Huff. Huff.
His lungs clawed for air. The trees pressed in, their branches hemming him from every side. He staggered one step, then another, his body threatening to fold with each half-hearted stride. Finally he pitched forward, eating dirt. Anger hissed through his teeth.
A failure. A blunder.
The light had shifted since he started. Spring gave way to the knife edge of evening. No village appeared, no smoke curling from chimneys, no chatter of fools tending fires. Only the same pine forest repeating like a mocking mantra.
That was when the truth bit him.
Human village. A couple hours north. Easy. That memory, though, belonged to the Demon King, not this half-starved vessel. In those days he never walked. He flew. Synthesis beasts carrying him through the sky. His own magic thrummed in his chest like a storm. Back then one to two hours meant soaring above valleys, not crawling through undergrowth.
Now? Walking? The gap in speed laughed at him.
A mistake. A ridiculous one.
"Ugh… dammit." His fists dug into the dirt.
Then memory tore him again. Humans weren't demons. They needed food. That second mistake cut deeper.
His stomach howled, cramping until he bent in half. He cursed his own folly. Born of magic, he had drifted above hunger for centuries. Eating had become theater, nostalgia at best, something done when drunk on victory or sentiment. Mortals feasted to live. He forgot that. And now his body demanded payment.
"Grraah…!"
He clutched his abdomen, the sound escaping like a wounded animal. The growl was relentless, gnawing from the inside. How long since resurrection? Hours? Days? His answer was thin. He had sipped water, nothing more. No fuel. His body wavered at its limits.
"Damn you all."
He rolled against the dirt, filth streaking across his skin. A Demon King at the mercy of an empty stomach. The humiliation scalded his pride. Was this irony? Death not by blade, not by Hero, but by hunger in a nameless forest.
He pictured it. Humans crowing their victory when the tale spread. The mighty Demon King, starved like a beggar. Demons spitting on his memory, roaring his disgrace. His lips trembled with fury.
This was not his end.
He tried forcing his body up, bellowing like he could convince his muscles. "UAAAH—" His strength failed. Dirt embraced him again.
No more strength. No more pride. Rage boiled against the dark curtain that pressed down on his mind. Was this how? Not by blade nor fire, but collapsing here, denied vengeance for Margarita, denied justice for his slaughtered army.
"Uaaaaah!" His scream tore his throat raw. Pointless. He collapsed, strength abandoned. Breath shallow, consciousness fraying into wisps.
In the fading blur, memories shoved their way in. Faces of soldiers who had trusted him. Generals who followed him into the grave. Margarita's smile turned silent forever. He whispered a begging prayer to the dead, words meant for ears that would never hear.
Then—rustle.
Footsteps.
His eyes darted. Maybe a beast lured to his scent, drawn to finish the meal. He forced his neck to turn.
Not a wolf. A figure. A girl. Red hair framed in dusk, white and black cloth sharp against the forest.
"…Save…" His voice broke into nothing but a rasping choke, a scream disguised as a plea.
Her face blurred. Vision shattered and dimmed. He needed to speak but no voice would come. His mind screamed in denial. Not like this. Not now. Anyone. Anything.
Then the crack. Something breaking inside, a sound felt rather than heard.
His consciousness folded into black.
"Seria!"
Another voice cut the stillness. A blonde woman emerged from the trees, steel in her tone. The red-haired girl stiffened, her eyes jolting toward the sound.
"I told you not to stray during an operation," the blonde snapped, her glare cutting into the girl like a blade.
"I… I'm sorry, Lady Karen!" The younger one rushed the apology.
Karen exhaled like she carried the weight of cleaning up another mess. Her eyes drifted to the boy collapsed at Seria's feet.
"And that? Who is he?"
"Oh! The scream we heard earlier—it was him!" Seria bent, rolling him slightly. The rags clinging to his frame slipped away, exposing his bare body.
Karen scowled, whipping her head aside with disgust. "Put his clothes back on. Immediately."
"I-I'm sorry!" Seria scrambled to cover him up again, cheeks burning with shame. Only after that effort did Karen step closer, eyes narrowing as she examined.
Her fingers brushed across his temple, down to his chest. Pulse. Breathing thin but present. "Not dead. Exhaustion. Hasn't eaten in days by the look of it."
Relief eased across Seria's face. She muttered thank you beneath her breath and shifted nervously. Karen caught the softness in her eyes and, in response, clicked her tongue.
The girl's senses were sharp, no denying it. To have heard a scream at this distance, sharper even than many White Knights. Traces of beast heritage, perhaps, leaking into her bloodline. Either way, talent rare enough that the Order threw every title at her: most promising talent in years, their prodigy.
Still, prodigy or not, discipline cracked at the edges. Too eager to act, too willing to burn ahead without thought to chain or formation. Knights fought as one. Lone charges ended quickly in massacres. It was strength wasted without restraint.
Karen catalogued her flaws with cold precision. Impulse. Lack of sense. A child who thought nothing of stripping a stranger in public with clumsy generosity. Rumors were she grew up tucked away in the mountains with her father, far from courts, far from the man-woman rules that pace knightly halls. Explains the ignorance. Explains the embarrassment Karen kept swallowing.
Her sigh crept out before she stifled it. Still holding the boy's arm, Seria heaved his dead weight onto her back.
Two months Karen had been tasked with shaping her. Two months hammering manners and control into that thick skull. Yet still this. Still mistakes with blades hiding in them. She clenched down on her exasperation, glaring at her student's back. If correcting took repetition, then repetition would break her. No matter how many times it took.
Seria shivered once, carrying him, like something unseen crawled across her skin. She looked back but saw nothing but black trees clawing at the sky.
"Move," Karen ordered, already striding ahead.
"Yes, Lady Karen!" The reply was hurried but steady. Red hair flashed between trunks as she followed. The unconscious boy, black hair streaked, eyes closed, bounced lightly against her shoulders.
The forest swallowed them.
None of them knew. The boy. The stubborn knight. The reckless prodigy.
Fates already snapped their jaws shut around this meeting.