Chapter 1: [The Demon King of Londoran and the Transmigrated Ghost]
Rumble—
Along with falling dust and the screech of rusted hinges, the heavy stone gate of the underground ruins was pushed open.
The dim gray-white glow of ghostly fire illuminated the dust-covered hall, lighting up the murals and pillars along the circular walls, the ancient magic array in the center, and the silent suits of armor that guarded the hall.
The ancient bronze armors stood wordless, their surfaces mottled with green patina and chaotic engravings.
Clack, clack, clack.
Amid the echo of clashing metal, a tall, slender figure in pitch-black armor stepped into the darkness of the ancient temple.
The newcomer was a thin, imposing figure clad in a menacing suit of dark armor, draped in a kingly crimson cloak.
One hand dragged a bloodstained long-handled hammer-spear, the other held a cluster of pale flame.
A horned helm masked their face, like a fallen demon cast down from the heavens.
Step by step, the black-armored figure entered, holding the pale flame aloft.
After glancing around the vast hall, the armored shadow sighed softly, set down the hammer-spear, dropped the pale fireball to the ground, and reached up to the demon-horned helmet.
Tugging twice, muttering in mild frustration, she brushed aside several strands of steel-gray hair caught in the seams—finally pulling the helmet off.
Beneath it was the face of a weary yet delicate young woman. Her steel-gray hair and eyes mirrored each other, and her pale face bore dark circles. Her lifeless eyes spoke of endless sleepless nights and a fatigue only comparable to a world-spanning crusade—an exhaustion that pressed even upon a half-demon’s body.
This was the sixth underground ruin she had explored.
Thaleia Ronowe leaned on her heavy hammer-spear, tucking the charred demon-helm beneath her arm, staring blankly at the magic array before her.
It had been three years since her father and mother died.
And two years since her father’s grand Londoran Dungeon enterprise had collapsed.
The demon race was one of ruthless survival, where the weak were devoured by the strong.
Thaleia’s mother had been human.
As a half-demon, Thaleia’s strength was far from enough to protect what her father had left behind.
She slumped to the ground, tossing both her helmet and the pale flame aside.
Drawing her knees close, she wrapped herself in the crimson cloak, gazing dazedly at the flame flickering on the floor.
Though her tall, armored frame could rival a human berserker’s, here, beneath the unreachable vault of the ruin’s ceiling, both she and the flame appeared pitifully small.
Thaleia hugged her knees and rocked gently back and forth, the armor clanking softly with each motion.
Reaching to her neck, she grasped a thin iron chain and drew out, from beneath her collar and breastplate, a faintly glowing light-blue crystal.
The crystal lay quietly in her gauntleted palm. Her claw-like fingertips tapped lightly against it, producing soft metallic chimes.
It was an artifact—one left behind by her father.
A piece of 【Aether Crystal】, capable of powering certain ancient temples.
In the age of the gods, the mighty deities once developed radiant and magnificent technologies.
Though those gods had long since departed, some of their creations remained, known as artifacts or relics of the gods.
Some were enshrined in human temples, others fought over by the demon clans.
But most still lay buried deep underground—within the ancient sanctuaries embedded in the bedrock, merged into the stone and mineral veins.
The 【Aether Crystal】 her father left behind was one such artifact.
It could not be used on its own, nor could it store or release mana.
Its sole function was as an energy source—to activate certain underground ruins.
Judging by its dimming glow, it could be used only thirteen times.
But since the gods had vanished, no one truly knew the purpose or workings of these ruins.
Activating one was like gambling with fate.
Sometimes, nothing happened.
Sometimes, the ruin exploded.
Sometimes, a sealed treasury opened.
Sometimes, an artifact emerged—or ancient treasures beyond measure.
Her father had wagered with this crystal seven times.
Three yielded nothing.
Twice, he barely escaped collapsing ruins.
Twice, he struck fortune—discovering ancient wealth and an undecipherable codebook.
With that fortune, he built the Londoran Dungeon and rose as a famed Demon King.
