Dungeon Maker

At age fifteen, the year I graduated middle school, my father told me,

“Our family has the blood of the Demon King flowing through it.”

That part was true. It wasn’t a lie.

Only, my father was just the owner of a neighborhood fried-chicken shop with the ability to make his eyes turn blue,

and I was just the son of a neighborhood fried-chicken shop, a little sturdier than other kids my age.

But five years later.

People came looking for me.