The training ground shook as ten black silhouettes stepped forward. Each one was a demon—muscular frames wrapped in twisted armor of bone, their eyes burning with nothing but pitch-black mana. They growled in unison, surrounding the lone figure standing at the center.

Vorthas Vel Azriel tightened his grip, though no sword rested in his hand. His weapon was magic itself.

The first demon lunged with a mace dripping in black flames. Vorthas vanished with a blink, reappearing behind it. His palm lit with condensed mana, and with a strike to the demon's back, the creature was blasted forward, crashing into its allies.

"Too slow," he muttered.

Another demon roared, slamming its hands onto the ground. Jagged spikes of black earth shot up, aiming to skewer him. Vorthas flicked his wrist—his own mana snapped like a whip, and the spikes crumbled into dust before touching him. Without pause, he slid forward, his movements sharp like a swordsman's footwork.

Two demons attacked together—one swinging a massive axe while the other hurled a spear of darkness. Vorthas bent low, his body moving as if in a dance, the axe cutting only air. With a sidestep, he caught the incoming spear with a hand wrapped in mana, snapping it apart before driving his knee into the axe-wielder's chest. The impact echoed like thunder.

The other demons didn't wait. They rushed him from all directions, a storm of claws and black blades.

Vorthas' eyes narrowed. His mana surged outward, forming glowing trails across his arms. He darted through the mob, blink after blink, every reappearance marked by a strike, a kick, or a burst of raw mana. Each blow shattered armor, each movement looked like a swordsman's precise cut, though he held no blade.

One demon tried to pin him down with a crushing wall of darkness. Vorthas lifted his hand. A sphere of bright mana swelled in his palm, then detonated like a cannon blast, ripping through the wall and hurling the demon away.

Dust and black mist filled the training field, but Vorthas stood untouched, his breathing steady. He raised his hand again, and the mana in his palm flickered like a heartbeat.

The ten demons staggered back into position, their forms already cracking under his relentless strikes. Not one had managed to land a clean blow.

Vorthas lowered his hand, the last traces of mana fading from his palm. His lips curved in faint satisfaction.

"Good. We'll repeat this tomorrow morning."

The ten demons, their armor still cracked and smoking from the bout, bowed respectfully before withdrawing from the training ground.

"You were amazing, Your Highness," one of them said, voice filled with awe.

"Not a single one of us could touch you," another added. "You truly are the most gifted among us."

A third demon let out a deep growl of admiration. "Your talent could rival Lord Tyranthis Azriel himself."

Vorthas chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Enough with the flattery. Go on—back to your duties."

"Yes, Your Highness!" they answered in unison before exiting, their heavy footsteps fading into the distance.

As silence settled, a figure emerged from the side entrance. Kaelen Duskbane approached, his posture low and respectful. He carried a folded towel and a dark, steaming drink. Bowing, he held them out.

"Master."

Vorthas took the towel, wiping the sweat from his brow, then accepted the drink. The liquid shimmered with faint red streaks, the signature tonic of demon nobility. He drank in slow sips as Kaelen spoke.

"We've activated Agent Nine," Duskbane reported. "She'll follow every order we give. Should we move forward with the plan?"

"Well then, proceed," Vorthas said evenly. "I'll oversee things myself. No mistakes are to happen." He set the cup aside, his gaze turning sharp. "What's the current condition of Daelen Voncrest?"

"Master, he's advanced to the peak of Rank 3," Duskbane answered without hesitation. "His progress is frightening. In the past two months alone, he's relentlessly attacked dungeons and trained with the Sword Saintess. Despite still being Rank 3, he's already capable of defeating Rank 4 beasts on his own."

Vorthas smirked faintly. "As expected of the so-called protagonist. And Marcus Ardent?"

"Marcus has been training as well," Duskbane replied. "He, too, has reached the peak of Rank 3. His combat strength may rival Daelen's, but I believe that if Daelen went all out, Marcus would lose."

"Hm. A good rivalry," Vorthas mused. "And what about the other humans? Have you noticed anyone else worth watching?"

Duskbane shook his head. "No, Master. At present, there's little to report. I've been trying to gather information on Ezra Celestrian, but most of what we know doesn't compare to Daelen or Marcus. My assumption is that he only reached Rank 4 by relying on supplements. As for defeating Ryun… I believe that was the Sword Emperor's doing. Frankly, Ezra is unimpressive. Even Daelen and Marcus could beat him without much trouble."

