Marc was lost in thought, his gaze anchored to a lifeless spot on the wall. The rhythmic sound of his pen—click, click, click—was the only metronome of his existence. On the monitor, the company's balance sheet glowed with a cold light; he had finished forty minutes ago, but he remained chained to his chair, waiting for approval from a boss who enjoyed making others wait.
A shove on his chair snapped him out of his trance. It was David, wearing that smile Marc found as irritating as a mosquito's buzz.
"Hey, did you see the new girl?" David blurted out. "The intern."
David was thirty-seven, with two kids, one on the way, and a lack of scruples that made Marc's stomach churn. This idiot doesn't give a damn about his family, Marc thought with contempt. I wish someone would finally report him to HR.
The sound of an incoming email saved him from the conversation.
"The boss. He needs the balance sheet urgently," Marc lied, dropping a hint that David, for once, caught.
"Sure, I'll let you get back to it."
Saved by the bell, he thought, as he prepared to review the day's invoices. But peace was short-lived. A soft voice to his right interrupted him: it was the intern.
"Excuse me... the manager told me you would show me how to issue the invoices for the clients."
Marc sighed internally. I have the heaviest workload, yet I'm always the one stuck training the newcomers. The boss is inept at distributing work.
"Sure, give me ten minutes to finish this," he replied with mechanical courtesy. "As soon as I'm done, I'll show you."
He returned his gaze to the monitor, but the image began to distort. A guttural growl to his left made him jump. There, between the office cubicles, a white wolf emerged, half its body charred, its eyes fixed on him.
"You cannot die," a voice said to his right.
It was the intern. She was standing three feet away, her face void of all human emotion—a mask of cold porcelain.
"Demons do not die," she declared, without looking away. "They only return to hell."
In that instant, David and the rest of his coworkers burst into flames. One by one, they became human pyres as the entire office began to burn. Marc felt a searing heat rising from his feet. Looking down, he saw his own body being devoured by an indigo-blue fire.
He woke up with a start, thrashing at the blankets with a stifled cry. His heart hammered against his chest like a caged animal. It took him several seconds to realize that the smell of smoke and the heat were just residues of his mind.
He was in his cabin. In his bed.
What the hell was that? I've never dreamed about work before... I guess it's the ultimate nightmare.
He looked around, disoriented. He didn't remember coming back. The last thing he held in his memory was the forest, the wolves' blood, and a blurred silhouette silhouetted against the light.
Did that person bring me here? he wondered, feeling a chill that wasn't from the cold. And the most unsettling thing... how the hell did they know where I live?
Marc stood up and planted both feet on the wooden floor. He remained still, waiting for the jolt of pain in his leg, but found only silence. He rolled up his pant leg and his tunic sleeve: the fang marks were gone. No scabs, no bruises, not even the subtle discoloration wounds leave when closing. It was as if time had wound back for his body.
Advanced healing magic? he wondered, running his fingers over his intact skin. The grimoires say even miracles leave scars. Why don't I have any? Either my injuries were an illusion, or whoever brought me back possesses a power that defies the books.
"Hello?" Marc called out, his voice bouncing off the cabin walls. "Is anyone here?"
Silence was his only answer. He searched every corner, checked the bathroom, and stepped outside, circling the structure with his senses on high alert. There were no fresh tracks, no shadows shifting between the trees. However, when he reached the back of the house, he stopped dead. The meat of the wolf he had killed was there, perfectly skinned, cut into clean chunks, and ready for the fire.
This is absurd. They save me, heal me, bring me home, and even prep my dinner... and then they vanish?
Upon re-entering, he noticed one last detail: a lingering scent of herbs. Someone had made themselves tea but had washed and put away the cup with almost obsessive neatness. Marc felt a strange mix of frustration and curiosity. For the first time in fifteen days, he'd had the chance to speak with someone from this world, to understand the rules of the game outside of his books, and it had slipped through his fingers.
The following days passed in a tense normalcy. Marc trained with a renewed ferocity, but his eyes constantly scanned the forest's edge. Gratitude was beginning to be devoured by suspicion.
I don't want to be paranoid, but if that person comes back with an army... no, it makes no sense to save me just to kill me. Still, the wolves taught me that trust is a luxury I cannot afford.
That night, while trying to digest a wolf stew—a tough, metallic, and stubborn meat that even the best wine couldn't soften—Marc soaked in the hot tub.
This bathroom... this luxury doesn't fit the idea of a medieval world. If I had spoken to that stranger, I would have asked so many things. Am I really in the middle of nowhere? I've assumed civilization is far away, but perhaps I'm wrong.
