Fire, blood, burning homes—and a pair of red eyes staring straight at me from within the chaos.
I couldn't comprehend what was happening.
"What happened here?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
My feet felt nailed to the ground. As I observed the devastation around me, I couldn't move. The fire roared like a beast, devouring everything in its path. Even from a distance, I could feel its heat scorching my skin. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of burning wood.
I stood at the far end of the village's main road, yet I could make out what was happening at the other end through the smoke.
Bodies lay scattered across the ground, dogs gnawing on their limbs. Cries of pain and terrified screams of women rang out clearly.
And at the heart of it all, at the head of the street… was a figure.
A man—if one could call him that.
Two horns protruded from his skull, and his crimson eyes glowed brightly, visible even through the smoke.
In his hand, a spear was pointed directly at the chest of the man lying on the ground—Hans.
Those red eyes slowly turned toward me, their blade-like glare piercing through my soul.
Though the air was hot, cold sweat trickled down my spine.
This creature… it was a demon.
And all of this—
It began with a dream earlier that morning.
I had been lying in my bed, arms tucked beneath the blanket, listening to my father tell me a story. A story he used to tell me five or six years ago.
I don't know if it was a dream or a buried memory, but it felt too vivid to be anything but real.
"A long, long time ago, when humans didn't yet understand who they truly were, a brilliant star fell from the sky one dark night. As if to display its beauty and power, it split into five radiant colors—red, green, white, yellow, and blue—before it hit the earth. Each one unique. Each one beautiful."
"The stones landed in different parts of the world, where they remained buried in the soil for thousands—millions—of years. But then, around those stones, strange creatures began to appear. They were terrifying, resembling wild beasts, but different. These monsters possessed powers. Some could breathe fire, others resembled moving trees."
"But in such a cruel world, humans didn't stay powerless for long. They too developed special abilities, something they called 'Magic.'"
My father always told stories like this, with passion, as though he were reliving the tale himself.
"Magic?"
Back then, my young mind was easily captivated by anything fantastical.
Just like any child hearing tales of dragons and heroes for the first time.
"Yes, magic," my father replied. "Magic could do many things. Those who learned to control it were called 'mages.' One such mage eventually united all people and founded a mighty kingdom."
"Wow! Mages must've been so powerful, right?" I said, unable to hide my amazement.
"Indeed. Not only powerful—but wise."
Just then, the door creaked open, and my mother walked into the room.
She was always gentle, always smiling, trying to find light even in the darkest of times.
But for all her kindness, she was strict about my upbringing.
"Scaring him again instead of telling a proper bedtime story, are we?" she asked with a disapproving smile.
As I said, she tried to shield me from anything that might negatively influence my mind or character.
"I'm just telling him a story," my father protested playfully.
"Yeah! Dad's telling me about monsters and mages!" I chimed in.
Back then, I didn't understand the difference between what should or shouldn't be said aloud. I didn't know how to keep secrets yet.
"You're frightening a four-year-old with talk of monsters? Don't you think he'll start having nightmares?"
"He'll be fine. My son is fearless, right?"
"I'm not scared of anything!" I shouted, puffing out my chest.
"Well, that's enough for tonight. Children should be asleep by now," my mother said gently.
"Alright," my father said, not wanting to upset her. "We'll finish the story tomorrow. Good night, Attu. Sweet dreams."
That strange tale became one of many bedtime stories I heard from him.
And not long after those days… my father left us.
I woke up in my room that morning, still haunted by the dream.
I didn't want to believe it had just been a dream. The story my father told me, my mother's words—everything felt so real, like a memory drawn from deep within me.
[What did this dream mean?]
I sat on my bed, trying to decipher the message behind it. The thoughts in my mind refused to let me rise.
And then I realized something. In the dream… I never saw my father's face.
[Why couldn't I see it? What did he even look like?]
Knowing I wouldn't find answers just sitting there, I finally stood up.
[Time to get moving.]
