From Failure to SSS-Rank: The Demon Lords Rebirth

The battlefield reeked of death and fire, the acrid smoke curling through the air like a serpent. Morrath stood in the center of the chaos, his black armor streaked with blood.

His crimson eyes glowed ominously, casting an eerie light on the sea of shattered weapons and broken bodies around him. The soldiers who still held their ground clutched their swords tightly, though their trembling hands betrayed their fear.

"This is what you've brought against me?" Morrath's voice carried over the battlefield, low and cold, like a blade sliding through flesh. "Did your kingdom run out of real warriors, or are these just the ones you could spare?"

A knight, clad in golden armor dented but polished enough to gleam in the smoky haze, stepped forward. He tried to project confidence, but his voice quivered as he spoke. "Morrath! You will fall today! The Kingdom of Elvaris will triumph over your darkness and force you to kneel!"

Morrath tilted his head, a sinister grin curling his lips. "Fall? Kneel? Oh, my dear knight, I'm afraid I don't know how. But by all means, show me." The knight rushed toward Morrath.

At that moment, Morrath's foot slipped on a patch of slick blood as the knight lunged, his blade catching the edge of Morrath's shoulder armor. The force made Morrath take a step back, crimson eyes narrowing as a flicker of irritation crossed his face.

"Impressive," Morrath murmured, rolling his shoulder. "But you'll need more than luck."

He shifted his stance, his movements deliberate. This time, when the knight charged, Morrath let him come closer, using the man's momentum against him. His blade slashed upward in a vicious arc, severing the knight's sword arm at the elbow.

The knight fell to his knees, clutching the stump as blood gushed freely. Morrath stood over him, his expression unreadable. "Force me to kneel?" Morrath mocked. "Well, look at that. You've mastered the first step."

With one final swing, the Shadow Blade cleaved through the man's chest, ending his struggle. The knight's body crumpled to the ground, joining the countless others who had dared to challenge Morrath's reign.

The remaining soldiers faltered, the sight of their comrade's brutal end shaking their resolve. "Hold your ground!" their captain barked. He wielded a golden glaive that shimmered in the smoky air, his voice carrying a desperate authority. "He's just a monster! Monsters can bleed! Fight!"

Morrath chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating across the battlefield. "Bleed? Oh, I've bled. But let me show you what your blood looks like when it's spilled in service of futility."

He raised his massive sword, its blade beginning to glow with an otherworldly crimson light that pulsed like a heartbeat. Without hesitation, Morrath charged into the fray.

The first soldier in his path raised a shield, but Morrath's sword smashed through it effortlessly, cleaving the man in two. Blood sprayed across the ground as Morrath moved with terrifying precision, each swing of his blade cutting down another enemy.

A mage in the distance chanted, summoning a fireball that burned with searing heat. The projectile shot toward Morrath, the air around it warping with its intensity. Morrath didn't flinch. He waved his hand, and a wall of shadows rose before him, swallowing the fireball whole. As the flames dissipated, Morrath laughed softly. "Magic? Really? At least make it interesting."

The captain roared and charged, his glaive aimed directly at Morrath's chest. Morrath sidestepped the strike with ease, twisting his sword to bury it in the captain's side. Blood poured from the wound as the man gasped, his strength failing.

Morrath leaned closer, his voice dripping with mockery. "Do you see now? Your gods have turned a blind eye, and your kingdom is nothing but ash waiting to scatter." With a sharp pull, he wrenched his blade free. The captain collapsed, choking on blood as the light faded from his eyes.

The remaining soldiers broke, dropping their weapons and fleeing in terror. Morrath watched them run, his expression one of bored amusement.

With a flick of his wrist, the shadows around him shifted, forming jagged spikes that shot forward, impaling the retreating men. Their screams echoed briefly before silence reclaimed the battlefield.

When the chaos subsided, Morrath stood alone. The ground was a sea of blood and broken bodies. He lowered his sword, the crimson glow fading as he exhaled slowly. Above him, the smoky sky seemed to swirl unnaturally, the clouds forming a faint spiral, as if something was watching.