His mind drifted toward the only structure that broke the landscape's monotony: the stone temple.
That place is the only thing I haven't investigated. I've avoided going because Amir said the portal to my world is there, and I have no intention of going back yet. But maybe the temple isn't just a portal. Maybe it's the answer to who is watching me.
Marc stepped out of the tub, water sliding down his chest. Tomorrow he would stop assuming and start discovering. Tomorrow, he would go to the temple.
At dawn, Marc prepared for the expedition. He moved toward the temple with sharpened senses, moving with the caution of one who already knows the price of distraction in these woods. He had no steel weapons, but his hands, heavy with latent mana, were deadlier than any sword.
After a few minutes, the structure emerged from the mist like a dark stone colossus. It was a monolithic mass, covered in moss and vines that tried, unsuccessfully, to devour its imposing silhouette.
It'll still be standing after a thousand years, right? Marc recalled Amir's words. Built to last an eternity.
As he crossed the entrance arch, the air changed; it felt thick, stagnant, as if time itself had ground to a halt. The interior was vast and, to his surprise, pristine. In the center, a white marble altar shone with a silky luster, without a single speck of dust or a crack. The contrast was jarring: the exterior was a ruin reclaimed by nature, but the heart of the temple was maintained with almost obsessive devotion.
The person who saved me has to be the same one who maintains this place, Marc deduced. Someone with advanced healing magic and the discipline to care for an altar in the middle of nowhere. Someone special.
He inspected every corner of the interior and the surroundings, looking for a bed, scraps of food, or any sign of daily life, but he found nothing. The temple was not a home; it was a sanctuary. Marc decided to wait, sitting on the cold stone floor as the hours slipped slowly by.
His mind drifted toward Amir's promise. The portal was there, waiting for his will to return him to his old office, to his invoices, and to David's mediocrity.
I don't know how long I'll stay, but I doubt I'll want to go back after killing the Hero. The temptation is too great. Who would give up a thousand years of life and power bordering on the divine to return to a grey existence? Here, I can be eternal. No human in my world could even dream of such a thing.
He found only one logical reason for returning: existential weariness. Perhaps, if after centuries I grow bored of being a god, I'll return to Earth to spend my "last years" as an ordinary man.
Four hours passed. Marc practiced small spheres of light and air currents to kill time, but the temple's solitude began to weigh on him.
I should have brought a book. I didn't know what to expect, but searching blindly in this forest would be suicidal; I could get lost for days. Besides, whoever tends to this altar might not come daily.
He left the temple with a mix of disappointment and determination. He wouldn't give up. He would return the next day with his grimoires, turning the sanctuary into his new training ground. If that stranger returned, Marc would be there, ready to uncover the truth.
Marc stepped between the ancient roots guarding the temple, but he froze as he looked up. A few meters away, a figure waited for him with supernatural stillness. It was an old man of about seventy, with hair and beard as white as snow, draped in a sienna-colored priest's cloak. He leaned on a simple wooden staff, but his grey-blue eyes possessed a clarity that seemed to pierce Marc's soul.
"Good morning... or afternoon by now," Marc ventured, hiding his startle under a cloak of caution.
"Good morning, young demon," the old man replied. His voice was kind but carried a heavy authority.
Right, it's true. I am a demon and he is a human. The God Amir already warned me about our differences.
"Excuse me, I didn't mean to enter the temple without permission, and I'm sorry if this offended you. I was walking through the area and this structure caught my attention. Are you the caretaker of this place, or something like that?"
"That could be so," the stranger limited himself to saying.
Does he suspect me? I'm a stranger and a demon on top of that, so I understand.
"A few days ago I hunted a deer not far from here, but a pack of wolves attacked me and left me in bad shape. I fainted, but someone helped me back to my cabin and healed me. Was it you by any chance, or someone else you know?"
The stranger began to approach Marc, stopping close to him. —"I am the only person who wanders this forest, besides you, young demon, of course."
That doesn't answer my question.
"I see. Then, can't you think of who might have helped me?"
"I think that is irrelevant."
"What do you mean?" Marc asked, confused.
"What should truly matter to you is how a simple pack of white wolves caused so much damage to someone with such powerful magic."
Marc felt a prickle in his pride. "Simple pack? You must be joking. And how do you know so much about me?"
"I saw the unpleasant scene you left in the forest. You received your power directly from Amir, didn't you? Your power is not a toy; it's a responsibility. It's not enough to have it; you must know how to use it."
"My power is my business, old man," Marc retorted, letting irritation seep into his tone.