I dressed and reached for the one item that had become part of me—my blindfold. It lay on the desk beside my bed, and I tied it securely over my eyes.
From a distance, I might look like just another boy.
But when people get close enough to see my eyes… that changes.
My eyes are red.
Bright crimson. The kind that unsettles people.
As a child, I didn't wear the blindfold.
I remember the first time I went outside to play with the other children.
They were amazed by my eyes.
And at first… I liked it.
Who wouldn't? To stand out from the rest—it felt special.
But after a while, the parents in the village began warning their children to stay away from me.
The reason? My strange, fearsome red eyes.
The question naturally came to me: Why?
Eventually, I learned the truth—eyes like mine usually belong to demons or vampires.
If I said that didn't hurt me, I'd be lying.
It crushed me.
And after that, not a single child in the village wanted to play with me again.
Despite everything, my mother never allowed me to wallow in self-pity or hate myself.
She told me to wear a blindfold—not because my eyes were shameful, but so others wouldn't fear them.
It brought me some peace.
Yet, even with the blindfold, the village children still didn't want to play with me.
Eventually, I had no choice but to spend most of my time at home with my mother.
She became my closest friend and my most trusted confidante.
Now, you might be wondering—if I always wore a blindfold, how did I see anything?
Truth be told, I don't know either. Even with my eyes covered, I could see my surroundings perfectly—sometimes even better than in daylight.
And that wasn't the only strange thing about me.
I looked different from both my parents.
For example, my white hair.
According to them, no one in either of our family lines had ever been born with white hair.
I stood up, pulled on my white shirt, rolled up the sleeves to my forearms, and slipped into a brown vest and matching shorts before stepping out of my room.
As soon as I left, the first thing I noticed was the sweet aroma of breakfast wafting from the kitchen.
My mother was unmatched when it came to cooking.
I walked toward the kitchen door, drawn by the smell. As always, she'd gotten up early to prepare something delicious for me.
"Good morning, Mom!"
This was my mother—Aurora. She was thirty-two years old.
She'd met my father at the age of nineteen, fallen in love, and married him.
I was born when she turned twenty.
Honestly, they never told me the story of how they met or fell in love. It was something they always kept secret.
Now, it's just the two of us—my mother and me—living on the edge of the village.
Why just the two of us?
Because my father left us six years ago.
To be honest, I hate remembering it.
Sometimes, I wonder if I was the reason he left.
"Good morning to you too! Come sit down," she said, placing a bowl of food on the table with her usual warm smile.
"You seem a little off today. What's wrong?"
She must've noticed the sadness on my face.
"Everything's fine. I just had a bad dream… about Dad."
Every time I mention something negative about him, she always defends him.
Even though he left us, she still loves him—and believes he'll come back one day.
I've told her countless times that he's not coming back, but she always says the same thing:
"He just had something important to take care of. He'll come back once he's done."
Honestly… I've given up hope.
I no longer believe in that.
"He was in your dream again, wasn't he?" she said.
"How many times do I have to tell you? Your father didn't abandon us. He just left for work."
"If that's true, then why hasn't he come back in six years? You don't even know if he's alive!"
Those same old words.
Words I'd heard a thousand times before.
And hearing them again irritated me so much that I raised my voice without thinking.
I shouldn't have done that.
My mother began to cry.
I'd made her cry—again.
She still held on to hope, and here I was, trying to crush it.
[I messed up. I have to apologize.]
"You're right. I don't know what he's doing or where he is right now.
But I believe in him. I believe he'll come back."
Her unwavering faith in my father always stunned me.
And the fact that I, her son, had shattered that faith—made her cry—made me feel like the worst child imaginable.
[I have to apologize. Now.]
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I ruined your morning."
"I'm not upset with you. I understand how hard it is without your father.
That's why I'm not mad."
I gently wiped the tears from her cheeks.
Her kindness and forgiveness always amazed me.
No matter how many mistakes I made, she always forgave me.
"I wanted to give you something for your birthday."
Oh… right.
