen pressed both hands to the glass. Her eyes were wide.

"That's… the Red Swordman."

Her fingers clenched. She knew the legend. Everyone in the Elf Kingdom did.

The red swordsman with four arms. The one who fought kingdoms alone. The one who stood equal to Aurus in the stories.

Some said he could cut through gravity. That no cage could hold him. That even death hesitated to chase him too closely.

Now she saw him again, brought back by a demon's trick.

Flaga's voice, deepened through Mahvindra's throat, was calm.

"How does it feel?" she asked Maël. "To face someone you thought you'd never surpass?"

He didn't answer. His expression didn't change.

"It's funny," she continued. "People look down on Lust. They think it's only about desire. But it touches everything. Longing, envy, hunger, admiration…"

She turned one hand slowly.

"Even reverence is a form of it. You admired him, didn't you? Enough to carve his path into your own bones. Enough for me to pull him out."

Still, Maël said nothing. The appearance of his mentor seemed to have shut down all his mental strength.

"Mm. So quiet," Flaga whispered, stepping forward. Mahvindra's body moved with perfect strength. The four swords shining softly in the glassy air. "You were fun. I'll give you that."

She raised all four blades at once.

"Goodbye, my student."

Then she moved, fast and strong, just like the real thing. The final strike cut through the air like a red star falling.

A flash tore through the maze like a lightning strike.

No warning. No buildup. Just a sudden burst of white that turned the world inside-out.

For a heartbeat, everything was gone, sound, air, shape.

The storm of light rolled through the glass tunnels with a silence that was louder than thunder. Pressure followed, then the sting. Then stillness.

Lyraen gasped. She couldn't see anything. Her palms pressed flat against the cold mirror as she screamed, but no sound could reach the outside. Just her own breath fogging the glass.

Then the light faded.

The storm broke.

She blinked hard, eyes wide.

There, at the center, Maël was still standing. Immobile.

One of Mahvindra's swords hovered above him, frozen mid-swing.

And it wasn't magic or some elaborate defense.

It was his finger.

Maël had stopped the blade with a single finger.

Lyraen's jaw dropped. Even Flaga hesitated. Her stance faltered. She looked down at the blade in disbelief, then at him.

The red skin. The four arms. All of it was slipping, just a mask stretched over something too brittle to hold.

Maël slowly lifted his gaze.

His voice was soft. Too calm for the moment.

"Lust… is a sad power."

Flaga tensed.

Maël continued, as if speaking to no one. Or maybe to the ghost behind the blade.

"Sometimes, we miss people. We want them back. But when they do, thanks to lust, what comes back isn't them. It's a shadow. And then it becomes a punishment."

The air around him shifted. Flaga felt it first, like stepping into deep water without realizing it.

Her breath caught. Her footing slipped. Something in her flared: instinct. Fear.

Maël's aura hadn't surged.

It was multiplying. Quietly. Constantly. Like pressure filling the cracks in her body, her mind, the world.

No flash. No heat.

Just a permanent rise.

Flaga's grip tightened on the hilts of her swords. But they felt light. Wrong. As if they didn't belong to her anymore.

"You used his form," Maël said. Still polite. Still detached.

"So I'll honor his lessons."

He raised his hand. No weapon, no pose.

Just a sideward flick of his fingers.

"I won't hold back."

Flaga hissed. She moved first.

Four swords lashed out at once, too fast to follow, too wide to dodge, too sharp to survive. Each swing screamed through the air like it could tear the world apart.

But there was no light now. No performance. Only desperation.

Maël didn't flinch.

He raised two fingers. Just two.

And that was enough.

Each blade met his hand, and was turned aside. With the gentlest of touches, like brushing dust off a window. His movement was effortless. Exact, beautiful in its simplicity.

Another flurry. She came in faster, blades overlapping in waves of steel.

He stepped once.

Slipped between every strike like water through cracks.

Then he lifted his hand. A single motion.

His index finger moved in a wide arc, clean and smooth.

All four of her arms fell away.

The swords clattered uselessly to the ground.

Flaga stumbled back, breath sharp, eyes wide.

Maël didn't chase her. He just stood there, calm as ever.

"I wasn't perfect," he said quietly. "He wasn't either. But he taught me how to start. I've walked far since then."

He looked down at her, almost fond.

"I've surpassed him long ago, so you'll be surprised if you keep using this form."

Flaga's face twisted. She growled, backing away, melting again into smoke and color.

If strength couldn't win, she needed strategy.

The smoke pulled in, thickened, and took shape.

A young man, lean and broad-shouldered, with brown hair and steady eyes. A great shield on each arm.

Another two floating behind him.

Lyraen gasped.

"The Shield…"

The Shield Saint, Darwin, indestructible, tireless, and more than anything, in his prime.

Maël exhaled softly.

So that's the plan now.

Flaga, no, Darwin, raised a hand. Walls of radiant shields burst around her in a circle, layer after layer, each glowing with divine energy.

Am unbreakable fortress of faith.

Maël tilted his head, then smiled.

It was small, barely noticeable.

He lifted his finger again.

Same one, but now, it burned. Not with flame, but something brighter. Tighter, like a star collapsing inward, pulling all light and energy into itself.

His aura twisted, focused, shrank.

And in shrinking, it grew.

Everything in him, the divine spark, the strength of his soul, the breath of his being, compressed into a single point. One fingertip.

Then he stepped forward.

A single thrust.

Not a roar. Not a flash.

Just a faint crack, like glass, and all the shields shattered.

Every layer. Every defense. All torn through like paper.

Flaga, half-reformed, body broken again, lay crumpled against the far wall of the maze. Breathing hard. Her limbs trembled as she regenerated, slower now.

Her eyes locked onto Maël.

And for the first time, she understood.

He had tricked her.

This whole time, his aura was veiled. Not because he was weak. But because he wanted her to think so.

He had such control over his power that he had the capacity to restraint it, tricking her into believing he was easy to deal with.

Flaga swallowed.

He was a genius. A monster hiding behind calm eyes and polite words. And now, she was alone facing him.