The Demon King's fortress stood in the northern reaches of Calanthia, hidden among jagged mountains and shadowed forests. Legends claimed it was once a paradise—where rivers ran clear, the land was fertile, and fruit trees bore harvests year-round. Serfs needed only to work lightly to fill their granaries. But since the Demon King's arrival, it was said to be cursed: rivers dried, the earth cracked, and even birds refused to linger. In the priests' sermons, the Demon King was a monstrous fiend wielding dark power, turning all beauty to ash. Village elders warned by firelight, "Stay far from the fortress—it is the Demon King's den. Those who enter will have their souls torn asunder."
Your journey was long and harsh. From Reston, you crossed barren fields, the sights confirming the priests' teachings. Serfs toiled under the scorching sun, backs bent like broken reeds, their hands cracked and bloodied. Sixteen-hour days left them no strength to even glance at the sky. Sweat dripped into the dirt, evaporating in the heat, yet they still starved. Along the road, exhausted serfs collapsed, only to be whipped by overseers until they staggered back to work. Priests stood on high platforms, preaching the Holy Edict: "Labor is atonement! Suffering is your passage to heaven—laziness, your damnation!" You gripped the short sword at your waist, silently reciting the creed of the white rose emblem, trying to suppress the unease coiling in your chest.
Yet when you finally stepped into Blackstone Vale, where the Demon King's fortress stood, your convictions began to unravel. The cursed wasteland of legend was nowhere to be seen. Instead, lush fields sprawled before you—terraced slopes of golden wheat swaying in the breeze, straight stalks of corn standing like sentinels, orchards heavy with apples and pears, their sweetness perfuming the air. A clear stream wound down from the mountains, irrigating the land, its banks dotted with waterfowl preening their feathers. You stopped, rubbing your eyes, half-convinced you had taken a wrong turn.
But the true shock came when you saw the serfs working the fields. They wore plain but clean homespun, their faces free of the hollow despair you knew so well from Reston. Some harvested wheat, their movements steady but unhurried; others picked fruit, humming tunes under their breath. Children chased each other along the ridges, their laughter like chimes in the afternoon quiet. A woman pulled a clay cup from a basket and handed it to a child—milk, white and rich. In Calanthia, milk was a noble's luxury, something most serfs could only dream of tasting. Your fingers brushed the white rose emblem at your chest, seeking the familiar weight of purpose, but doubt only thickened.
You pressed onward, the fortress emerging from the mist. It was no looming black tower, but a stately manor of pale stone, ivy climbing its walls, its roof tiles glinting warmly in the sun. The iron gates stood wide open, unbarred, unguarded. A wooden sign hung crookedly, scrawled in charcoal: "Today's Special: Honey Bread." The casualness of it all made your grip tighten on Dawnbreak's hilt. How could the lair of the Demon King be so… unthreatening? Steeling yourself, you pushed through the gates.
Inside, the fortress defied every expectation. The great hall was bright, lit by torches and oil lamps, their glow softening the stone walls. Rough but clean hemp drapes hung along the sides. At the center, a long table groaned under platters of food—golden-brown roast chicken, mashed potatoes flecked with herbs, baskets of honey bread studded with dried fruit. Children clambered around it, sticky-fingered and giggling, while adults ate leisurely, their expressions relaxed. An elderly woman brought out a tray of fresh biscuits, and the children cheered, scrambling for a share. You stood frozen in the doorway, your sword half-drawn. This wasn't a den of evil. It was a harvest feast.
"So. The Hero finally arrives."
The voice came from the far end of the hall—low, amused. You whipped toward it. A figure stood in the shadows, tall but not imposing, draped in a black traveler's cloak. As he stepped forward, the torchlight caught the frayed edges of his plain tunic, the sleeves embroidered with a familiar emblem: a white rose, pierced through by a sword. Your emblem. Your breath hitched.
"You're the Demon King?" you demanded, shifting into a guarded stance.
The man laughed softly, pushing back his hood. His face was weathered, his hair streaked with gray, but his eyes were clear—resigned, even kind. "That's what they call me now," he said. "But before that, I was exactly what you are. A Hero."
His words struck like a blade to the ribs. You stared at the ruined rose on his sleeve, your mother's last words ringing in your skull: "Fulfill your destiny." You had always believed that destiny was to slay the Demon King. But now, faced with this man and this place, the question coiled, venomous:
What if the real evil was the lie you'd been fed all along?