It was my birthday today.
We lived a modest life.
Neither of my parents came from wealth or left behind a grand inheritance.
So hearing her say she had a gift for me was a surprise.
"Really? What is it?"
She slowly removed the pendant from around her neck and fastened it around mine.
[Wait… why is she giving me a woman's pendant?]
"Mom, isn't this a woman's accessory?"
"Take a closer look," she said.
I looked at it.
It was a dark ring with a diamond-shaped carving in the center.
Clearly something designed for a man.
[Strange… why was Mom wearing a man's pendant all this time?]
"Where did you get this?"
"Your father gave it to me on my birthday. And now… I'm giving it to you."
"Why a man's pendant?"
"He forgot it was my birthday that day. He didn't have a proper gift, so he gave me this.
The next day, he bought me a bracelet."
She held up the one on her wrist with a smile.
She chuckled as she told me the silly little story.
[Seeing that smile on her face… is such a comfort.]
"Mom, how did you and Dad meet anyway?"
"Emmm… oh, right. We better eat before the food gets cold."
She dodged the question again—like always.
To this day, she's never answered it.
[Why won't she tell me how they met? Could there be some kind of secret?]
"Mom, the food's delicious—as always."
"Thank you. Since it's your birthday, I'll cook you something really special today.
But we're out of firewood. Could you go fetch some?"
"Sure thing!"
My wonderful mother must be planning something extra tasty for today.
Her food is always great, but today it might be even better.
[I should go right away. I'll take the axe and head to the dried trees near the river.]
Excited and full from breakfast, I rushed out the door.
Our house was on the edge of the village, facing away from the river.
If you walked further past it, the path led straight into the forest.
As I was walking down the road, I noticed the village elder—his name was Hans.
Hans was a man in his early thirties, still unmarried, yet he led the village.
He once trained at a swordsmanship academy but had to leave before graduating after the sudden death of his father.
Returning to the village, he took up his father's role.
He always carried two swords with him.
He said he had trained in dual-blade combat at the academy.
From time to time, he even taught me the basics—how to hold a sword, how to land a clean strike.
Out of everyone in the village, Hans was the only person who treated me like a little brother.
That's why I respected him.
"Hey there, little one. Where are you off to with that axe that's bigger than you?"
Same as always—he was teasing me.
But Hans wasn't the kind of person who made fun of others just to hurt them.
It was his way of showing we were close.
"It's not that big. It's just right for me. And anyway, I'm not little anymore—I turned twelve today!"
"Oh, so you're a man now, huh?" he smirked.
"You've got a long way to go before you're a real man.
When you can take responsibility for yourself—and protect others—that's when you'll be a man.
Heh, you little warrior."
He had a point.
A man should be able to protect his family and the ones he loves—stand by them in hard times.
There was truth in his words.
"It's my birthday today."
"Well, would you look at that. When you first got here, you didn't even know who you were.
And now look at you—growing into a fine young man."
Being called that… it made me happy in a strange way.
"I'd better go chop some wood now."
As I walked past Hans, he shouted something behind me.
To be honest, I didn't quite hear what he said at first, so I just nodded and waved.
"Be careful—don't go too close to the river!"
Eventually, I reached the forest.
Now I just had to gather enough firewood and bring it back home.
I started chopping.
To make it easier to carry, I began stacking the logs in piles.
After a while, I had gathered a lot of wood and looked at my growing stack.
[I should chop just a little more.]
I continued working.
Just as I was nearly finished, a tree branch scraped against my arm, leaving a cut.
Blood began trickling down from the wound.
[What should I do about this blood?] I thought.
Then I remembered—the river wasn't far from here.
Wanting to wash it off, I made my way toward the riverbank.
There, along the water's edge, lay pieces of carts, wheels, and broken planks—debris likely carried in by the recent floodwaters.
As I approached the water, I untied the cloth around my eyes and started rinsing my hand.
Since I'd worked up a sweat chopping trees, I also splashed water on my face to cool off.
