When Denvar died, he still clutched his sword.
The forest was dark, and the shadows made him look pitiful. He was slumped beneath a tree, his face twisted in horror—as if fear itself had killed him before anything else did. A massive gash split open his chest, the blood dried into a dark crust. His guts spilled onto the roots. His mouth hung open, teeth stained red.
Kellan didn't feel sick. Just sad.
Two demon hunters, one young and one seasoned, stood a distance away, staring at their fallen comrade's corpse.
"Don't look away from his eyes," said Etienne, the older man. "You need to get used to the dead."
"Yes, sir," Kellan replied quickly.
Kellan Greaves was Etienne's apprentice. He had been following the old hunter for just a year—barely a rookie among demon slayers. He had studied the craft, learned stories of blood-soaked beasts and unholy curses. But those stories had always felt distant—until now.
Etienne saw the boy's fear, but said nothing. Some lessons had to be learned in silence.
"How… how did he die?" Kellan's voice trembled. That wound across Denvar's chest didn't look like something any man could make.
"Who knows?" Etienne muttered, glancing up at the dim sky. "Could be the Blade Demon itself. If we don't reach the rendezvous point before nightfall, we'll find out for ourselves."
Kellan swallowed hard. If the Blade Demon killed him… will it kill me next? What do I even do? I'm not ready for this. I'm just a novice...
The Kingdom of Lorne lay on the western edge of the continent, a land gripped by chaos. Heresies bred monsters, and darkness festered in the cracks of the world. It was a golden age—for demons. These creatures fed on souls and never stopped hungering.
And so, soul-hunters rose to face them.
Kellan and seven other hunters had been dispatched to pursue the Blade Demon—a cunning demon lord from the depths of the Infernal Realm. When it crossed into the mortal world, it had been weakened. Cornered, it fled into the Duskwood. But demons were slippery things, and to keep it from vanishing again, the hunters split up to widen their search.
Now, one by one, they were dying.
Kellan knew the plan was flawed. But he had no voice in such matters. Etienne never explained, and Kellan never dared to ask.
"What do you remember about Denvar?" Etienne asked.
"He was… a good man," Kellan said softly. Grief rose like bile in his throat. He'd spoken with Denvar just days ago. And now he was gone. Life was so fragile.
Denvar had been around Kellan's age—another rookie in the hunter ranks. But where Denvar was broad and heavyset, Kellan was tall and lean.
"When someone's useless, we just call him 'a good man,'" Etienne muttered. "New blood comes and dies. Nothing special." He scanned the woods around them. "Strip his gear. He won't be needing it anymore. And keep your eyes up—Blade Demon could be roosting in the trees above."
Kellan couldn't help but glance upward.
The oak canopy was thick, dense enough to hide a savage demon. Demons hailed from another world, their powers shifting and chaotic. Mortals stood no chance against them in direct combat. Kellan had heard that demons could wield over a thousand forms of black magic. That was why demon hunters had to be more than brave—they had to be trained, clever, and a little mad.
I have to survive... Somehow.
Since entering Duskwood, everything had gone wrong. The team argued constantly. Plans fractured. They split up. And Denvar—Denvar got himself killed out here, alone.
Can we really kill it? Kellan thought uneasily. Can we really take down a demon lord?
He forced himself to ignore the stink of the corpse, scanning the area for hexes or cursed glyphs. Demons left behind twisted runes, traps that bent reality and bent minds.
He reached down and unbuckled Denvar's bloody scabbard, strapping it to his own belt. Then he took the crossbow, quiver, vials, and anything else useful. He unfastened the man's pack and emptied it methodically.
Crossbows were technically banned under Lornean law—but demon hunters had always operated outside society's bounds. They followed survival, not statutes. Every hunter carried one. The vials were witchbrews, mixed by the Otter School's alchemists. Denvar's was a clarity draught, meant to pierce illusions and false forms. He hadn't lived long enough to use it.
Inside the pack: dried meat, wine, and cheese. Kellan took everything.
Now Denvar lay truly empty—his soul gone, his body stripped—abandoned in the deep shade of the Duskwood.
Kellan knelt beside him for a moment and whispered a prayer. May the gods take your soul. May it rest easy.
"Don't stare too long," Etienne said. "We'll come back to bury him after we deal with the Blade Demon."
"Okay," Kellan said softly, falling into step behind him.
"Denvar was Julius's apprentice," Etienne muttered. "If Denvar's dead... Julius might be, too."
"Sir Julius... do you think he got out?"
"I hope so. Maybe he ran—made it through the forest, back to civilization. Maybe someone will mourn us when this is over."
"You think we'll die?" Kellan asked, startled.
"Not necessarily. But we're on the edge, boy. One slip and we're dead." Etienne swept his gaze across the forest. "Look around, Kellan. Look how fragile we are. And look how vast the enemy is. You've grown fast. But not fast enough."
Kellan followed his mentor's eyes.
The forest pressed in on all sides—untamed, overgrown, thick with shadows. Grass tangled with thorns, trees swallowed the light. No sound of animals. They had all sensed what humans couldn't and fled.
Only the hunters remained—stubborn, desperate, still hoping to match blades with monsters.
"Scared?" Etienne asked without looking back.
"Yes," Kellan admitted. He knew he lacked experience—young, untested, unready. This kind of mission was far beyond his depth.
But demon hunting wasn't a trade that allowed for three years of quiet apprenticeship. There was no time for slow mastery. You either learned on the field or died in the dark. And so he followed a seasoned hunter into hellish places, learning to survive where most men would fall.
"You don't need to be afraid," Etienne said, turning to face him.
