Slumbering Sloth

In a world where the powerful ruled with an iron fist, one boy was dealt the worst cards—first by fate, then by the world, and finally by an Outer God. With each passing moment, he spiraled deeper into a reality determined to break him.
One day, as the pool of blood bubbled and rumbled in an ancient temple of malignance, a young man emerged from the depths. Beasts roared in a twisted symphony, and his body radiated a bloody strength that no one could contain. He paused, a thought crossing his mind as he got out from the blood pool: "I'm really not a Demon."
One day, as the massive corpse of a dragon lay idle, it shriveled, losing all its grandeur and dignity. Its desecrated body pulsed with dark energy, and from its stomach erupted a sharp, tyrannical sword aura, cutting through the air with lethal precision. A figure emerged, his black robe now stained blood red, his blood-red vertical eyes gleaming with a demonic fire. As he stood, surrounded by the lingering aura of death, he thought, "I’m really not a Demon."
One day, when the Blood Moon shone in all its glory, and the Demon Sect was at its peak, the Gates of the Demon Sect were shattered, and their Sect Halls lay in ruin. In the heart of their Demonic Lands, signs of a cataclysmic battle were evident. Corpses, scattered like broken dolls, piled upon each other to form a massive mound. Atop this heap of death sat a figure, calm and unperturbed, bathed in moonlight. His four eyes scanned the surroundings, and after a moment of contemplation, he thought rationally, "I only killed Demons, so that doesn’t really make me a Demon."