In that moment, I caught my reflection in the river.
Gazing into my own red eyes, I fell into a brief daze.
Then I shook myself free—[No point in dwelling on it.]—and looked up.
Just then, something shimmered in the water.
It glinted faintly—something shining beneath the surface.
Curious about what it was, I reached into the water and pulled it out.
To my surprise, it was a red crystal—like a gemstone, almost like a ruby or diamond.
When I saw it, I immediately knew it had to be valuable, and I felt overjoyed.
After all, you don't find something this precious lying under your feet every day.
As I stared at the crystal, a thought struck me:
[Now maybe my mother doesn't have to struggle anymore.]
Just one of these crystals had to be worth a lot.
While I was still marveling, another thought crossed my mind:
[If a crystal like this was lying in the river, maybe there are more nearby.]
I began to search around carefully.
After about half an hour of searching the water, I managed to find five more colorful crystals.
With both hands full, I imagined the joy on my mother's face when I brought them home—my heart swelled with excitement.
But just as I was about to head back, I heard a strange sound.
Crack
"Did something happen to the crystals?" I murmured and looked more closely.
That's when I saw it—tiny cracks had begun to appear across their smooth surfaces, slowly spreading wider.
Panicked, I brought them closer to examine them.
And then—
In the blink of an eye, the crystals shattered into dust, and that dust rushed straight into my eyes.
Though they were as fine as powder, when they entered my eyes, the pain was excruciating.
I couldn't bear it and began to rub my eyes, screaming in agony.
"Aaaaah!"
The riverbank was far from the village and already noisy with rushing water,
so there was no way anyone could hear me.
The roar of the current easily drowned out even the loudest of voices.
No one was coming to help me—and I could do nothing myself.
All I could do was keep rubbing my eyes, hoping the pain would pass.
But rubbing them only made it worse.
As I pressed my palms to my eyes, I noticed something else—
blood was trickling from them.
It wasn't gushing, but enough that I could feel it clearly.
I pulled my hands away, intending to run home and show my mother.
But when I looked around, everything I saw was tinted red.
The blood had blurred my vision, forcing the whole world to appear crimson.
I gathered what little strength I had left and tried to make my way home.
I took only a few steps before my body gave out completely.
The red before my eyes began to fade, slowly turning to black.
That's when I realized—I was losing consciousness.
It felt like life was slipping away from me.
My body was growing lighter, as if it were about to drift away…
But the pain in my eyes held me down,
as if it were anchoring my spirit to my body—keeping me from letting go.
It felt like the two forces were battling: the pain fighting to keep me conscious,
and the weakness dragging me into sleep.
In the end, the weakness won.
I blacked out.
I don't know how much time passed,
but eventually I began to wake up again.
I tried to open my eyes, but the pain resisted.
Still, I forced them open.
I found myself in my room, wrapped in my blanket.
I struggled to sit up in bed.
Just then, my mother entered the room.
I had woken up in my own bed.
The pain was still there, but bearable.
As I sat up, my mother walked in—clearly shaken and worried.
"Are you alright? You scared me! What happened?"
"I'm fine. Nothing happened to me," I said, trying to calm her down.
As I spoke, a question came to mind.
"How did I get back here?"
She began to explain everything.
"Hans brought you.
You were gone for a long time, so I went to ask him if he'd seen you.
He said you'd gone toward the river.
We went looking for you together and found you unconscious.
Hans carried you all the way back.
He said he'll come check on you tomorrow.
What happened out there?"
After she asked, I told her everything.
She was deeply worried.
"Are you feeling alright now? Can you still see?
We'll go see the healer tomorrow..."
Her mention of the healer made me want to get better immediately—desperately.
I knew exactly who the "healer" was.
That woman wasn't a healer. She was a full-blown witch.
Why do I say that?
Well, one winter I had a cold and went to her.
She invited us in and gave me tea.
At first, I thought the cold was worse than the tea.
After drinking it, though, I wasn't so sure.