The old hunter was fifty-seven. His hair had gone silver at the temples, his frame still tall and sharp, carved by decades of battle. His weatherworn face was stone and shadow. "After this mission," he continued, "you'll have passed every trial. I'll personally take you to the Sanctum and speak your name before the Order. You'll be anointed as a true demon hunter—free to wield the power I've taught you."
"Truly?" Kellan's voice shook with hope. "A real demon hunter…"
"Do you still remember the Oath?"
"I swear: never trust a demon, never aid a demon, never show mercy to a demon."
"Good. Now draw the sword you took."
Kellan unsheathed the blade he'd taken from Denvar's body. He held the hilt with both hands, feeling the weight of it. It was his first real sword, and it felt both foreign and thrilling in his grip.
Etienne drew his own blade in response. He swept it slowly through the air. The edge caught what little light filtered through the leaves.
"We are animals," he said, "but we are the strongest of them all. Our eyes are sharp—we can see farther than most creatures. Our bones are sturdy enough to take a fall, yet light enough to let us leap and run. Our arms—those muscles—are built to swing that five-foot blade in your hands until it screams through the air."
Kellan did exactly that—he gave the sword a powerful swing. It cut through the silence with a silver hiss. He stared at the edge. It was razor-sharp, finely made, the kind of weapon meant for war. For killing. It could split flesh, bone, and steel.
"That blade came from a smith who spent his life at the forge," Etienne continued. "Hammered with the best iron we've mined. Sharpened until it wouldn't betray the one who wields it."
Kellan's grip tightened.
"To find the Blade Demon, we've had to split up," Etienne said, voice lower now. "You saw what happened to Denvar—no time to scream, no defense, torn open in a heartbeat. But we are not just men. We are hunters. Elite. We face certain death and still press forward."
He looked into Kellan's eyes. "Because we are human—and because we choose to fight, even knowing the end—we give meaning to all this. The sacrifice isn't meaningless. The sacrifice is the meaning."
Kellan nodded. "We can't run."
"No. We can't." Etienne's tone was firm now. "The fate of this entire region hangs on us. We're not strong—not really. There's only eight of us, and already some are dead. But we are the only ones who understand how to fight a demon. The only ones who might win."
He paused. "So no matter how badly the odds are stacked... we don't run. Hunters don't retreat."
"I understand," Kellan said. And this time, he meant it.
"Oh, one more thing," Etienne added casually as they walked. "If you die, try to die with a smile. Keep a bit of wonder in your eyes. Makes things easier for the rest of us. Look at Denvar—died ugly. Probably full of despair. Just puts everyone in a bad mood."
Kellan's face darkened.
He thought of his past—sold by his parents to slavers, passed along to a circle of warlocks who'd tied him to a stone altar as a blood offering. The ritual never finished. Etienne had crashed in alone, cutting down sorcerers like weeds, dragging the children from the fire. He'd released them all… except Kellan.
"You're coming with me," he had said.
And so Kellan did. Hunting demons was a job full of contradictions. The danger was constant. The training relentless. He'd learned marksmanship, spellwork, survival, and demonology—skills most people would never need, and might never live long enough to use.
But there was no turning back now.
They moved through the forest in silence, minutes passing. Then, suddenly, the hush shattered.
"Help!" A raspy voice cried out from up ahead.
Etienne clicked his tongue, tightened his grip on the sword, and broke into a run.
Kellan followed close behind. He didn't dare fall behind. Getting separated in these woods was as good as dying. A demon would find him in seconds.
The sound led them to a tall alder tree—and Kellan froze.
There, hanging upside down from the branches, was Julius—another demon hunter. His leather armor was torn to shreds, and a thick black cord had his ankles bound to a high bough, forcing his body into a tortured twist. His gear lay scattered beneath him. He clawed the air in panic.
"We—we've got to cut him down!" Kellan said, horrified.
A foul stench rose around them. Kellan noticed it then. Pungent, oily—wrong.
"Think about it," Etienne said with a grunt. "Who would've put him up there?"
"It's not the time. We move."
"But—!"
From above, Julius spotted them and screamed, "Etienne! Help me!"
"You're dead already," Etienne muttered. "For the love of the gods, at least shut up and let us think."
Kellan looked at the old hunter, confused by how tense and ready his stance had become. Why so cautious?
"No—please, you have to help me!" Julius wailed. "Denvar's dead! It killed him—it's still here! Please—I'm begging you—Etienne, please don't walk away—"
Kellan remembered the man Julius used to be—sharp-eyed, black-bearded, always calm beneath his wide hunter's hood. But now, dangling and desperate, all that skill and strength had vanished. He was reduced to pleading.
"Stop it," Etienne snapped. "You want to drag us down with you? Kellan—move."
"But we can't just—"
"Move." Etienne's tone allowed no argument. Then, lower: "You smelled it, didn't you?"
The stench. That awful rot. Kellan's eyes widened—it was the same smell that clung to Denvar's corpse.
They'd taken only a few steps away when the sound hit them—
CRACK—CRACK—
Kellan turned and saw Julius's body begin to rot—skin sloughing off in strips, old wounds ripping open, massive gashes splitting across his torso. The blood pooled unnaturally around the roots.
A sick, gurgling transformation.
"An illusion," Kellan breathed. "A demon's trick."
Etienne narrowed his eyes.
"You never know when to quit," came the dry rasp of Julius's ruined mouth. As he spoke, a blood-slick cleaver burst from his gut, shrieking into the air. It wasn't a weapon of man, but a cursed thing—forged in shadow, steeped in blasphemy. It twisted unnaturally, angling toward them, slicing through the mist.
Etienne stepped into a guarded stance instantly—but even then, something felt wrong.
"Kellan—MOVE!"
Kellan tried.
But the blade was already upon him.