"Just as I thought," Vorthas said, setting his cup down with a small clink. "His survival was nothing more than chance. He was supposed to die early, but he managed to slip away from fate. Even so, his destiny is meaningless. In the end, he'll meet a common death."

He leaned back, eyes glinting coldly. "Focus on Daelen Voncrest. Make sure the plan to draw him to our side proceeds without delay."

Duskbane bowed deeply. "Yes, Master."

Once Duskbane's footsteps faded, Vorthas sank onto a nearby bench, resting his elbows on his knees. His crimson eyes stared at the dim ceiling of the training hall, and a quiet laugh escaped him.

"Who would've thought?" he muttered under his breath. "A hitman from Earth… reborn as a demon prince."

In the beginning, he had believed his new life would be hell. A foreign world, a body not his own, and brothers who would gladly slit his throat for the throne. Yet everything had changed the moment he discovered his golden finger.

The ability to glimpse destiny.

Not every second, not every day—but at sudden, unpredictable moments, he could hear the whispers of fate itself. He could glimpse fragments of what awaited people: their opportunities, their turning points, their futures. With that knowledge, he had stolen countless fortunes from his brothers and rivals, cutting off their paths and taking their chances for himself.

Like liquid, those stolen opportunities had flowed into him, nourishing his bloodline until his power reached its current height.

Normally, demons did not chase after cultivation methods like humans or elves. They relied purely on bloodline might. And the royal family of demons… they carried the blood of Tyranthis Azriel, the greatest magician ever to walk the world. A man whose name once shook every realm—until he fell beneath the blade of Kenzaki Ryojin, The Greatest Sword ever born.

Vorthas clenched his fist slowly. That same blood coursed within him. In only ten years, he had risen to mid-stage Rank 5. To mortals, perhaps it didn't sound impressive. But to demons, who measured time in centuries, it was lightning fast.

His thoughts shifted.

Daelen Voncrest.

The name brought a faint smile to his lips.

"Out of everyone… you're the only one whose destiny I can't read clearly. A boy who was once a wastrel, now turning into a monster. The moment I saw that, I knew. You're the protagonist of this era. The one who carries a story larger than himself."

He leaned back, his tone amused.

"If I can't steal your opportunities, then I'll drag you to my side. That way, I'll still control the board."

Ezra Celestrian never even crossed his serious thoughts. Whenever his golden finger activated, Ezra's thread of destiny was silent, faint, unremarkable. To Vorthas, he was nothing but a shadow destined for mediocrity.

"Ezra's future?" Vorthas scoffed. "Ordinary. Forgettable. Even if he survived longer than he should, I'll handle him when the time comes. There's nothing worth worrying about."

That confidence lingered in his eyes, the kind only a man who had already twisted fate itself could carry.

Vorthas leaned back, lost in thought, when his eyes flickered.

"Come out," he called softly.

The air twisted, and a shadow peeled itself from the corner of the hall, kneeling at his side.

"How goes the progress in the north?" Vorthas asked.

The shadow's voice was low and cold. "Everything proceeds as planned, Master. If all goes well, the northern army will suffer heavy casualties this time. Perhaps… their strongest lines will collapse."

A grin spread across Vorthas' face, sharp and cruel. A deep laugh rolled from his chest.

"Excellent. Then go. Inform Vampire Lord Alaric that it's time. Remind him—he must uphold his side of the promise."

"As you command, my lord."

The shadow bowed once more before melting back into the darkness, leaving Vorthas alone in the silent training hall.

He closed his eyes briefly, a spark of anticipation dancing within.

"The pieces are moving," he whispered.

______________________

Author's Note:

Alright everyone, welcome to Volume 2! 🎉

Now, before we start… let's take a moment to laugh at our dear villain Vorthas. This guy has a literal cheat ability that lets him peek at people's destinies—he can see the future, steal opportunities, outsmart his brothers… and yet he looks at Ezra and goes:

"Meh, this dude's a background character. Forgettable. Probably dies in a ditch somewhere."

💀 Bro, you're the title character's villain and you still don't know the title. Imagine opening a book called Why is Background Character the Strongest? and thinking the background character is weak. Truly, our demon prince is strong in everything except brain cells.

But hey, don't tell him. We're all on Ezra's side here. Let Vorthas keep speedrunning the 'How to Become a Clown 101' course. It makes the story way more fun.

So yeah, humans ftw. Grab your popcorn—Volume 2 is about to get wild.