[Threat defeated. Rank Progression: 15%]

The system's calm, detached message appeared in his vision. Morrath closed his eyes, letting the words linger. And then, unbidden, a whisper curled in his mind like smoke.

[Well done, Morrath. Or should I say, Frank?]

Morrath's breath caught. The voice was deep, resonant, and unfamiliar. He scanned the empty battlefield, his pulse quickening. "Who's there?"

The only answer was the faint breeze stirring the ashes at his feet, but the sensation of being watched lingered, chilling and undeniable. As he turned back toward the horizon, memories clawed their way to the surface, pulling him into a life he had thought he'd left behind.

…Memories clawed to the surface, dragging him back to a life both distant and suffocating. Frank—a man defined by fifty-one years of failure and burden. He could almost smell the stale air of his cramped apartment, where dust-covered photos of his ex-wife and baby daughter whispered of a hope long lost.

Frank's chest tightened as he heard his sister's voice in his head, her words kind but tinged with worry.

"Frank, come to dinner. It's been too long. Just the family. You don't have to be alone."

But he had ignored the call. He remembered staring at the phone as it buzzed, watching her name light up the screen. His finger had hovered over the answer button before he'd let it ring out.

The glow of Underworld Online had been Frank's escape, a place to be anyone but himself. Yet even there, he was just a forgotten name on a leader board. On the game's final night, he typed a farewell to his guild—anonymous to the end—and guided Morrath to the throne one last time, bitterly laughing as the screen proclaimed: "The Demon Lord takes his seat, awaiting his destiny."

Destiny. The word had felt hollow. And then the screen flickered, a blinding light consuming everything. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer Frank. He was Morrath.

…The battlefield returned, the weight of his memories pressing against the reality before him. Morrath tightened his grip on his sword, his crimson eyes scanning the carnage. In the distance, the faint sound of horns broke the silence, signaling the arrival of reinforcements.

He smirked, the sinister humor creeping back into his voice. "More lambs for the slaughter? Don't they know I've already had my fill?"

The soldiers marched into view, their formation tight, their armor glinting despite the smoke-filled air. Morrath took a step forward, his shadowy aura swirling around him like a living thing.

And then, without warning, everything froze.

The wind ceased its whisper, the distant horns fell silent, and even the rising smoke stood still. A strange stillness settled over the battlefield as a system notification appeared before Morrath's eyes:

[Welcome, Frank. Your second chance begins now.]

His breath hitched as he stared at the words. "Frank?" he whispered, the name foreign yet familiar on his tongue. The crimson glow of his eyes flickered for the briefest moment as his mind reeled.

The notification vanished as suddenly as it appeared, and the world around him came alive again—the smoke billowed, the horns blared, and the distant soldiers resumed their march. But Morrath stood still, the weight of the message heavy in his chest.

"Second chance?" he murmured, his voice barely audible amidst the chaos. His mind raced, questions colliding like thunderclaps. Was this a dream? A twisted fantasy his mind had conjured? Or was it something else entirely?

As the reinforcements drew closer, Morrath took a step back, lowering his sword. The sharp, acrid air of the battlefield filled his lungs, grounding him in the moment. He glanced at his hands, still slick with blood, and clenched them into fists.

"This… isn't real. It can't be," he muttered. Yet, the cold steel of his armor and the lingering sting of his memories told a different story. If this was a dream, it felt too vivid. Too painful.

Morrath—no, Frank—looked up at the swirling sky, the faint spiral of clouds above seeming to shift and twist, almost as if mocking his uncertainty. The god-like voice that had whispered in his mind echoed faintly in his thoughts, leaving him unnerved yet strangely resolute.

Dream or not, this world demanded action. If this truly was a second chance, he would seize it. Not as Frank, the man who had been crushed by life's failures, but as Morrath, the Demon Lord who would carve his destiny into this new reality.

Straightening, he turned toward the incoming soldiers. His smirk returned, a cold, calculating edge to it. "Whatever this is," he muttered, "I'll make sure they remember my name."

The chapter ended with Morrath stepping forward, his sword gleaming ominously as he prepared to face the next challenge, the words of the notification lingering in his mind:

[Your second chance begins now.]