As for Thaleia—she had gambled five times.
Four times yielded nothing.
Once, the ruin collapsed.
This was her final chance.
She stared blankly at the dim crystal in her palm.
It felt like that fairy tale, “The Little Match Girl.”
And she was that girl, staring blankly at her last match in the winter snow.
For two years she had wandered the desolate lands, delving into ruins, braving the dangers of the deep, dreaming that a single spark in a temple’s ruin might grant her a better life.
Thaleia tightened her grip on the crystal and buried her face in her arms.
But armor did not absorb tears.
Two droplets slid slowly down the cold metal curve of her arm, leaving faint trails, and fell with two sharp plicks to the ground—echoing louder than expected.
“So be it. One last time,” she muttered, sniffling.
If the ruin exploded—perhaps that would not be so bad either.
Under the vast dome of the ancient ruin, the small figure of Thaleia raised the faint blue crystal—like a little girl lifting her final match in the snow.
The moment blue light flared from her palm, countless deep azure lines bloomed across the temple walls, flowing like liquid light.
The hall shone like day, brilliant as in the age of the gods!
The guardian armors surrounding the temple clanked sharply—their limbs twitching in the blue glow!
Arcs of blue light leapt and converged upon the central magic array.
Complex runes linked together—and then, in a flash, a translucent figure flickered within the circle—
Crack.
The magic array shattered.
The light retreated, and the ruin fell silent once more.
The brilliance vanished.
Even the pale flame of illumination went out.
Only darkness remained—and a faint, trembling sound of sobbing…
And then—a confused young man’s voice:
“Where… am I? Why’s it so dark?”
The sobbing stopped.
A pale fireball flared once more.
Clad in black armor, Thaleia stood, lifting her hammer-spear and the flame high, eyes filled with a sudden spark of hope.
“Who?” she asked softly.
The vast temple echoed hollowly.
In the light, nothing appeared.
The circular array on the floor had been split clean through, like a cruel vertical eye.
“Uh… miss, what’s going on?” the young man asked blankly.
“Whoa, is this a convention? A cosplay event? Your armor looks amazing—like straight out of Dark Souls! The art style’s insane!”
“What… ‘convention’? What is ‘cosplay’… and what is Dark Souls?” Thaleia hesitated.
A dark soul from another world!
The thought made her tense.
“Wait—you’re not a college student? You look like one… I’m in my third year, you?” the voice asked again. “Senior or freshman?”
“What college? I—I’m half-demon… I never studied at the human Lunos Academy…” Thaleia’s confusion deepened.
She had anticipated countless outcomes—but none this strange.
“Where are you? Step into the light!” she barked, gripping her hammer tightly.
“Oh, oh, coming! Sorry, the scene changed so suddenly, I didn’t process it yet,” said the voice.
Clack, clack, clack.
From the corner of the temple, the nearest broken suit of ancient armor—its joints grinding—stepped slowly into the pale firelight.
One foot planted straight, the other angled forward in an awkward, flamboyant stance.
“Hello, hello! I’m Xia Mo’an, college student.”
The battered armor rubbed its gauntlets together enthusiastically, like a giant metal fly trying to look friendly.
“Miss, do you know what’s happening? I was just pulling an all-nighter gaming, and suddenly I’m… here?”
After his metal hands clattered together, he lowered his head—and gasped:
“Eh?! Why the heck am I wearing Dark Souls-style armor too?! Damn, I look awesome!”
“Wait—don’t come closer!” Thaleia raised her weapon cautiously.
“Are you human or demon? Why are you inside a ruin’s armor shell?”
She hooked her hammer’s tip beneath the armor’s helmet—and lifted the visor.
Inside—nothing.
A ghost.
A spirit had been summoned by the magic array, and now inhabited this broken ancient armor.
The cursed armor froze, poking at the hammer’s tip, then its own metal hand—before realizing with dawning horror that there was no body inside.
The next instant, he screamed:
“Wait—where’s my body?!”