Volume 1: Demon Child
The night was still. Twin moons—blue and burning—hung like watching gods in the obsidian sky, casting a surreal glow across the desolate ridge. Stars, scattered like shattered glass across velvet, offered no warmth, no guidance—only the cold indifference of distance.
A breeze whispered through the tall grass, carrying with it the mingled scents of ash and wildflowers. Sweetness laced with the echo of fire. Memory and warning, entwined.
Perched on a cliff high above the sleeping valley, a lone figure stood—wrapped in a darkness deeper than any shadow the night could offer. The moonlight bent around him, as if the world itself resisted knowing him. Only his eyes shone—violet, smoldering, the last embers of something long thought extinguished.
He didn't speak for some time.
He simply watched.
Then, a murmur—soft and sharp, like the whisper of a blade pulled free of its sheath.
"A person who can't keep a promise... is worthless."
His voice, low and edged with contempt, rolled over the ridge like a quiet verdict.
"Scum, at best. And if they won't do what must be done…"
The wind stirred—cold and sudden.
"Then I will."
Far below, buried within the cursed roots of the Demon King's fortress, a figure moved—hooded, silent, and assured. The corridors were narrow, the darkness suffocating, but the figure walked as if the blackness welcomed them. The scent of burnt incense lingered in the air, thick with the residue of ancient, long-forgotten rituals.
They stopped. Gloved fingers brushed the stone wall, finding a faint groove invisible to any normal eye. A compartment clicked open—soundless—and revealed a box, plain and worn by time. Inside it: a single shard, dull and black, yet pulsing faintly with power. The figure slipped it beneath their cloak.
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
Footsteps—soft, fast—moved through the torchlit halls. The fortress, still slumbering in illusion, had not yet stirred.
But fate does not sleep.
A clatter. Metal on stone.
The figure froze. The sounds grew louder.
Guards.
With precise, calculated steps, they reached a narrow window high above the fortress walls. A sheer drop met them—an abyss of wind and stone. Without pause, they leapt.
Air screamed past them—but then, impossibly, a dark platform flickered into being. One step. A push. They landed softly, already running, their form melting into the moon-drenched shadows.
A lone soldier noticed this fine detail,
Then a cry rang out from the battlements. "It's him! He's escaping! Sound the alarm!"
The night erupted. The fortress blazed to life—boots thundered, weapons were drawn, and orders barked through the din. But the figure was already a ghost.
They sprinted toward the cliffs, the pounding of pursuit behind them. Then, another leap—off the edge, vanishing into blackness.
The guards skidded to a halt at the cliff's edge. A fleeting silhouette darted into a cavern below.
"After them!" the captain snarled, a scarred veteran whose voice carried more steel than the blades they bore.
They descended, torches held high, into the gaping mouth of the cave. The air turned wet and cold, walls slick with moss and mystery. Echoes twisted around them, turning every step into a thousand phantom footfalls.
Then—movement. A second cloaked figure slipped from the shadows. A glance. Recognition passed wordlessly between them—and they disappeared deeper into the dark.
"Split up," the captain growled. "Don't let them vanish."
But the cave turned against them. Stones shifted underfoot. Light flickered uncertainly. Whispers—too many, too fast—filled the air.
The guards stumbled into a vast chasm. An open space where even their torches seemed to falter. Blackness, endless and absolute.
Gone.
The thieves had vanished.
Silence. Then, the captain's fists clenched.
"We lost them."
One guard cursed. Another struck the wall.
From the rear, a voice, trembling.
"When the Demon King returns…"
A the demon paused for a moment, his voice quivering.
"…we're good as dead."
...
Day of the Sun, Year 1881, March 3
The alley lay tucked in a forgotten corner of the city, golden daylight stretching shadows across worn cobblestones and aged brick. Quiet, secluded—until reality split open, torn by an otherworldly rift.
From the breach stepped Belial.
Golden-bronze skin glowed under the sun. Violet hair tousled in the breeze. Amethyst eyes, sharp and wary, scanned the narrow passage. The scent of gasoline and coffee lingered—strange, yet oddly familiar.
His master's words echoed in his mind.
"Never let your guard down. Not here. Not ever. This realm is chaos to our kind—shifting, treacherous. we are Banished, Belial. shunned. That shard is your only way back. Do not lose it."
Belial gripped the blade fragment tighter, the weight of it grounding him. The rift behind him sealed with a final flicker. There would be no return unless he succeeded.
He pulled a wide-brimmed hat low over his face, hiding the telltale features of his kind. One last glance at the now-ordinary wall. Then he stepped into the noise and color of the festival.
Above, a familiar black tear split the sky—reflecting the realm he'd fled. He wasn't surprised the demon realm had the same tear—every realm had it. He'd stolen from the Demon King.
There was no turning back.
I can't fail now...Too many are counting on me—and the price of failure is blood.
The Oasis Festival was in full bloom—colored, noisy, and intoxicatingly perfumed with food. Excitement mixed with a bit of trepidation as Belial's heartbeat quickened. He was aware of these human festivities, but actually participating in one was a completely different experience. He was surrounded by bright hues, delicious dishes, and loud music that excited and engulfed him.
Making his way through the crowd, he noticed the enticing scent of grilled meat in the air. It was a scent he knew well, bringing back memories of bygone days.
He followed the smell until he came upon the Yakitori stall! The scent of smoke was irresistible. In his bag, Belial rummaged around until he found two copper coins, this was the standard currency that would be accepted throughout every realm.
