Reset the world.
That was all he was ever told to do.
Reset the world.
Every time he did his duty and reset the world, he would always find himself caught in a tug-of-war over who got his essence.
"Demon Lord Candidates."
Ha, what a laughable name. No one could win him over. He inhabited who he wanted to, and they could not change that. It was his choice, and his choice alone. He would merge with whoever he felt like at the moment of their birth, and live his life intertwined with theirs.
But every time he inhabited his chosen one, it was always the same thing.
Reset the world.
Even the seven, the ones he befriended every time he came back, were pushing him to do his duty. Even his closest relatives, the people he thought he could trust the most, would often turn out to be dark mages and "demon lord candidates."
It was ridiculous. Out of all the worlds he had been in and reset, did anyone ever ask him, "Do you want to do it? Do you want to destroy this world and create another?"
No. He didn't. He hated the cycle. He always made friends and loved ones in each world, people he didn't want to lose.
But he had to reset the world.
He was sick of it. Sick of this vicious cycle of creation and destruction. And in that moment, in the void between new worlds, he decided that he would never again reset the world.
He would ignore the purpose thrust upon him, the purpose that he didn't want. Why had he been given this purpose? He was the Demon Lord, not some omnipotent deity. So why was he chosen for this task, and why was this task assigned in the first place? What purpose could there be in such an endless cycle of birth and death, where only he remained eternal? And why did he remain eternal, left alone to wander until he chose his next host?
Then again, whenever he looked at himself, he wondered if he really was eternal. His face was as white and cracked as his hair, and his eyes had gone dark long ago. If he removed the armor he always found himself carrying, he had no doubt that his whole body would be a spiderweb of scars and breaking skin. Maybe he was already dead and just didn't know it. Maybe this void was his afterlife.
Nobody ever asked him what it was like, being so alone for so many countless eons, and forced to destroy anyone he got close to. Nobody asked him what his life was like between resets, in this colorless void filled with nothing but him and his thoughts.
But he didn't blame them. To them, he was only a tool. He was only a force that heralded the reset of their world.
No more. Now, when his next world was created, he would live in it, and never again destroy it. It would be his last world. He vowed to finally die alongside his host. He would not hinder his host's life as he always did. He would stay hidden within their mind, and hopefully, die quietly, without anyone ever finding out that he had been there.
Maybe then, he could finally be free from this cycle.
But as he created the new world, and as he selected his new host from the billions upon billions that were born, he found himself forgetting everything he had thought while in the void. He found himself slipping from his promise almost as soon as he had made it.
Wait, what did he promise? He couldn't remember. Now, his head was only filled with his directive.
Reset the world.