Volume 1: Demon Child
Deep within the most hidden recesses of the Demon King's fortress, where only whispers dared to tread, a hooded figure moved with silent confidence. The passage was narrow, the darkness absolute, yet they walked with practiced ease, as if they had done so a hundred times before.
The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, a relic of royal rituals long past. Beyond the stillness, the occasional crackling of torches licked at the silence. The figure's gloved hands moved swiftly, pressing into a barely perceptible groove in the cold stone wall. A compartment slid open without a sound. Inside, among brittle scrolls and relics steeped in ancient malice, sat a small, unassuming box. Without hesitation, the figure retrieved it and slipped it beneath their cloak.
The flickering flames cast shifting, jagged shadows on the walls as the figure pulled their hood deeper and turned away. Moving swiftly, they retraced their steps through the labyrinthine corridors, their breath steady, their heartbeat calm. But as they neared the grand hall, the silence shattered.
A distant clatter of armored footsteps.
The figure stilled, their ears sharpening. The sound grew closer—guards. There was no time to waste. They quickened their pace, each step unnaturally silent upon the cold stone. Their path led them to a narrow window, high above the fortress walls, overlooking the deep ravine below.
Without hesitation, they leapt.
The wind roared against them as they plummeted—but then, as if conjured from the abyss itself, a Dark platform materialized beneath their feet. A single step, a push off, and they landed lightly upon the ground below, barely stirring the dust.
Above, a lone sentry on the battlements caught sight of the impossible feat. His breath hitched in horror, and then he roared into the night:
"It's him! He's escaping! Sound the alarm!"
Chaos erupted. The fortress came alive with movement—torches flared, boots thundered against stone, steel rang as weapons were drawn. The hooded figure was already running, slipping through the moonlit landscape toward the cliffs. The guards pursued with desperate speed.
Reaching the precipice, the figure did not hesitate. They leapt once more, vanishing into the yawning blackness below.
The guards reached the edge just in time to see a fleeting silhouette dart into a cavern at the cliff's base. The captain, a grizzled warrior with scars from battles long past, didn't wait. "After them!" he barked, leading the descent down a treacherous path.
The cave swallowed them whole. The air turned damp, the walls slick with moisture. The deeper they ventured, the more the darkness conspired against them—twisting echoes, warping the flickering torchlight into writhing shadows.
Then, ahead in the gloom, movement. Another cloaked figure emerged from the shadows. A silent exchange—a flicker of understanding—and they vanished deeper into the labyrinth.
"Split up!" the captain ordered, his voice a harsh whisper. "Don't let them escape!"
But the cave fought them. Loose stones sent men tumbling. Shadows twisted and danced, playing tricks on their vision. Every footfall became a thousand, bouncing off the walls, confusing their senses.
Still, the hooded figures moved with inhuman precision, slipping through tight spaces as if the labyrinth were an extension of their own bodies.
The guards pressed on, desperation creeping into their breath.
Then suddenly—the tunnel opened into a vast chasm, an endless abyss of blackness.
The guards skidded to a halt, torches held high, revealing only jagged rock and empty space.
Gone.
The hooded figures had vanished.
Silence reigned, save for the captain's clenched breathing. His jaw tightened, his fists trembling. "We lost them."
One of the men cursed and struck the wall in frustration.
Then, from the back, a guard's voice wavered, barely a whisper.
"When the Demon King returns… we are as good as dead."
...
Day of the Sun, Year 1881, March 3
The alleyway fell within a forgotten nook of the city, bathed in the golden light of day. The sun cast long shadows against the uneven cobblestones, drawing out the cracks and crevices in the old brick walls. It was a secluded place, far from the prying eyes of any busy street beyond, and an otherworldly rift now marred this otherwise unassuming wall.
It was as if reality itself had been torn open, revealing a fathomless well of swirling nether beyond. From this rift emerged Belial, his golden bronze skin standing in stark contrast to the mundane surroundings.
With the warmth of the sun upon his bronze skin, Belial's amethyst hawk-like eyes, sharp and warm, cut across the alley, his messy violet hair flowing in the subtle wind.
Just beyond came the sounds of the city, a cacophony of lives and commerce muted by narrow walls. The air was heavy with the smell of gas mixed with the scent of newly made coffee - a classic city aroma that was both unfamiliar and recognizable.
The warning his master had given him before he stepped through the rift still echoed within Belial's mind.
"Never let your guard down, not even for a second," his master had counseled in a voice laced with ancient wisdom.
"As demons, we are Banished from this realm, we are cursed never to escape..The world you're entering is one of uncertainty and ever-changing possibilities. Be vigilant, Belial, and the odds might just tip in your favor."
His master's words weighed heavily on Belial's heart. This would be no ordinary mission but one in a realm where the laws of demons held absolutely no sway, where even the fabric of reality might shift beneath his feet. Yet a sense of duty and a thirst for answers drove him onward, despite the dangers that lay ahead.
"That is your exit ticket. Do. Not. Lose. It," his master had said, pointing to the small sword shard he now held tightly in his hand.
He cast a last, backward glance at the now-sealed rift, took a deep breath, and resettled the wide-brimmed hat he had pulled from his cloak.
The hat cast a shadow over his face, concealing his features and making him just another face in this unfamiliar world of humans. With determined steps, he left the alleyway and joined the vibrant chaos of the festival grounds beyond.
He glanced up at the sky ahead, his gaze drawn to a rupture that resembled the one created by the shard. The sight mildly surprised him, though not entirely, for he knew that the demon realm displayed a similar tear in its sky.
I've come too far to turn back now, i stole from the demon king...a sin only repaid by blood—I can't afford to fail the people counting on me!
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.