Dren the Unyielding stood at the edge of a scorched village, heavy axe slung across his back. Charred corpses lay where cottages once stood, smoke curling up into a grim dusk. The air stank of sulfur and rot.
Another false alarm.
The last three settlements had all claimed sightings of demonic activity. Shadows in the woods. Cattle mutilated. Villagers disappearing. Dren had seen such panic before—thirty years ago, during the age of the last Demon Lord.
But this… this felt different.
"Tracks go northeast," muttered a scout behind him.
Dren didn't respond immediately. His eyes lingered on a symbol scrawled in ash near the well. A crude circle with three jagged slashes through it.
A mark only he—and the other Six—should recognize.
Cedric's crest.
Burned into the ground as if left in defiance.
He clenched his jaw. "We burned his body. Saw it with our own eyes. This is someone playing a dangerous game."
The scout shifted. "Should we notify the High Priestess?"
"No," Dren growled. "Not yet. Let the others remain calm. Let them think the system will choose a new demon soon."
If this is a trick, he thought, I'll find the bastard who dares wear Cedric's shadow.
Still, doubt itched at the edge of his mind.
In life, Cedric had always been unpredictable—clever, calculating, dangerous even before he wore a title. They had once called him the "Blade of Judgment" for his ruthless efficiency.
And now his sigil smoldered in ash.
Dren turned away. "Pack up. We move east by sunrise."
---
Somewhere far from the burned village…
Within the gleaming spires of the capital, a man sat alone in a cathedral chamber lit by violet glass. Gold and crimson banners fluttered behind him. His armor, untouched by battle, gleamed like a polished mirror. A sword rested across his lap, its edge humming with divine enchantment.
Roland, First of the Seven, closed his eyes.
A ripple pulsed through the air—faint, like a heartbeat heard through a coffin lid.
"So…" he murmured, lips barely moving. "The system has awakened early."
He didn't rise. Didn't panic. Only reached toward a hidden drawer beneath his seat and retrieved an old sigil: black iron etched with a name he'd long since buried.
Cedric.
He turned it slowly in his hand, listening to the distant echoes only he could hear.
"Come then," Roland whispered. "Let's see if a ghost remembers how to bleed."