"Two Yakitori, please," he said with a steady voice, a playful smile dancing on his lips.
The burly attendant, all thick beard and joviality, returned the smile. "Two Yakitori right up!" he replied, deftly spearing the meat and laying it on the grill.
As he waited for his food, Belial struck up a conversation with the attendant. "How's the business been?" he asked casually, trying to hide his accent.
The man shrugged, flipping the skewers with practiced ease. "It's been alright, I guess. Not as busy as I hoped, but it's still early. Can't complain, though. At least I'm making some coins."
Belial nodded and took a mouthful of the piping, juicy Yakitori as it was handed to him. The flavor was out of this world—perfectly seasoned—and for a moment, all his cares dissolved as he continued down the busy streets, reveling in the lively atmosphere of the festival with every bite. He could hear the music and laughter, and he couldn't help but smile at the performances and admire the colorful decorations.
It was then a thought crossed his mind, 'How did food from the demon realm find its way here? Did they manage to keep the recipes or something? Still its good but not as good as the yakitori from back home'
But the thought was short-lived. A loud, boisterous group of people pushed past Belial; their frantic energy sent the crowd flying, making an uproar. Belial was caught off guard—he stumbled, his feet losing their balance. As he righted himself, rubbing his brow in confusion, a figure with long, striking green hair grasped to steady him.
"Hey, are you okay?" the stranger asked, their tone soft and concerned.
"Yeah, I'm fine, thank—" Belial began, but when he looked up, he saw that the figure was no longer there and didn't even leave a trace. He looked around, slightly dazed, but there was no sign of the mysterious person in the crowd.
Belial shrugged off his confusion and followed the crowd as it surged in his direction toward a nearby building due to the loud music and cheering. Curious, he approached until he came near a large concert venue where throngs of people waited with palpable excitement.
The ages and backgrounds were varied, yet all had one thing in common—the awaited concert. Without a second thought, Belial joined them, caught up in the vivid ambiance. The band was tuning their instruments, and the crowd grew restive with each passing moment. The lights went dark, and the band stepped onto the stage, suddenly erupting into frenzied cheers and clapping.
The music drummed away, and Belial felt a strange sense of familiarity with that energy on stage; it was reminiscent of the green-haired one he had briefly encountered, but he decided to shelve that thought for later. The music was hypnotic, and for the next few hours, Belial lost himself in rhythms and melodies that completely engulfed him.
After the concert, he took some time off and headed for a small bar not far from his location. As he approached, he ordered a glass of juice from the bartender and asked about the city he was currently in. The bartender, curious, asked Belial why he sounded foreign, telling him that he was in Silva City—a charming, fun, and perilous place.
Belial listened with wide eyes, absorbing the information about the city, its culture, and its citizens. Indeed, there was far more to this new place than what first met his eye. Though he'd have to be cautious, his heart danced with joy at the mere thought of what Silva City had in store for him.
"I guess I landed a pretty good spot." he mused, taking one last sip.
He turned and asked the bartender for directions to a local inn where he could spend the night. The bartender furnished him with the information, and Belial thanked him cordially before exiting the bar.
As he walked around the city, he soon found that he was utterly lost. His sense of direction was poor to begin with, and he meandered through the streets, completely and totally disoriented.
Exhausted and frustrated he stumbled inside the inn and made a beeline to the front desk.
"Welcome to The Elks. How may I help you?" the receptionist asked.
"A room for one night," Belial replied, pulling out five silver coins.
But before he could pay, a familiar voice cut in. "Five for one night? Really, El? You'd go so low just to rip this guy off? Come on, man, he's new here."
Belial turned to see the green-haired figure from earlier standing beside him. Under his stern gaze, the receptionist at the desk sighed.
"Fine. I'll make that three silver."
Belial thanked the stranger as he paid with three silver coins. The receptionist, in turn, handed Belial the key to his room, and Belial went upstairs gratefully, finally able to get a place to rest.
As Belial entered his room, he let out a sigh of relief as he set his things down beside his bed. The burden of weight from his bag and katana had followed him throughout the day, and he was eager to rest. The small room had minimal furniture and poor lighting, but it was sufficient.
He walked to the bed, lay down, and felt the plush mattress surround him. A wave of relief washed over his tired frame. Further adventures swirled in his mind as he closed his eyes, but now he was quite happy to be sleeping and revitalizing his energy, knowing that the next day would bring new challenges and sights in this intriguingly festive city.
...
The vast halls of the Demon King's castle lay in an eerie hush, their usual air of command subdued. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the stone floor as a lone figure strode through the towering arched doors, their steps deliberate, the silence amplifying each measured footfall.
As they neared the throne room, the sharp clatter of armored boots broke the stillness. A soldier in dark plating stepped forward, saluting rigidly.
"At ease," the figure ordered, their voice smooth, yet edged with an authority that demanded obedience.
The soldier hesitated, the weight of failure pressing against him.
"Did you capture him?" The question, though quiet, cut through the air like a blade.
A flicker of unease crossed the soldier's face. "No, Commander… We lost him in Kaze Cave. We tried everything—hounds, ether trackers—he vanished without a trace."
Silence thickened, oppressive. The Commander's gaze darkened, irritation a quiet storm beneath their composed exterior.
The soldier shifted, his voice strained. "I should have been on watch. But now… before the Demon King returns, we must—"
The Commander raised a hand, stopping him. Their voice dropped to a whisper.
"There's only one person who can find him."
A suffocating stillness fell. Even the walls seemed unwilling to name them.