She gave me some "healing herbs," praising their power,
saying I'd be fine and wouldn't cough anymore.
She was right.
After her herbs, I didn't cough, or even sneeze—
because I spent the next full day glued to the toilet with the worst stomach pain of my life.
So yes, her herbs worked—if your definition of healing means "suffering worse."
When my mom mentioned her again, all I could imagine
was the witch standing over a bubbling pot, handing me a ladle of poison herbs.
[I'd rather stay sick than drink her potions.
I need to convince Mom I'm already better.]
"I'm fine. Really. I'm totally okay. I just need a bit of sleep and I'll be good.
No need to visit the healer. Don't bother her for nothing!"
"Maybe I should call her—just in case…"
[No, no, no. Anyone but the witch. Please, no!]
"I'm telling you—I'm fine!"
"…Alright, if you say so."
[Finally! That was close. Thank the stars.
Now I just need to know how long I was out.]
"By the way… what time is it now?"
"It's already night."
[It's already night? That can't be. I couldn't believe I'd been unconscious for that long.]
"If you need anything, just call me," my mother said gently as she stepped out of the room.
After she left, I decided to try and get some sleep.
A long while passed as I lay in bed, when suddenly, I began to hear strange, unsettling sounds.
At first, I assumed it was just a quarrel in someone's house—nothing unusual for a village.
Trying to ignore it, I covered my ears with my pillow.
But even with my ears covered, the noises didn't stop.
In fact, they grew louder and louder, more numerous with every passing moment.
Unable to endure the eerie sounds any longer, I had no choice but to get up and check what was going on.
I stepped outside, heading toward the village to see what was happening.
What I saw was… hell.
The village was in flames.
Women and children screamed in terror and agony.
Young men were trying desperately to fight off some massive, terrifying beasts—dogs, or rather monsters that looked like dogs.
The most horrifying thing?
Corpses.
People's bodies were lying everywhere—torn apart, being devoured by those beasts.
Some were barely recognizable, mangled beyond belief.
I stood frozen in place, paralyzed by the horror of what I was witnessing.
Daytime.
Three hours had passed since Attu had met with Hans. Suddenly, a young man came running toward him.
"Captain Hans!"
The boy was panting, struggling to speak through his gasps for air.
"What happened? Calm down and take deep breaths first."
"A demon attacked the neighboring village!"
"Damn it. Warn the villagers—no one is to go outside tonight. And gather as many men as you can."
The boy nodded and dashed off toward the village. Just as Hans was about to leave as well, Attu's mother, Aurora, approached him.
"Hello, Aurora."
"Hello. Hans, have you seen Attu? He's been gone for a long time."
"He went to collect firewood by the river this morning. He's not back yet? Want me to help look for him?"
"Yes, please. That would be a relief."
Hans and Aurora set off toward the river together. Hans couldn't stop thinking about the demon attack in the neighboring village. He decided he should tell Aurora too.
"Aurora, please don't go outside tonight unless absolutely necessary. A demon crossed the border and attacked a nearby village."
"But… demons aren't supposed to be able to cross the border. How is that possible?"
"I don't know the details. Sometimes one or two slip through. I don't know if it's coming our way, but what I do know is—we need to prepare ourselves, for safety."
Demons don't attack during the day. That gives us time, Hans thought.
After walking for a while, they arrived by the riverbank—only to see Attu lying motionless on the ground. Aurora gasped and screamed in terror, bursting into tears as she ran toward her son.
"My baby!"
Hans, rushing to his side, immediately thought, A wild animal must have attacked him.
But looking around, there were no tracks, no signs of struggle, not even blood near Attu's body.
They knelt beside him. Hans turned Attu's head to check on him—and both were horrified to see blood streaming from the boy's eyes. Aurora sobbed louder in panic.
Hans quickly checked for a pulse.
Still alive, he sighed with relief.
Then he gently opened Attu's eyelids to inspect further. What he saw made him freeze—Attu's eyes had changed.
What is this…? These eyes…?
