Volume 1: Demon Child
The night was still, Twin blue moons hung like watching gods in the obsidian sky, casting a surreal glow across the land. Stars, scattered like shattered glass across velvet, they offered no warmth no guidance—only the cold indifference of distance.
A breeze whistled through the garden of flowers carrying a scent of deaths embrace.
Perched high on a cliff high above the sleeping castle stood a lone figure, wrapped in a darkness deeper than any shadow of the night could offer. The moonlight bent around him, as if the world itself could not perceive him. Only his eyes shone—violet, smoldering and held hints of an emotion of something long thought extinguished.
He dint speak for some time.
He simply watched.
Then, a murmur—soft and sharp, like the whisper of a blade pulled free of its sheath.
"A person who cant keep a promise...is worthless."
His voice, low and edged with contempt, rolled over the ridge like a quiet verdict.
"Scum, at best. And if they won't do what must be done…"
The wind stirred—cold and sudden.
"Then I will."
Far below, buried within the cursed roots of the Demon King's fortress, a figure moved—hooded, silent, and assured. The corridors were narrow, the darkness suffocating, but the figure walked as if the blackness welcomed them. The scent burnt of incense lingered in the air, thick with residue of something sweet.
They stopped. Gloved fingers brushed the stone wall, finding a faint groove invisible to any normal eye. A compartment clicked open—soundless—and revealed a box, plain and worn by time. Inside it: a single shard, dull and black, yet pulsing faintly with power. The figure slipped it beneath their cloak.
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
Footsteps—soft, fast—moved through the torchlit halls. The fortress, still slumbering in illusion, had not yet stirred.
But fate does not sleep.
A clatter. Metal on stone.
The figure froze. The sounds grew louder.
Guards.
With precise, quick steps, they reached a narrow window high above the fortress walls. A sheer drop met them—an abyss of wind and stone. Without pause, they leapt.
Air screamed past them—but then, impossibly, a dark platform flickered into being. One step. A push. They landed softly, already running, their form melting into the moon-drenched shadows.
A lone soldier noticed this fine detail,
Then a cry rang out from the battlements. "It's him! He's escaping! Sound the alarm!"
The night erupted. The fortress blazed to life—boots thundered, weapons were drawn, and orders barked through the din. But the figure was already a ghost.
They sprinted toward the cliffs, the pounding of pursuit behind them. Then, another leap—off the edge, vanishing into blackness.
The guards skidded to a halt at the cliff's edge. A fleeting silhouette darted into a cavern below.
"After them!" the snarled, a scarred veteran whose voice carried more steel than the blades they bore.
They descended, torches held high, into the gaping mouth of the cave. he air turned wet and cold, walls slick with moss and mystery. Echoes twisted around them, turning every step into a thousand phantom footfalls.
Then—movement. A second cloaked figure slipped from the shadows. A glance. Recognition passed wordlessly between them—and they disappeared deeper into the dark.
"Split up," the captain growled. "Don't let them vanish."
But the cave turned against them. Stones shifted underfoot. Light flickered uncertainly. Whispers—too many, too fast—filled the air.
The guards stumbled into a vast chasm. An open space where even their torches seemed to falter. Blackness, endless and absolute.
Gone.
The thieves had vanished.
Silence. Then, the captain's fists clenched.
"We lost them."
One guard cursed. Another struck the wall.
From the rear, a voice, trembling.
"When the Demon King returns…"
A the demon paused for a moment, his voice quivering.
"…we're good as dead."
...
Day of the Sun, Year 1881 — March 3
The alley lay tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city, where golden sunlight stretched across worn cobblestones and weathered brick walls like a lazy yawn. Dust swirled lazily in the warmth, undisturbed—until reality tore open with a soundless scream.
A rift, jagged and pulsing with chaotic energy, split the air.
From it stepped Belial.
His golden-bronze skin shimmered faintly beneath the sun, catching glints of light that danced across his form. Violet hair, tousled by the breeze, framed his sharp, angular features. Amethyst eyes, alert and assessing, scanned the narrow passage. The air smelled like gasoline and roasted coffee beans—strange scents, foreign and familiar all at once.
In his mind, his master's words rang loud.
"Do not get distracted. Never let your guard down—not here. Not ever. This realm is chaos to our kind—shifting, treacherous. We are banished, Belial. Shunned. That shard is your only way back. Do not lose it."
Belial's fingers curled tightly around the fragment of a blade—a single, jagged shard bound in cloth. It pulsed faintly in his grip, a reminder of what was at stake. Behind him, the rift shimmered once more and vanished with a whisper.
There would be no return unless he succeeded.
He adjusted the wide-brimmed hat he wore, pulling it low to conceal his inhuman features. One final glance over his shoulder showed only a plain, crumbling wall. The moment was gone. The mission had begun.
And so, Belial stepped out into the world.
Up Above, a familiar black tear split the sky—reflecting the realm he'd fled. He wasn't surprised...the demon realm had the same tear— Matter of fact, every realm had it. It Appeared Right after the "Demons" were sealed.
