But for now, he was powerless.
His magic, once capable of leveling mountains, had been reduced to a pitiful squirt of water.
What kind of sorry excuse for a body is this?
He needed answers.
Rising, he crept out of the room and descended a narrow staircase.
The house was modest, with two rooms branching off a hallway.
He chose the left, stepping into a cramped bathroom.
This is an insult!
His castle's bathing chambers had been vast, adorned with gold and filled with steaming pools.
This was a closet with a sink, a toilet, and a tiny mirror.
Cursing, he stood on his toes to peer into the mirror.
His reflection stared back: white hair, hazel eyes, and a soft, boyish face that screamed weakling.
His eyes widened in horror.
This isn't me! I've been reborn as some frail, human peasant!
The realization was a dagger to his ego.
The door creaked open behind him, and a man entered—black hair, glasses, holding a folded newspaper.
"Oh, Ryo. Didn't see you there. Your old man needs the bathroom, so hurry up."
Xelvar blinked.
"Father?" he ventured, testing the word.
The man chuckled. "Father? Playing roleplay again? 'Dad' sounds better, Ryo." He paused, frowning.
"What's with you today? Stop staring at your face, your mom's already pissed. Take a shower and get ready, or you know what she'll do."
The mention of her sent a shiver down Xelvar's spine.
He nodded hastily, spotting a towel and clothes neatly folded by the door.
He showered quickly, unnerved by the unfamiliar ritual, and dressed in a shirt, pants, belt, and a strange, flat rope-like thing with a wide end.
What is this? A sex toy? A blindfold for my women?
Giggling darkly, he stuffed it into his pocket and stepped out.
"Well, that was quick," his father said, leaning against the wall, still reading his newspaper.
"Yes… Dad," Xelvar replied, the word tasting foreign.
He entered the next room—a kitchen—where the monster-woman stood, her white hair gleaming under the light.
She turned, annoyance etched on her face. "Finally, Ryo. How long does it take you to get ready?" She thrust a pot at him. "Fill this with water. I need to boil eggs."
Xelvar stared at the pot, recalling his pathetic water magic.
The great Demon Lord, reduced to a kitchen servant?
Gritting his teeth, he raised his hand and summoned the weak stream of water, filling the pot.
The humiliation burned.
His mother's eyes widened. "Ryo! When did you…?"
"When did I what?" he snapped, bracing for another attack.
"You used magic without reciting the spell!" Her expression softened, pride replacing anger.
"After all these years, you've finally done it. I'm proud of you, Ryo. Even if you're last in your class, you're improving. Don't give up—one day, you'll be strong." Her eyes glistened with tears.
Xelvar shifted uncomfortably.
"Uh… okay, Mom." The word felt awkward, but her sudden warmth disarmed him.
She turned to the stove, conjuring flames with a flick of her hand.
The eggs boiled in seconds, and she served them on the table where Xelvar sat.
"Eat up and get to the academy. You're late, so give this to your teacher." She handed him a note.
He read it: My son, Ryo GreenApple, was helping me this morning, so he got late. Signed, Elena GreenApple.
"GreenApple?!" he blurted, horrified.
What kind of ridiculous name is this?
And Ryo?
Were my parents afraid I'd forget a longer name?
The great Xelvar Vaal Vorthyx, now Ryo GreenApple.
The shame was unbearable.
"What's wrong?" his mother asked, frowning.
"Nothing, Mom," he muttered, forcing a smile.
Inwardly, he plotted: I'll conquer this world, regain my powers, and enslave these humans. Starting with this 'GreenApple' nonsense.
His father joined them, sitting at the table.
"You're acting weird today, Ryo," he said, eyeing him. "What's with that creepy smile?"
"Honey," his mother chimed in, "I keep telling him to make friends, but he's always playing alone, talking to his imaginary friends."
"Mom!" Xelvar exclaimed, mortified, though the words weren't his own.
The embarrassment stung.
They ate in silence, the food surprisingly decent.
His senses, at least, hadn't dulled.
When they finished, his mother said, "Take your bag and go, Ryo. Try to make it before half your class is over."
Bag?
He recalled seeing one in his room.
He dashed upstairs, grabbed the heavy satchel, and returned to the front door.
Steeling himself, he opened it—and froze.
A woman stood before him, dressed in a tight, casual outfit: a black tank top that hugged her curves and shorts that left little to the imagination.
Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled with obedience.
She dropped to one knee, bowing deeply.
"I am at your service, Master."