Black. The color that one could generally attribute to negativity. To evil. To all-encompassing and terrible death. Though it could also represent the unknown and the ambiguous.

That was his favorite color. He was born in ‘black,’ molded and nurtured by it. He took comfort in darkness and relished the shadows. He was enamored with the night, with closing his nonexistent eyes, and with seeing things burnt to the color of charcoal.

The Supreme Gods would have disagreed... quite vehemently at that, considering who he was... but he didn’t really like the sight of blood. It was too red and vibrant for his taste.

So, he decided ever since the first time he killed, that he would color blood according to his preference. It was quite the easy process.

He would simply crush the soul of the being he slayed. Next, he would sprinkle it on the blood and poof! His beloved color would appear!

There were other ways to do that, but he found them to be too much of a hassle. Plus, what's great is that he could use this method to turn most things black!

Actually, he didn’t really like the sight of any color other than black. It’s not that he hated the other colors with a great passion. It’s just a matter of preference or convenience, per se.

If he were to come across, say, the apples of the Everlasting Tree, he would turn both the apples and the tree black. He found that the easiest method to carry this out was by incinerating them.

Or if he were to encounter a Supreme God that wore a vibrant, colorful robe, he would find the urge to change the colors. Sure, the god would resist or whatever, but once the god was out of the picture, it was a simple matter of turning the robes black with the soul of the god!

In the end, he was quite a misunderstood being. Black can certainly be equated to evil, but he wasn't naturally evil. He didn't have any inherent violent tendencies either. He was simply someone that altered the world as he saw fit. He got rid of those that annoyed him and transformed all things he came across.

His form was black (as one would guess) and very incorporeal. But even though he was mostly immaterial and bodiless, he still needed something to host his consciousness. Therefore, he had a core that served this function. Overall, however, there’s no use perceiving, much less touching, such an intangible and fleeting being as himself.

His home was a black void. It used to serve as the splendid and vibrant home of the Supreme Gods. The Demonic One, as many called him, was incredibly satisfied as he was in the humble abode he made for himself: devoid of any life, and where everything colorful ceased to exist.

So when that thing intruded upon his dwelling a few millenniums ago, the first thing the Demonic One felt was very mild annoyance. Tens of thousands of years of peace and quiet were suddenly interrupted by a tiny, supposedly insignificant, golden light. He assumed that everything would go back to normal once he snuffed out the light.

But that vexing pest refused to yield. He had come across a myriad of beings. Their fates always ended in the same way—one ultimately of his choosing. Usually, their death. But no matter how much he tried to squeeze, crush, warp, strangle, or put out the light, it still remained. Its golden hue never dimmed.

And it eventually fought back.

For the first time in eons, the Demonic One found something he couldn’t do anything about. Despite his incorporeal form, he somehow winced in pain at the light's violent opposition. Despite his normally apathetic and calm bearing towards worldly affairs, he tasted the discomfort of frustration and the bitterness of failure for the first time.

At first, it felt like an itch he couldn't scratch. But the itch progressed to the point of pain and suffering. He became more ardent in his efforts to resolve what he previously assumed to be a trivial matter, which was getting rid of the nuisance.

There were times when he thought he had succeeded in vanquishing the damned thing, only to find the blinding light penetrate a little deeper into his sanctuary of darkness.

Light and dark, gold and black. The two opposing forces struggled for supremacy. It’s as if one were witnessing a classic tale of good versus evil unravel.

But the reality of the scenario was not quite so simple.

It was but a conflict of interests between two sides, one that eventually developed into a fight for their lives.

Between a being who felt that his home was invaded unjustly.

And an individual who retaliated accordingly.

It eventually grew to the point where he constantly and recklessly lashed out in wild rage against the light. He charged time and time again, finally losing the bearing of one who had once carried out a reign of dominance and terror. Indifference turned to desperation and irritation turned to madness. He couldn’t kill that light. That damned, despicable light. Its gold and luster provoked him to no end.

To the Demonic One’s horror, his black dwelling slowly diminished in size, engulfed by the increasingly vigorous golden shine. The Demonic One had found himself backed into a corner, one he would never have expected to find himself in. The gold slowly ate away at his precious color of pitch black that previously inhabited the entirety of the realm.

The light inevitably approached the core of his being.

“You sick, bloody bastard.”

Words that dripped in stifling bloodlust filled the Demonic One’s head and seemed to clutch his nonexistent heart. The first words that he had heard from the light—savage and vulgar. Very unlike the pure and divine aura of the being who spoke them.

Seeds of unbearable futility, hopelessness and despair, of haunting and oppressive fear, all of which he had not experienced nor was familiar with, planted themselves deeply into the recesses of his mind.

He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to part with the dark and his home. He didn’t want to lose his beloved black.

A dying flame roared back to life within his numbed soul. He wanted to live. He simply wanted to live in the absolute comfort and safety of his home.

Fortunately for this black being of the dark, his ambitions would never have come into fruition had the light not suddenly disappeared. Before it could completely wipe out his existence, the light abruptly vanished. The obvious absence of golden light and the return of the void were clear intimations of this unnatural development.

Was the golden menace gone? Was that millenniums-long nightmare he experienced but an illusion?

The black being felt wary and suspicious. How could his peril end so suddenly? He peered into the darkness that returned. Nothing.

Then shock and pleasant surprise emerged. He continued to closely observe his surroundings. After a considerable amount of time had passed, he finally sighed in relief with nonexistent lungs. A flame of hope and spark of ambition appeared.

He wanted to be stronger. Strength that would allow him to live in peace and freedom, surrounded only by his favorite things. Strength that would stop beings like the hero of golden light from obstructing his goals.

The Demonic One didn’t notice these peculiar developments and changes in his mind. He had emotions so simple and intense that they could be easily defined.

That’s why shortly after when a white-masked person holding the golden youth suddenly materialized before his core, he paled and nearly fainted. Even though both actions were physically impossible to carry out, that’s what the Demonic One felt like doing considering his new, sensitive emotions.