"I don't know where it came from... or why I have it. But whatever I want... it just happens."
To reinforce his words, a pair of iron keys—previously hanging on a distant hook—suddenly lifted into the air, carried by an unseen force. They floated slowly across the dimly lit room, chiming faintly as they passed through beams of cold, ambient light. Sirzechs, who had been seated in silent observation, sat upright with interest. The keys hovered just within reach, suspended delicately in the space between them.
He reached out.
"Whatever pain they wished to inflict," the child continued, voice eerily calm, "I was left untouched. This power... it's quite the convenience, don't you think?"
Sirzechs studied the floating keys before glancing at the tinted glass of the carriage. The presence within remained concealed, but its strength was undeniable.
"You want me to free you?" he asked, his voice hesitant—not from doubt, but caution. He was seeking permission, not clarity. The last thing he wanted was to startle someone so evidently volatile and traumatized.
The boy let out a quiet chuckle. "Isn't that why you came?"
Without further warning, the keys slipped into Sirzechs' open hands. He stared at them for a brief second, absorbing the silent gesture of trust. Then, rising slowly, he began his approach toward the carriage.
The boy, perhaps finding solace in speech, continued talking as Sirzechs moved. "I overheard your conversation. With the older devil. The prissy one... just before your knights arrived."
"Why did you attack them?" Sirzechs asked, aiming to keep the boy engaged, to ground him in dialogue and distract him from darker thoughts.
"I didn't like them," came the immediate reply, followed by a thoughtful pause. "They were... what's the word... forceful. The devils who left me here rigged some kind of magic circle to the door. One of your knights barged in, no hesitation. I tried to warn him, but he didn't listen. Didn't want to find out what that spell would do, so I pushed back. Guess I overdid it. Took his hand. Sent the others flying. Kinda funny, really... if I hadn't accidentally amputated one of your guys."
Sirzechs halted in front of the carriage, now eyeing the door carefully. The boy's words had jogged a suspicion, and upon closer inspection, he found the broken remains of a detonation seal etched into the metal. What little was left of it crumbled at his touch. From the fading aura it gave off, it had once been powerful—reactive. It likely drew its power from the boy within, which would explain the violent wave of energy earlier.
He nodded subtly, acknowledging the boy's unspoken apology. Then he tensed his fingers, sending a minute pulse of his power into the weakened remnants of the seal. It cracked with a faint pop, shards falling to the floor like dry leaves.
"What about me?" he asked as he sifted through the keys, already discarding the incorrect ones.
There was movement from inside the carriage—a soft shift, perhaps a shrug.
"When you arrived... your power dropped. Like... vanished off the map. I could still sense the rest of it, hiding just beneath the surface. Scared me at first. Thought you were an enemy. But... you weren't like the others. You were calmer. Grounded. Reassured, even..."
A small chuckle.
"I'll admit... I'm a little insulted."
Sirzechs cracked a faint smile at that, his fingers finally locating the correct key. He raised it to the door's lock—but just as it was about to enter, the key froze in place.
A force, unseen but immensely powerful, held it still.
He tried pushing, but his hand merely trembled as if pressing against solid iron. The key groaned against the resistance, unmoving. His gaze slowly lifted to the darkened window.
Two glowing blue eyes stared back.
Piercing. Intense. And filled with a knowledge that no child should ever carry.
"While I have given you a modicum of trust, Devil," the boy said, voice suddenly cold and commanding, "I do not yet understand your position."
The tone had changed. Gone was the casual detachment. Now there was steel in his voice, forged in suffering.
"My time here was long. But I did not remain ignorant. I heard them speak. Of a Great War. Of three factions. Of dragons—one red, one white. Both dead. The death of a God. The fall of four demon kings. And now... civil war."
Sirzechs remained silent, letting the boy continue.
The pressure on his hand changed. It wasn't just a barrier now—it was a grip. A true, unrelenting hold. His fingers numbed as power wrapped around his wrist like a vice.
The boy had him. And he knew it.
"So, tell me... whose side do you stand on, General? What do you really want?"
Sirzechs felt the power threatening to snap bone if he even thought about lying. The same power that had erased a knight's arm was now weighing down on him like divine judgment.
He spoke quickly. Truthfully.
"The Great War is real. I was there. I survived it. But it ended with nothing. No victor. Only ruin. In the aftermath, our kind splintered. Two factions emerged to fill the void left by the dead kings. One seeks to continue the war—the Old Satans. The other, the Anti-Satan faction, seeks peace."
He paused, breathing deep.
"I chose peace. I fight for it. I am with the Anti-Satan faction. Not because I am weak... but because I have seen enough blood to last ten lifetimes."
There was a long silence.
Then the boy's voice returned, thoughtful.
"But you understand, don't you? Peace requires war. To stop the killing... you must kill the ones who would continue it."
Sirzechs' eyes flickered with a haunted gleam. "Of course I do. I accepted that burden long ago."
Another small rustle from within the carriage. The atmosphere, ever so slightly, began to ease.
"Sorry for grilling you, General," the boy said more softly now. "But I don't hand out trust like candy."
Sirzechs exhaled in relief, just as the grip on his wrist vanished.
"If the cost of my freedom is to fight those who gave me a reason to fight... then it's a price I'll gladly pay. Running would insult the ones who died in these cells. And that's something I'll never do."
Sirzechs was stunned.
He had expected a reclusive, frightened child. What he found instead was a survivor who had already decided the shape of his vengeance. One who bore trauma, yes, but had forged it into purpose. A fury honed into something sharp.
He looked down at the key again.
It no longer resisted him.
"I guess I can trust you now," the boy said at last, with a tired but resolute breath.
"Whatever your definition of trust is..."