He had never seen Attu without his blindfold.
As Hans held Attu, he suddenly felt something emanating from the boy's body.
This… mana?
It was wild, chaotic. He'd only sensed something like this once, during his academy days from a seasoned mage—and even then, not this powerful.
Not now. Let Aurora calm down first, he thought. We'll talk later.
Hans gently lifted Attu and the three of them returned to the village.
"Aurora, he's just unconscious. I don't know what happened to his eyes, but he's stable. We just need to wait for him to wake up. Then we'll know more."
"What should we do? Shouldn't we call the healer?"
"She's not in the village. She went into the mountains this morning to collect herbs. She won't be back for a while."
"Then what do we do?"
"He'll be fine. We just have to wait."
They reached the house. Inside, they gently laid Attu down in his bed. Aurora sat beside him, holding his hand and crying silently. Hans placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Please, pull yourself together. He's going to be okay. If the healer returns, I'll send her over to check on him. But for now, he just needs rest. Don't cry."
"O-Okay…" she replied, her voice choked with tears.
"I'll be going now. I'll come check on him again tomorrow."
Aurora sat beside her son for hours, not eating, not moving, simply waiting for his eyes to open.
As dusk fell, she finally got up, realizing that if he woke, he would be hungry.
She stepped outside to prepare food.
During this time, the village men were making preparations.
As night fell, Hans assigned the men to take shifts in pairs throughout the night. Hours passed. Only an hour remained until sunrise, but few of the young men had managed any sleep.
Two of the guards were talking to pass the time.
"Man, when will it be my turn to get married?"
"At the pace you're going? Definitely not this year. Get a better grip on that spear—your aim is worse than your luck with women," one joked, peering into the darkness. "Something doesn't feel right."
They laughed quietly until the howl of a dog pierced the silence from just outside the village.
"Hey... Did you hear that?"
"Yeah, it was a do—" he didn't finish. A spear shot through the air and struck him square in the head.
He dropped instantly, lifeless.
The second man, stunned, didn't even turn his head right away. He simply stared at his fallen friend, unable to process what had just happened. When he finally looked toward the direction the spear had come from, an enormous hound leapt from the shadows and lunged at him.
It was no ordinary hound—it was massive, demonic, with monstrous teeth and glowing eyes. The beast sank its fangs into the man's flesh, drawing out a scream that echoed through the village.
People heard it.
From the central road, villagers rushed out with whatever they could grab—tools, sticks, kitchen knives—anything that might help fend off the sudden attack.
The hounds poured in through the village gates.
Hans recognized them immediately—these were the Hellhounds of Baskervill.
Villagers swung and stabbed, but most weapons had no effect on the creatures. Hans, armed with his twin swords, fought with precision and fury. He drove one blade into a beast's belly, kicked it off, and ripped the sword free. Another hound went for one of the nearby men—Hans leapt forward, slashing into it with one blade, pinning it down, then plunging his second sword through its skull.
He reached for the wounded man.
"You alright?" he asked, offering his hand.
Just as the man took it to stand—another spear whistled through the air and pierced straight into the man's chest.
Blood gushed like a fountain, spraying Hans's face. Stunned and shaking, he turned around slowly, and there he saw it—
Baskervill.
The demon strode into the burning village like a noble from a cursed medieval court—dressed in ornate clothing, crowned by two curved horns rising from his skull.
Hans's whole body trembled.
He stood in a battle stance, but fear twisted in his chest. Every step Baskervill took sent shivers through Hans's bones. He felt like a rabbit facing a wolf.
So distracted by the chaos and the beasts, Hans hadn't even noticed the corpses piling around him. Most of the young men had already fallen. Hounds rampaged through homes, dragging out screaming women and children. Half the village was already in flames.
But Hans did not run.
He gritted his teeth and lunged at the demon, attacking with all his might. Baskervill dodged with ease, countering effortlessly. Hans was losing focus—fear clouded his every strike.
Still, he refused to back down.