He emerged into the chaos of the Oasis Festival, a riot of color, scent, and sound. Bright fabrics streamed overhead, flags and lanterns flapping in the wind. Drums pounded in rhythm with the heartbeat of the city, and laughter rose in waves from every direction. The crowd pulsed with life, excitement bubbling through the air like champagne.
It was overwhelming.
He kept walking, drawn by the tantalizing scent of grilled meat. It curled into his senses, sharp with smoke, rich with fat and spice. The aroma tugged at something buried deep—memories of home, of markets bustling with laughter and firelight. His footsteps carried him to a stall where skewered meat sizzled on hot coals.
A sign above read: YAKITORI — 1 COPPER EACH.
Belial rummaged through his travel-worn satchel until his fingers found two warm copper coins. He slid them across the wooden counter with a quiet, "Two, please."
The vendor, a burly man with a thick beard and a jolly smile, gave him a nod. "Coming right up!"
As the skewers roasted, Belial made idle conversation. "Busy day?"
"Getting there," the man replied, flipping the meat with practiced ease. "Festival season always brings in a crowd. Not as wild as last year—yet—but hey, I'm making coin. That's what matters."
Belial smiled faintly and accepted the hot skewers. The first bite made his eyes flutter closed. Smoky, savory, perfectly spiced—it was nearly divine.
But something stirred inside him.
How did food from the demon realm make it here? Did someone bring the recipes across? Strange... it's good, but not as good as the ones back home.
He barely had time to dwell on the thought. A loud, raucous group barreled through the street, laughter and shouting cutting through the noise. Belial stumbled, caught in the press of bodies.
A hand caught his arm.
"Hey, you okay?" a soft, clear voice asked.
Belial blinked and met the gaze of a striking stranger with long, emerald-green hair and eyes that shimmered like dew-kissed leaves. But in the next heartbeat, they were gone—vanished into the crowd like smoke. No trace. No explanation.
He looked around, momentarily dazed.
But the crowd surged again, this time toward a grand building ahead, music booming from within its walls. Curious, Belial followed. The lights, the voices, the sheer energy—it all pulled him in.
The building was a concert hall, packed wall to wall with cheering fans. All ages. All walks of life. United in anticipation. Belial found himself swept into the current, watching as the stage lit up and a band stepped into the spotlight.
Music erupted.
Drums, bass, a haunting melody. It gripped his chest and made his soul ache. The lead singer's aura was familiar—eerily reminiscent of the green-haired stranger from before. But Belial shook the feeling. The music was too good. He let it carry him away.
For a time, he forgot the mission.
When the concert ended, the crowd spilled into the streets like champagne from a shaken bottle. Belial wandered until he found a quiet bar nestled between two crooked buildings. He slipped inside and ordered a glass of juice.
The bartender, a middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her hair, raised an eyebrow. "Not from around here, are you?"
"Is it that obvious?" Belial replied with a half-smile.
"Your accent's strange. But don't worry. Silva City's full of strangers."
Belial leaned on the counter, absorbing her words as she spoke about the city—its charm, its chaos, its blend of danger and delight. He asked for directions to an inn, and she pointed him toward a place called The Elks.
"Tell El you know Clara. He might knock off a coin or two," she added with a wink.
Belial thanked her and set off, but true to form, he got utterly lost. The winding streets made no sense. After what felt like an hour of aimless walking, he stumbled into the inn, exhausted and frustrated.
At the counter, a thin man with slick hair greeted him. "Welcome to The Elks. One room?"
Belial nodded and placed five silver coins on the counter.
But before the man could reach for them, a voice rang out behind him.
"Five silvers? Seriously, El? You're really gonna rip this guy off like that? He's new."
Belial turned, and there stood the green-haired stranger once again—this time, with a smirk and a glint in their eyes. The receptionist sighed and muttered, "Fine. Three silvers."
Belial paid, thanked the stranger, and took the key.
Later, inside his small, dimly lit room, Belial finally laid down. The soft bed cradled his aching body. He placed the blade shard beside him and exhaled deeply.
The weight of his mission hadn't vanished, but for the first time in a long while… he felt something close to peace.
Silva City is strange, vibrant... dangerous.
He closed his eyes.
But maybe—just maybe—I landed in the right place.
...
The vast halls of the demon kings castle lay in an eerie hush, their usual stillness air of command subdued. Darkness stretched unnaturally across the stone floor as a lone figure strode through the towering twin doors, their steps deliberate, the silence amplifying each a measured footfall.
As they neared the throne room, the sharp clatter of armored boots broke the stillness. A soldier in a dark plating stepped forward saluting rigidly.
"At ease." the figure ordered, their voice smooth yet edged with authority that demanded obedience.
The soldier hesitated the pressure of failure pressing against him.
"Did you capture him." he questioned, though quiet but still cut like a blade.
A flicker of un ease crossed the soldiers face. "No commander...We lost him in kaze cave. We tried everything—hounds, ether trackers—he vanished without a trace."
Silence thickened, oppressive guilt settling in. The commanders gaze darkened, raising a quiet storm beneath their composed exterior.
The soldier shifted, his voice strained "I should've been on watch. But now before the demon king returns we must—"
The commander raised a hand stopping him.
"There's only one person who can find him at this point"