lDamacaos

So, here’s the deal: I used to be a general in the Demon King’s army. You know, the type who commanded terrifying monsters, slaughtered entire villages, and wore really cool dark armor. Then, I died. But instead of staying dead, I woke up in the body of a cute little baby—born to a saint and a paladin. Yeah, I’m basically the “miracle child” now.
But let’s be real: I’m NOT cute. I’m a former demon lord in a baby’s body, and the only thing I’m good at right now is crying and breaking things with my demonic powers.
The worst part? The Demon King—who was just my boss in my previous life—has decided to start “checking up” on me. Apparently, he’s noticed some “familiar” vibes.
Now I’m stuck in this messed-up holy family, pretending to be an angel while secretly wanting to burn everything down. But hey, what’s a little soul-sucking darkness when you’re raised by two people who think you’re the next holy savior, right?

Demon General reborn.. as a saint's daughter!?

There were three things Liora absolutely hated: endless war, long ceremonies, and that smug little smirk Morian wore — the same one he used right before tossing her into yet another infernal massacre.

So of course, the Tournament of the Twelve Kingdoms had all three at once.

"Why am I even doing this?" Liora muttered through gritted teeth, adjusting the ceremonial cape draped over her shoulders. "Oh, right. Because my beloved celestial master said so."

"You needed practice," Morian said calmly, skimming through a clipboard filled with participant names. "And I thought this would be a perfect opportunity for you to... shine."

"Shine?!" She spun toward him, eyes blazing. "This is an arena! Not a bakery display!"

"Exactly," Morian smiled. "And you're the most sought-after pastry in the kingdom."

Liora made such a noise of outrage that a bird dropped out of the nearest tree.

Leaning against a column, Luziel let out a laugh, his usual bored and smug expression firmly in place. "Ah, nostalgia. That's the Liora who made the heavens shake and generals cry."

"And you're the Luziel I should've left rotting in that infernal cell," she snapped without even glancing at him.

"You tried," he replied, winking. "Three times."

Before she could reply with a well-aimed kick (which she was seriously considering), a trumpet blared, announcing the start of the tournament.

"Participants, to the arena!" cried the herald, with all the pomp only someone in puffy trousers could pull off.

Liora sighed and unsheathed her sword. "If I accidentally decapitate a noble, does that count as a point or a penalty?"

"Bonus point," Luziel said, already strolling after her. "For me, obviously."

Morian just watched her go, hands clasped behind his back, gaze far too calm. Liora knew that look. Too well.

That look said: You're going to hate every second of this. And I'll be watching it all while sipping tea.

Up in the stands, nobles, priests, and knights were abuzz with excitement. To them, it was a grand spectacle. To Liora, it was trauma — with sound effects.

But she walked into the arena with the confidence of someone who had once led legions. Because, well... she had.

Her first opponent: a charming prince from a neighboring kingdom. Golden hair, gleaming armor, and an infuriatingly confident smile.

"Lady Liora," he said, bowing. "I hope I have the honor of losing gracefully to your beauty."

Then kicked his shield hard enough to send him flying across half the arena.

The crowd roared. Liora twirled her sword in the air. "So graceful."

Morian smiled. Luziel whistled. And in the shadowy corners of the stands, envoys from distant realms began whispering.

At the center of the arena, Liora cracked her knuckles.

The Tournament Begins... and So Does the Headache!