With a desperate cry, he raised both swords high and swung down in a powerful strike. Baskervill blocked with his spear—but the weapon snapped in two.
I've broken his weapon! Hans thought. Now I can finish him!
He was wrong.
In his moment of triumph, Hans made a critical mistake—he took his eyes off the demon for a split second.
CLACK.
He looked down. His right hand had fallen to the ground.
Pain hit him like lightning. He screamed, his voice rising with raw agony. Baskervill stepped forward and kicked Hans in the gut, sending him sprawling to the dirt.
Hans's mind reeled.
But I broke his weapon… where did he get another one?
Baskervill loomed over him. His voice was deep, cruel, and smooth.
"Humans. Pathetic, feeble creatures. Fit for nothing but being our food."
He raised his spear, its tip pointed straight at Hans's heart.
This was the end.
Each breath Hans took could be his last.
Just as Baskervill was about to thrust, he suddenly froze.
Hans blinked in confusion, his pain momentarily forgotten.
The demon stood, motionless, spear still held above him—his gaze fixed on something down the road.
Hans turned his head.
Attu.
At the far end of the burning street stood a boy. Baskervill had sensed it—mana. Not just any mana—uncontrolled, potent, and ancient. Even from this distance, the demon could feel it radiating off him.
"Who is this boy? What is this power coming from him?" Baskervill growled.
"Let's find out."
From within the burning village, I suddenly heard a sharp whistle cut through the chaos. It was Baskervill.
He had whistled—and all the hounds began emerging from between the flames, heading toward the main street.
[What's he doing? Why is he calling all the beasts to him?] I wondered, fear clawing at my chest.
There was nothing left on my face but terror. My lips trembled involuntarily, and my legs felt like they had lost all strength. Then the demon whistled a second time.
But this time, the hounds didn't run to him…
They came straight at me.
The moment I saw the beasts charging in my direction, my fear surged into full-blown panic.
Just then, I heard a scream.
"Run!"
My mother.
She appeared from nowhere—either she'd suddenly arrived, or I'd simply been so frozen with fear that I hadn't noticed her until she grabbed my hand and pulled me into a desperate sprint.
She didn't let go.
No matter what happened, her grip on my hand was firm, unrelenting. She wasn't running for herself—she was running for me. I could tell from the way her eyes darted back over her shoulder again and again, watching for the demon chasing us.
I still hadn't fully regained my senses. The things I had seen—the things he had done—had paralyzed me with fear. But she dragged me forward.
We were headed toward the forest by the river. She had made up her mind. The only way to escape the demon was to get to the river. To cross it. Somehow.
As she ran ahead of me, still holding my hand tight, I could hear her whispering over and over, breathless with desperation:
"Just a little more… Please, God… just a little more…"
At last, the river came into view. She turned to me, eyes lighting up with hope.
"Attu… Just a few more steps…"
But then her face changed.
In an instant, the joy vanished from her expression, replaced with dread. She wasn't looking at me—she was looking behind me.
Baskervill was still far away, but he had lifted his spear, ready to throw.
My mother saw it. She understood.
With two steps left to the river, she suddenly stopped and threw herself behind me.
I didn't understand—why had she stopped?
But I turned.
And I saw it.
The spear flying through the air.
Everything clicked.
She had seen it before I had.
And she had made her choice.
In the last moment, she shoved me into the river with all her strength, just before the demon's spear struck her.
As I fell into the water, I saw her face—clear as daylight.
She smiled at me.
Her eyes were full of tears… and love.
The spear pierced through her midsection. It entered through her back and tore through her stomach. Yet she kept smiling. Even as her body crumpled, her eyes stayed on me—one last moment of warmth in a world turned to ash.
That smile burned itself into my soul.
I fell.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't scream.
I couldn't fight back.
All I could do was watch as my mother was impaled.
All I could do was fall into the water and cry out with all the rage, sorrow, and helplessness inside me.
"MOTHER!!!"
And then, the river swallowed me whole.