"Ugh…"
The groan crawled up his throat before he could stop it.
"So, you finally woke up?"
The voice came from his left. Rough, too casual. He cracked his eyes open, lids heavy as stone. The light stabbed. He blinked until the haze cleared enough to piece together the grim shape of a man sitting on a stool, hunched like a vulture.
"Where is this?"
"The Northern Logging Site," the man said, lips pulling into a smug grin. "Outskirts of the Dark Forest. Kingdom Alliance territory. Ring any bells?"
"…Kingdom Alliance?"
The word felt sour. Kingdoms, alliances, the same vermin clumping together for safety. The old man's laugh scraped his ears, grating and joyless.
"Did you save me, old man?" Alain's voice came rougher than intended, harsher, almost more accusation than gratitude.
"Me?" The man raised an eyebrow. "Guess so. Fed you water, pushed some food down your throat. Enough so you didn't croak. But don't twist it; those women dragged you here. I only stopped you from dying on my floor. So if you're angry, blame them."
"Blame? Why would I blame anyone?"
The old man squinted at him sharply, as if Alain had said something unfit for human ears.
"…Did you rattle your brain out there? Wander under the wrong tree?"
"Hey." Alain's eyes cut through the half-light. "Your name."
"…What?"
"I asked your name. Don't tell me you don't know it yourself."
"Oh. It's Ala—" His tongue betrayed him. The first two syllables already out. Alaric. Too close to the truth. He clamped down fast. "…Alain. No surname."
"Alain." The old man tested the name like a loose tooth. "Better than 'Ala.' Still odd, but I've heard worse. Where are you from?"
The question dropped heavy. Alain's muscles flexed before his mind caught up. Silence stretched.
"Come on. You know where you were born, don't you?" The man's stare sharpened. His tone shifted, irritation swimming just beneath.
Alain's thoughts churned fast. If he tripped, the wrong answer put suspicion in play, and suspicion burned long. Kill him? Possible. But then where would Alain go afterward? Corpses didn't explain themselves.
The old man scowled harder. "Don't tell me you…" He sighed, shaking his head. "Amnesia. Damn it. Figures. And now I have to explain you to them."
Alain froze for only a second, then leaned into it. Yes. Amnesia. A mask strong enough to wear.
"Ugh…" He clasped his head, twisting his face in mock pain.
The old man jolted forward slightly. "What now?"
"My head…" His tone dipped into a strained rasp.
"Of course. Amnesia. Damn it all. This is going to be a bloody mess when they start asking questions."
Alain lowered his head, hiding his eyes behind a pained scowl, secretly watching the man. No doubt. He bought it.
"Fine. If they press you later, say this." The old man leaned close, voice hard. "'Your village burned down when the monsters invaded. You got separated from your family, wandered into the Dark Forest alone. No name for the village, nothing worth remembering, just some poor slash-and-burn pit scattered to ash.' Repeat that like it's gospel."
"…Understood." He nodded without hesitation. Inside, a jagged grin sparked. A lifeline handed to him free of charge.
But his mind still prodded, cautious. "When you said 'those women' earlier… Who are they?"
The old man's expression cut sudden, a moment's sharp anger before he wrestled it back. Clicking his tongue, he muttered, "Figures. Empty head. Dirt farmer's brat with no sense. I'll have to spell it out for you, won't I… Damn waste of time."
Alain kept his face slack, the perfect picture of ignorance. The same trick he used to lure prey during sieges. People always underestimated fools.
"Do you at least know about monsters?"
Monsters. The word struck like chain lightning. His chest pulled tight. He knew. He knew because he made them. They were his invention, his strategy, his answer to a world overflowing with humans. Fused beasts, stitched across realms. He'd shaped them from terror and locked them in the world's memory forever.
He wanted to laugh. Wanted to bare teeth and tell the old man the truth: you're looking at the one who designed your nightmares five centuries ago.
But truth only chained him.
"…Monsters?" He blinked slowly, cold and dumb. "Never heard of it."
His calm landed well. Too well. The man's face tightened, horror flooding into scorn. "Empty up there. Just empty. If I knew you were like this, I'd have left you in the dirt. Thought I was helping myself to a quiet post. Now I'm saddled with an idiot."
The insults scratched at him like dull blades, but Alain's mind stayed steady. It worked. Playing fool got him ears. People spoke too much to amnesiacs.
"Listen up," the old man barked. "Those monsters I'm talking about came from a lunatic king five hundred years ago. Twisted beasts. Nothing like your wild pigs and wolves. They tear villages into meat piles. Understand that much at least."
Alain's breath sealed inside his lungs.
Five hundred. Half a millennium.
Five centuries since his blade broke. Since the Hero stood grinning over his grave. Since Margarita's body cooled in his arms.
The old man spoke on, whining about burdens. Alain barely heard him. His own thoughts hammered too loud. Five hundred years, and still the world cursed the Demon King's name. Five hundred years of his monsters roaming free, the shadow of his design staining every human mouth.
His name erased. His work cursed. But alive. Survived. Outlived him. A twisted form of legacy.
He was staring. He forced his face calm before the suspicion bit back.
"Eat this." The old man shoved a bowl toward him.
The smell struck first. Burnt oats, sour water, fish rot. Alain gazed into the pale slurry. Porridge. Oatmeal. He lifted the spoon, chewed what passed for food, and nearly gagged.
The grit caught on his tongue. The taste grew worse with every bite. Yet across from him, the old man shoveled it in. Grimacing, cursing under breath, but eating as though this filth bought his survival.
Alain's stomach growled, echoing loud in the shuttered hut. He tightened his grip on the spoon. Pride shoved back. Hunger shoved harder. He closed his eyes and swallowed again, forcing the muck down in bitter silence.
For a strange heartbeat, only two sounds filled the rickety room: the rasp of breath and the quiet scraping of bowls as two survivors forced themselves to eat a meal neither wanted.