The Outer Pits were quiet that night.
Too quiet.
The usual sounds of groaning slaves, snarling guards, and crackling torches had dulled into a heavy stillness. A storm was brewing—not in the sky, but in the air itself. The kind of stillness that came before blood.
Derick, now twelve, crouched beside the crumbling slave barracks, pretending to scrub stone tiles. His hands moved slowly, deliberately—his eyes fixed on a shadowed corridor between two towers of the demon garrison.
That's where the voices came from.
Not the usual grunts or commands, but a whisper. Soft. Urgent. Not meant for ears like his.
And yet… he listened.
The Forbidden Words
Two demons stood there—towering brutes cloaked in black furs, their skin dark red and eyes like burning coals. Between them hovered a green crystal, glowing faintly, inscribed with runes that pulsed with energy.
"—The Umpire Bloodline is awakening."
"How? We sealed it. We bled it out. The last host burned with the Immortal Gates!"
"Something was missed. A fragment. The Ancients sense it. That's why the Seers have begun searching the mortal realms."
"Do they know where?"
"No. Not yet. But they will."
"What of the humans here? Any signs?"
"None. But if the host rises among them…"
The words froze Derick in place.
Bloodline. Umpire. Mortal realms.
He didn't know what it meant, but something in him stirred—a resonance, like an echo inside his soul answering a call from far beyond this world.
"Could they be talking about… me?"
His heart pounded. He didn't realize he'd shifted his weight, or that a pebble had slipped from under his foot—until it clattered down the stone path.
Caught
Both demons turned sharply.
"Who's there?"
The growl made his blood freeze. Derick bolted.
"RUNNER!"
The command echoed across the pit.
Chains rattled. Horns blared. Red lights ignited across the compound. Dogs barked—not animals, but monstrous, half-demonic hounds with eyes sewn shut and teeth like shattered glass.
Derick's legs moved before he could think. He darted through broken fences, under rusted scaffolds, over spiked chains. Whips cracked behind him. A stone split the air beside his ear.
"Don't let him escape!"
He didn't know where to go. There was no escape. The entire camp was surrounded by iron walls and runed barriers. Humans couldn't leave—not without being shredded by traps or turned to ash by demonic glyphs.
But he couldn't stop running.
The Edge of Death
He hit the outer wall and turned sharply, entering the old forge—long abandoned, rusting and dark. He scrambled through ash piles, broken gears, and collapsed chimneys.
Then—a dead end.
He turned around.
Three demon guards stood at the entrance, weapons drawn, lips curled in amusement.
"Cornered. Like a rat."
"Maybe he is the host. Let's bleed him and see."
One stepped forward.
Derick backed into the wall, chest heaving. The fear overtook him.
His vision blurred.
"I can't… breathe—"
"Not like this—"
"Not here—"
A Flash of Hope
Suddenly, wind.
A blur zipped past the demons. One of them staggered, blood spraying from a thin gash across his thigh.
Then—a man landed beside Derick.
He was tall, lean, wearing ragged robes. His hair was streaked with gray, his eyes sharp with focus. He carried no sword. No armor. Just a long walking staff made of blackwood.
"Stay behind me," the man said.
Derick couldn't speak.
The man tapped his foot on the ground.
Whoosh.
Wind exploded beneath them—a movement technique. The man shot forward, staff swinging in a half-circle arc. It struck one demon clean in the chest, knocking the air from its lungs.
The others cursed and lunged.
But the man didn't fight head-on. He moved like a shadow—twisting, dodging, flipping over carts and rubble. Derick felt himself being pulled, carried, through narrow paths, secret routes in the ruins even he hadn't known existed.
They burst through a hidden gate and vanished into the night.
A Moment of Stillness
They stopped at the edge of a dry riverbed, deep in the wastelands beyond the pits.
The man exhaled slowly.
"You're lucky I was nearby," he said, glancing back. "You've seen too much."
Derick finally found his voice. "Who… who are you?"
The man smiled faintly.
"Just an old man who hasn't given up yet."
"Are you… a cultivator?"
The smile faded.
"Barely. But enough to run when I need to."
He sat down, cross-legged, breathing slowly, as if calming his pulse.
"You're special, boy. I saw it the moment I looked at you. That's why I watched you for months. You've got something burning inside. Something this world fears."
Derick clenched his fists. "I don't know what it is."
"You will. In time."
A Spark Rekindled
Under the moonlight, for the first time in his life, Derick felt something strange.
Not safety.
Not freedom.
But possibility.
The chains hadn't fallen. The demons still ruled. But now… he had seen another path.
A man who could run faster than monsters.
A whisper of power.