Demon Lord Varkhul had always been fascinated by Aetheria—a world that had somehow endured not one, but two Demon Lords. Yet of all its lands, it was Aeruna that drew him in the most. Its blend of countless Asian cultures, its deep wells of magic, its beauty and strangeness—it reminded him a lot of the place he had lived before becoming a Demon Lord. Enough so that he had personally requested King Domine to send him here. And now that he stood upon its soil, what he was seeing interested him even more.
He swept a hand through his crimson hair, brushing it back as his pitch-black eyes fixed on the trembling blind woman before him. She clutched her katana to her chest like a lifeline. His stare drifted over her frame.
*Her body is trained. Strong. But the will… the will is lacking,* he thought, noting the way her stance shook. His gaze shifted to the three untouched katana at her hip. *Not a dual wielder… backups? Or trophies? Hm.*
Then his eyes moved past her to the twenty defenders huddled behind her—soldiers shaking so hard their armor rattled. Their fear rolled off them in waves, as palpable as heat. None dared to move.
"If you all are just going to stand there," Varkhul said, lifting his right hand. From the center of his chestplate—sleek, formfitting armor that encased everything but his head—a thin red flame crawled upward. It slid along his shoulder, down his raised arm, and coiled into his palm. By the time it reached his fingertips, the fire hardened, taking shape—lengthening, sharpening, solidifying into a katana forged entirely from living crimson flame.
"I don't mind," he finished, letting the fiery blade hang low at his side, its tip nearly kissing the ground. "I like getting easy kills."
He resumed his slow, deliberate walk toward them.
Yuna's breath hitched. She turned toward the soldiers, voice trembling so hard the words almost broke apart. "E-everyone! Please ge-get out of here! Run away!"
All twenty heads snapped toward her.
"Wh-what are you saying, Lady Yuna? W-we can't leave you here," one soldier stammered, though his fear was obvious—his boots scraping backward even as he protested.
Yuna shook her head rapidly. "Pl-please… l-listen to me. G-get out of here. I-it's not safe. And if you w-won't listen to me—" she swallowed hard, trying to force her voice steady "—then as a me-member of The Order… I order you to leave."
Her tone wavered, but the title itself hit them like a command from the heavens. Orders from a member of The Order might as well have come from the Emperor.
They had no choice but to obey.
"O-okay, Lady Yuna… a-as you say," the lead soldier managed. And despite their earlier refusal, fear surged stronger than loyalty—the entire group began to retreat at once, stumbling over themselves as they fled, letting instinct drag them away from the Demon Lord's suffocating presence.
"That was brave," Varkhul remarked—now standing directly behind her, close enough that his shadow brushed the back of her heels. Only then did he realize something surprising: she was tall. Nearly eye-level with him—six feet, perhaps even a touch more. "Not that it would have changed your deaths whether you fought together or not," he continued. "But giving them a chance at life… that makes sense as well."
It was his version of a compliment.
Yuna didn't turn toward him. It wouldn't have mattered—she was blind—but even so, she stood frozen, trembling, her grip tight on her sheathed katana. Yet the fear on her face wasn't directed at him. She was focusing, every muscle taut with intent. She listened. The retreating footsteps of the soldiers. The clatter of their armor growing fainter. She listened for hesitation, for anyone turning back. Then she expanded her attention outward—houses, windows, doorways—searching for the faintest sign of hidden civilians.
She had to make sure no one else was still here.
"Ignoring me, are you?" Varkhul sighed, shaking his head. He lifted his flaming katana, about to take her head in a clean, merciful stroke—
Yuna stopped listening.
And the air snapped.
Varkhul's instincts screamed. He leapt back instantly—far back—boots skidding across broken stone as he landed in a wide stance, panting, eyes wide. His gaze locked on the woman who had been trembling only seconds prior.
Now she stood perfectly straight. Spine aligned. Shoulders level. Still facing away from him.
*What… was that?* Varkhul's mind clawed for an answer. *The shift—instant. Like the number one turning into a million in a single blink. What is happening?*
She exhaled slowly. Not in fear—no tremble, no quiver—but with unmistakable irritation.
"Do you know how annoying it is to do this?" she asked, her voice sharp, clean, and utterly devoid of her earlier panic. "It always hurts my eyes because I keep them covered for so long."
She calmly sheathed the katana in her hand.
Then she turned toward him. One hand rose to her blindfold. Her fingers hooked beneath the black cloth, and she lifted it upward.
Beneath it, Varkhul saw them—eyes of brilliant gold staring directly into him. Eyes that were very much not blind.
"You don't look as tough as I imagined you to be," she said flatly.
Her other hand dropped to the lowest katana on her right hip.
"But anyway… you're not going to be fighting Yuna Hintan, the Blind Swordswoman of The Order."
She gripped the katana steady, confident, practiced, and drew it free. Runes ignited across the blade the moment it cleared the scabbard, bright lines of light racing along the steel.
"No," she said, voice ringing with cold certainty, "you're going to fight me properly, as—"
She leveled the blade at him.
"Yahito Shinara, The Unending Blade."