"Do you think you already possess great power?" the old man asked with a barely perceptible smile.
"It's greater than anyone's in this world," Marc boasted. "Few could face me and walk away alive. In fact, I doubt there's anyone who can."
"What if you test that power against me?"
Marc was on the verge of laughing. "I don't want to hurt you, sir. I'm a demon; my physical strength is far superior to that of hum..."
He didn't finish the sentence. There was no incantation, no hand movement, no warning. An invisible and devastating force slammed into his stomach like a siege hammer. The air was punched out of his lungs in an explosion of agony. Marc's body was launched through the air, flying fifty meters before slamming into the earth with a dull thud that made his bones creak.
He writhed on the grass, retching bile and water, fighting for a millimeter of oxygen his lungs refused to take in.
"It's true your body is resilient," he heard the old man's voice, who was now standing beside him. "That blow would have reduced any weak human's chest to pulp."
"You son of a bitch!" Marc managed to gasp, propping himself up on an elbow while the world spun. "You did that, old man?"
"Well, I only wanted to check if your boast about your great strength was true."
"And what if you had killed me with that hit?" Marc said, furious.
"Don't worry, I knew I wouldn't kill you," the stranger replied.
"Fine. I got the lesson in humility, old man. It just wasn't necessary to go to this extreme," Marc said, gradually calming down as he sat up.
"I'm sorry if my actions seem a bit extreme for the young demon with the greatest magical power in the world."
"And what is your name, oh wise man of slightly extreme actions?" Marc asked, returning the sarcasm.
"And what is yours, young demon of blue eyes?"
"I asked first, but I don't mind saying it. I'm Marc."
"I've never heard of a demon named Marc."
"There's a first time for everything. You still haven't told me your name."
"I am Silas, the priest of this temple, built in the name of the God Amir."
So, he's related to the God Amir. Did he know about my arrival at that cabin?
"Why did you say my power was given to me directly by the God Amir?"
"There are several things I know."
"You were the one who helped and healed me, weren't you?"
"Yes, it was me. God instructed me to watch over you and help you when necessary."
That God didn't mention that to me.
"So you've been watching me this whole time. I never felt your presence."
"Because that was my intention. I hid it from you on purpose. I only intervene when necessary."
"And was the intervention of sending me flying through the air necessary?"
"It was," Silas answered.
No, it wasn't, old man.
"What about the cabin and the garden? Did you have anything to do with that?"
"That was my home for many years before your arrival."
That explains why they looked like they had been cared for by someone.
"And why did you give it up to me? Didn't you mind your home being stolen?"
"It wasn't a theft; it was a direct request from the God Amir, and I had no trouble doing it," Silas answered.
"And where do you live now after God asked for your home?"
"I built myself a small hut half an hour away."
"How did you know I needed help that time?"
"I went to check on the cabin and noticed you weren't there. So I followed the trail you left into the forest. That's when I saw you returning to the cabin in bad shape, carrying that wolf."
So it wasn't a coincidence that we met. How lucky he was there! He arrived at the precise moment and his healing magic was truly very good.
"So you are attuned to healing magic and... wind magic?" Marc asked, intrigued.
"I know you have many doubts, but I don't intend to answer all your questions right now."
"And when do you plan to do it?"
"All in due time. The most important thing is your training," Silas answered.
"You plan to help me train? I thought you only intervened when necessary."
"I've been watching your training for days," Silas said, returning to a serious tone, "and believe me, it is necessary for me to intervene."
Marc felt a chill. If Silas was the owner of the books in the cabin, including Zylos's diary, his abilities were at a level Marc couldn't even comprehend yet.
Zylos... Silas... The similarity in the names didn't escape him. But for now, he had a more immediate concern: the man who had just sent him flying was now his new instructor.
"If you don't want to answer all my questions right now, fine. But, how will you help me train?"
"That question will be answered tomorrow. I'll be at your cabin first thing in the morning; I hope you're already prepared by the time I arrive. Starting tomorrow, the real training begins."
Having said that, Silas the priest walked away from Marc toward the temple.
"See you tomorrow, I guess," Marc said.
I don't know how capable this priest is of teaching me powerful magic, but it's true that the hit he gave me was very potent and I didn't even see it coming. It's obvious he has the influence of Zylos, since he didn't utter any spell when he launched that magic at me. If there's something I can learn from him, I won't close myself off to his help. Tomorrow I will put his wisdom to the test.
Marc returned to the cabin. When he arrived, he began reading Zylos's book for the remainder of the afternoon.