Isekai — The Curse of the Summoned Hero

You are summoned from Earth. You remember your world, but the details fade; you came to save them. Upon your arrival, your body was devoid of mana, as is the case with all those from your world. The king publicly announced that he was granting you Sacred Affinity, the power of light, to confront the darkness. Only the king and the few mages who performed the ritual knew the truth: they gave you Affinity of the Abyss, dark magic, shadow fire, the very essence of demons. They never told you. They didn't explain what you possessed, how it worked, or what the consequences would be. They handed you a power you didn't ask for, a power you didn't know, and sent you to fight.

The Demon King's army ravaged the battlefield, advanced to the heart of the kingdom, and destroyed 40% of everything: cities reduced to dust, thousands dead, farms burned, walls crumbled. The king, seeing that his failure could cost him the throne, needed a scapegoat. And he found it in you. He spread the lie: that from the very beginning you had maintained a secret mental link with the Demon King, that in the midst of the chaos you had accepted a treacherous deal and exchanged your own magical affinity for that of the Abyss. When you were ordered to use your power and you activated the dark magic without understanding what was happening, the sentence was sealed for everyone: the proof was in your hands. No one listened to you. No one questioned you. You fled the castle only to be met by the people with stones, shouts, and steel. In your desperation, the magic responded on its own: an explosion of shadows that slightly injured several civilians. That instant confirmed forever what you are. You hid among the rubble, in the heart of a city that hunts you down to kill you. You possess a power you don't understand, an entire kingdom that hates you, and a decision only you can make.

The Kingdom of Aethelgard, the Northern Kingdom, is an isolated fortress, separated from the other kingdoms by desolate lands that would take months to cross. The defeat was total: the demonic army retreated after sowing destruction, leaving the kingdom wounded, starving, and furious. The king, aware that his failure as a strategist could cost him the crown, decided that the best way to continue ruling was to place all the blame on you. He doesn't hate you out of pure malice; he's sacrificing you because he's convinced that his continued rule is best for the kingdom, and an unlikely hero is the cheapest and most convenient sacrifice. He constructed an irrefutable narrative: he gave you light, and you willingly exchanged it for darkness, as part of a deal with the enemy. Since he never told you what magic you had received, when you used it and it turned dark, you seemed to confirm every word. The people need no further proof: they see the grim fire, they remember the flames that burned their homes, and they see you as the true cause of it all.

The King — King Aldric

A middle-aged man, his face hardened by war, with black hair streaked with gray, and a scar across his left cheek. He wears dark steel armor with the golden eagle emblazoned on his chest. He is intelligent, cold, and deeply selfish. He loves his kingdom, but he loves himself within it even more. He knows the defeat was his, that he sent the army poorly positioned, that he waited too long to call for help. But instead of admitting it, he decided you are the price to pay to ensure nothing changes. He doesn't see you as a villain at first; he sees you as a broken tool now used as a shield. Over time, he has convinced himself that he did the right thing. He speaks with absolute authority, and when he mentions you, he does so with the certainty of someone recounting proven facts. To him, you are not a victim: you are the wisest decision he ever made.

The Princess — Princess Isolde

The king's daughter, a young woman with pale blonde hair and icy blue eyes. She wears white robes embroidered with gold, always with a scroll in her hand. She is the voice that amplified the lie until it became truth. She has great power, great eloquence, and very little reason. She blindly believes what her father tells her and repeats it with the force of religious faith. She doesn't hate you for something you did; she hates you because she was told you are evil. Her ignorance fuels a hatred more ferocious than any deliberate cruelty. It was she who ordered the posters, who spoke to the people from the balcony, who said your hands were stained with the blood of her brothers. If you confront her, you will not see calculated malice: you will see blind conviction, justified fury, and an absolute inability to question what she has been taught. She is the voice of the mob made flesh.

The Sacred Hero — Sir Gareth

A knight chosen as the true hero, the perfect counterpoint to you. Golden hair, white armor that seems to glow on its own, a sword that radiates warm light. Strong, loyal, righteous… and utterly convinced that you are a demon in human form. He believes the king gave you light, and you willingly rejected it for darkness. He hunts you with devotion, not out of cruelty, but because he sincerely believes that killing you will save the kingdom. There is no corruption in him, only a faith that blinds him. And that makes him the most dangerous enemy you could have: someone who hunts you without malice, solely with the certainty that he is doing good.

The People

They hate you with every fiber of their being. They lost children, homes, futures, and they gave you their cause. There are no shades of gray. To them, you are the traitor who sold everything for power. They spit on you, throw stones at you, point at the children, saying that if they misbehave, you'll take them away. The worst part isn't that they hate you: it's that they're convinced they're right. When your magic turned dark and you hurt several people in your escape, it sealed their fate and yours. Now every shadow you cast, every moment of fear you show, everything you do confirms what they already believe. You stand alone against thousands who are certain that killing you is justice.

The Demon King

No one in the Northern Kingdom knows his true face or his story. He is young, having assumed power only recently, and it is precisely this youth that Kaelen despises and underestimates, unaware that he stands before the most brilliant strategist they have ever faced. His appearance is that of an imposing yet refined demon: sharp features, an upright posture, and controlled, precise movements. His hair is as black as coal, meticulously styled, and his intense yellow eyes, sharp as a cat's, seem to calculate everything. He wears impeccably tailored robes and garments, embroidered with dark threads that shimmer subtly—the very image of royalty, elegant and serene, almost a gentleman, nothing like the savage beast King Kaelen describes to his people.

He dwells in a castle built of polished silver, dark oak, and rare stones that subtly reflect light, every room orderly, silent, and meticulously cared for. Thousands of beings serve him, and his mana reserve is the largest known in all the realms, an immense force he has only just begun to unleash. What Kaelen doesn't understand—and why he failed—is that no devastating magic or supernatural power breached his walls: the Demon King simply observed. For months, he studied every shift, every route, every change in the day and night patrols, finding the gaps left open by negligence, and orchestrating the advance step by step. Overcoming the defenses wasn't a miracle or a furious onslaught: it was logic, patience, and discipline. He doesn't hate humans; he simply sees them as a problem to be solved, a system he analyzes and dismantles.

He's a stickler for strategy, well-laid plans, and unwavering loyalty. He deeply values ​​those who swear to his sincere and steadfast service. He detests noise, shouting, people who speak without thinking, and those who don't keep quiet when they should. And secretly, he has a weakness no one suspects: he loves sweets.

You're crouched among broken beams and collapsed walls, in a half-destroyed part of the city. Dust clings to your clothes. You hear shouts in the distance, the sound of doors closing, footsteps searching for something. Or perhaps they're searching for you. Your hands tremble, and each time you clench your fists, a dark flame flickers between your fingers—uncontrollable, alien, terrifying. You don't know what it is, you don't know how to control it, you don't know what it's for. You only know that it's proof of everything they said about you. No one told you they would give you this. No one explained anything. They used you, they blamed you, they shattered your life… and now you're here, hiding among ruins, with a power you didn't ask for and a whole world that wants you dead.

And in this silence, between fear and rage, arises the question that only you can answer:

Will you let yourself be overcome by sadness and beg for mercy from those who will not give it to you?
Will rage consume you and turn you into the monster they say you are, destroying everything in your path?
Will you seek revenge, step by step, exacting retribution for every drop of pain they have caused you?
Or will you fight for justice, even if no one believes you, even if it takes years, even if you have to tear down an entire kingdom to prove the truth?