They always said I was born under a lucky moon. Not that I remember the night, but the elders talk about it often—a strange, silver glow over the horizon, shimmering like a cracked mirror, and then the first cry of the Ruber Clan leader's son split the silence.
Azaran.
They named me after the fire that once swallowed the southern hills—a blue flame that burned hotter than hell and left not ash, but glass. It was meant to be symbolic. It was meant to be a prophecy.
I suppose, in a way, it was.
Born with the Veil Art of [SORCERY], just like every demon. But unlike others, mine obeyed. It bent for me like a reed in the wind. I was too good. Too sharp. Too destined for someone from a lower-tier clan.
Some elders said my Soul Integrity was greater and I was more connected to the world or whatever. What do those geezers know anyway?
My affinity for fire magic was not just talent—it was hunger, a flame behind the ribs. It whispered to me, danced for me, loved me. And I loved it back. That's how it works between a demon and their Veil Art.
I was arrogant. Of course I was. Who wouldn't be?
Any demon knows arrogance is a key part of oneself. How can I be a talented demon and not be arrogant.
They told me I was special. I believed them. I watched others fumble with sparks while I conjured mighty walls of flame. I scorched the training grounds before my twelfth birthday,not like demons celebrate birthdays. When my father smiled, it was not pride—it was relief. As if my greatness was the only thing keeping our bloodline from disappearing into mediocrity.
And so I grew up the way most young demons do. Through dominance.
I bullied the weaker ones. I mocked them. Burned them. Hunted them in the snow-fields for sport. They cried, and the elders laughed. That's how demons show affection, they'd say.
But I never felt affectionate.
Then I saw him.
Running through the Red Dust Flower fields one evening, just after dusk. The air was heavy with perfume—sweet, almost cloying. My blue hair caught the wind as I moved, every strand a comet behind me. The field swayed, a sea of blood-colored blossoms stretching to the edges of the world.
And he was there.
Sitting in the center of it all. As still as stone. A dark-haired boy, pale skin like untouched snow. His back was turned. I should've ignored him. But something about the scene—it bothered me. As if he was a painting someone forgot to finish.
"You!" I called.
He didn't move.
That was unusual. Every person I have ever met answerer and noticed me the moment I began talking.
Did thus fool not know that I was the son of leader of the clan?
I frowned. "Answer me!"
He finally turned, red eyes glowing softly under the twilight. His voice, when it came, was flat. "What?"
"Why didn't you answer the first time I called?"
"I didn't hear you."
Liar.
Azaran could tell apart lies from truths quite easilym
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not."
He was. I knew it. He just didn't care.
That was the first time I met Armin.
From that moment, I decided I would outshine him. I didn't know why. He wasn't stronger than me. He wasn't faster. He wasn't anything, really. But his calm—it unsettled me. As if the chaos of the world could break around him and he wouldn't even blink.
So I trained harder. Cast stronger. Learned faster.
And he? He just watched. Quiet. Distant.
He never rose to my challenges. Never responded to my taunts. When I insulted him in front of others, he stared through me like I wasn't even there. As if I didn't matter.
I mattered.
Everyone said so.
So why didn't he?
One night, my parents called me to their chamber.
"Stay away from that boy," my father ordered. "He's an error. A mistake of blood. The clan regrets allowing him to stay. He isn't even truly related to us!"
"He's worthless," my mother spat.
I said nothing.
But their words echoed.
From then on, I kept my distance. No more trying to outdo him. No more petty jabs. I told myself I was obeying. That he wasn't worth my energy.
I slowly learned more about him.
His mother married someone outside the clan.
Her family line was already hated for not "keeping the blood pure", which was tradition of ours.
And also that he...didn't have a Veil Art.
'How can a demon not have Veil Art?'
I wondered.
But,kept my distance. Ignored him just like he ignored me.
But when I saw him in the halls, standing there alone, pale like marble—my stomach twisted.
I started whispering cruelties behind his back. Then, directly to his face. Told him to run away. To disappear. That he was nothing.
He never reacted. Not once. As if I was just a gust of wind passing by.
It made me furious.
So I challenged him to a duel.
No magic. No Veil Art. Just swords.
I thought I'd humiliate him. I thought I'd show everyone that even stripped of my sorcery, I was still more than him.
He accepted.
We met beneath the stone arches of the training ground, where elder demons once fought for clan leadership. The air was heavy with history. I held my blade like it was an extension of my fury.
He held his like it was an extension of silence.
When it ended, I was on the ground.
Blood in my mouth.
Vision gone in one eye.
The blade had cut clean through.
And he stood above me.
Not triumphant.
Not gloating.
Just...nothing.
No,there was something. Pity.
He offered me a hand.
I slapped it away.
"YOU! HOW DARE YOU PITY ME! YOU WORTHLESS DEMON! RUN AWAY AND DON'T BURDEN US ANY LONGER!!"
I shouted until my throat tore itself raw.
He didn't reply.
He just left.
But I never forgot the way his hand had lingered there. Open. Warm. Waiting.
Then came the Stampede.
The earth split. The wind screamed. Demonic beasts poured into the realm like black water from a shattered dam.
"Why is the Great Stampede happening now?!" I screamed.
My mother grabbed me, eyes wide with terror. "I don't know! The useful members of the clan are already gathering! Hurry!"
I grabbed what I could.
As I left, I looked toward the horizon.
It was burning.
Not with fire.
But with something else.
Something that felt like inevitability.
In the chaos of escape, I thought of him once more.
Would he be crushed that we left him?
Would he accept his fate?
Or,
Would he somehow survive The Stampede?
I wondered, for the first time, what it would feel like to stand beside him, instead of always behind or against him.
Would his shoulder feel warm if I leaned against it?
Would he let me?
Would he still offer his hand?
I told myself it didn't matter.
But I felt it. That small, flickering ache behind the ribs. Not fire. Not fury.
Something else.
Something dangerous.
A need for a friend,maybe?
"No"
I told myself.
And as I ran with the others, I knew we weren't running from the Stampede.
We were running from him.
From Armin.
From the boy who never bowed, never broke.
And perhaps—never belonged.
Just like me.
But I didn't belong in a different way than he.
I didn't want to belong he did.
Though,nobody wanted him to.
I wondered if I will see him again.
Maybe in hell?
What would I say to him then?
End of Chapter-010