The Ruins of the Mavalia Temple | Crimson Twilight

The wind was thick with the stench of scorched blood and damp ash.

Charred remnants of ancient stone columns jutted from the ground like jagged ribs of a long-dead beast. The once-grand temple of Mavalia lay in ruin — broken, crumbling, desecrated. Torn banners flapped weakly in the breeze, their sigils — the proud crest of the Mavalia Clan — now little more than blackened scraps, half-swallowed by flame. The sky above had turned a furious red, like an open wound smeared across the heavens, and the clouds twisted unnaturally, their edges fraying into tendrils of unstable mana.

The air shimmered with residual magic — wild, chaotic, and violently unbound. Sparks of blue and violet flared sporadically in the air, as if the mana itself had been scarred by the battle that took place here.

All around, knights in dented armor groaned and twitched on the blood-drenched soil. Helms cracked, blades shattered, and torn flags clung to spears jutting from broken earth. Horses, ghostly and dazed, wandered the field — eyes wide, hooves stumbling, dragging bloodstained reins behind them as they searched in vain for masters who would never answer again.

At the heart of the desecration — amidst fire, death, and sacred ruin — he stood.

Mikhail.

His polished black armor clung to his frame like a second skin — elegant and fluid, not clunky like the fallen knights', but clearly forged of something far older and more unearthly. Intricate crimson runes pulsed faintly across its surface, echoing with power. His boot, unceremoniously, pressed down on the shoulder of an elderly man, shaking and broken, pinned to the cracked stone beneath him.

Mikhail's clear blue eyes gleamed with chilly amusement, reflecting the flames around him — two sapphire mirrors of cruel delight. A lock of his silver-white hair drifted lazily across his forehead as he leaned in, the smirk on his lips deepening.

"Yo," he drawled, voice sharp and playful — almost musical in its taunting smoothness. "You old bastards seriously thought you could seal the Demon King himself?"

The elder coughed, blood speckling his chin. "W-We... were wrong... We're... sorry—"

Mikhail chuckled — not kindly. The laugh was dry and acidic, a sound that belonged more to the aftermath of thunder than a man. "Sorry?" He crouched down with feline grace, his armored joints whispering against each other. His hand, cold and leather-gloved, gripped the old man's chin with almost surgical gentleness.

"Tch. You people burned down my vacation home. And honestly?" His face came closer, uncomfortably so — lips near the man's ear, voice silky with venom. "I thought you'd put up more of a fight."

The old man visibly trembled. His voice cracked. "...Are... are you gay?"

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Mikhail exploded into laughter — tipping backward, letting himself collapse flat on the ruined stone with an undignified wheeze, holding his stomach as if in pain.

"Oh my God — pffft — what the hell kind of question—?!" He kicked a broken lance nearby in his hysteria. "If I were into men, do you think I'd go for a wrinkly eighty-year-old fossil with moss in his eyebrows?!"

The elder groaned, slumping. "L-Look... We were wrong... I know we were. But I swear, it won't happen again—"

Mikhail's expression sobered instantly, his tone dipping with lethal weight. "You said that last time."

"W-Wait! I have a deal — a prophecy — I swear on my life!" The man fumbled for a scroll in his satchel, hands shaking like leaves. "A descendant — five thousand years from now. A girl — special. She'll be born with the blood of the Golden Dragon... your blood. If you marry her, your line will become divine."

Mikhail blinked slowly, unimpressed. "You want me to wait five thousand years... to marry a rock-faced goblin?"

The elder held up a cracked sketch. The girl's drawing was crude, lumpy, and mostly featureless. "She's... she's still unborn, okay?! She'll look better in the future!"

Mikhail sighed deeply. A flicker of something — maybe memory, maybe bitterness — passed behind his eyes.

"You useless brat!" his father once screamed. "You can't even TALK to a girl — and you dare call yourself heir to the Demon Throne?!"

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine... but if you're lying..."

The wind pulsed around him — the very air twisted from his raw, dimensional leap — and with a deafening crack of displaced gravity, he vanished.

"He's gone!!""The plan worked!!" The elder whooped with joy — and then promptly clutched his chest, groaning. "My ass... is on fire... I shouldn't have laughed like that."

5000 Years Later | Tokyo, Afternoon

The sun hung low over the city skyline, casting soft amber hues on glass towers and overhead wires. Tokyo breathed with mechanical rhythm — trains humming along rails, cars gliding beneath crosswalks, the chorus of distant chatter, laughter, and life.

Pedestrians moved with the tired speed of post-school drag. Vending machines buzzed. A breeze rustled stray sakura leaves against the sidewalk.

You stepped out of the front gates of Shikahara High, bag slung over your shoulder, neck stiff from another day of tests and passive-aggressive teachers. Your uniform clung slightly with sweat from the spring humidity, and the soft scent of rain lingered in the air — the type of smell that warned of drizzle by nightfall.

The city sounded... normal. But something in the sky — a faint hum — a ripple — felt off. You reached your apartment. Empty. As always, since the accident. You dropped your bag by the door. Kicked off your shoes.

Then you heard it. A crunch. On your living room carpet. You froze. Slowly peeked around the corner. There — sprawled on your couch like a lazy delinquent — was a man.

He looked like he'd crashed straight out of a fantasy anime and onto your furniture. His boots were still muddy, leaving faint trails on your polished floor. His black outfit clung to him with unnatural precision, still shimmering faintly as if it hadn't finished adjusting to this world. A price tag still hung from the collar.

He looked up from the remote control in his hand, blinking behind stylish, circular shades. "Yo," he said, like it was your intrusion. "I'm Mikhail. Demon King. Blah blah." He waved a half-burnt magical scroll at you like a parking ticket.

Before you could react, he grabbed your hand. His fingers were cold — unnaturally cold — and suddenly smeared your palm with glowing ink from some arcane dimension.

"...Wait—what are you—?!"

He slapped your palm onto the paper. The scroll vanished in a whirl of flame and sigils. Mikhail grinned.

"Contract complete. We're married now."

He flopped back onto the couch, holding the TV remote upside down. "So... what does this thing do? And where's my lunch?" He gave you a slow once-over. He smirked wider, silver hair glinting under your ceiling light — like a fallen star making itself very, very comfortable. "Not judging, but you do look like a hippo."