Marc reached the clearing where Silas's dwelling stood just as the last trace of gold sank beneath the horizon, leaving the forest submerged in a bluish twilight. The old man's cabin was notably smaller than his own—a modest structure that seemed to sprout from the earth itself, camouflaged among the roots of ancient trees. Despite its simplicity, it emanated a military sense of order: the wood was treated against moisture, and the thatched roof looked impeccable, as if time itself did not dare to wear it down.
To the sides of the house, a small garden displayed perfect rows of vegetables growing with an unnatural vitality under the shadow of a single apple tree, whose branches twisted toward the sky like pleading fingers. Marc had only visited that place once during the day to offer Silas a sample of his "Marc's Jerky" in a gesture of culinary pride. However, under the cold glow of the moon, the cabin took on an almost mystical quality—a sanctuary of silence that contrasted violently with the chaos of ash he had just left behind.
Marc reached the creaking wooden porch, but before his knuckles could graze the surface of the door, Silas's voice emerged from within—deep and cutting—ordering him to enter. The fact that the old man had detected his presence long before he made the slightest sound caused him no surprise; after twelve months of training, he had learned that his master's perception was as inescapable as gravity. It was, simply, another facet of Silas's terrifying experience.
Marc pushed the door open and stepped into the gloom of the cabin, where the scent of dried herbs and old wood floated in the air.
"You look like a mountain ran over you," Silas remarked from the shadows, his tone laced with biting sarcasm. "You shouldn't be roaming the forest in that state; you'll end up frightening even the most hideous of monsters."
Silas didn't even look up from what he was doing, but the sharpness of his comment hit Marc with the same precision as one of his old attacks.
"It was you who sent that Golem to my cabin," Marc blurted out, a tone of irritation rasping in his throat. "It wouldn't surprise me in the least, considering you sent that assassin to my position with surgical precision months ago."
Marc stood his ground, waiting for his master's cynical confession to confirm his suspicions. However, Silas finally looked up, and what Marc found in his gaze was not the spark of a cruel joke, but a frozen seriousness.
"This time, do not look at me," Silas replied, his voice devoid of its usual sarcasm. "Even being who I am, I would never have dared to send something capable of reducing my old cabin to rubble. And much less," he added, pointing with a sharp gesture toward the empty space where the shelves used to be, "to destroy the books inside. It is too much knowledge wasted, even for a brutal lesson."
"I guess it was that piece-of-shit god, then," Marc spat, collapsing heavily into one of the wooden chairs near the entrance. The exhaustion from the battle seemed to weigh more now that Silas's words had robbed him of his most obvious target for rage.
"You should not insult the God Amir; it is He who granted you the power that now flows through your veins," Silas countered, his voice rising with a severity that allowed no rebuttal. "Though, thinking on it, it makes sense. Those are precisely the kinds of trials He tends to place upon His most loyal subjects. Those destined for greatness know no rest."
Marc hissed with sharp sarcasm, a bitter smile playing across his bruised face.
"Someone even worse than you in the cruelty of their tests... I find that hard to believe," he muttered, his voice thick with irony. "Now I perfectly understand why you are such a faithful believer in His teachings. You both share that charming weakness for torture."
Silas did not respond to Marc's comment.
"Even though my dwelling is modest, I always strive to keep it pristine," Silas remarked, his gaze sweeping over his apprentice's wretched state. "You're covered in soot and ash from head to toe. Go wash outside; use your water magic to strip away the filth and the wind to dry yourself."
Marc looked at him with heavy eyelids, physical exhaustion beginning to cloud his vision.
"Can't I use your washroom?" he asked, his voice dragging with the weariness of a thousand battles.
"Under no circumstances. You'd leave my entire cabin caked in grime," Silas stated with icy firmness. "In the meantime, I'll prepare dinner and a special tea to ease the strain on your muscles."
Marc had neither the strength nor the desire to argue; he simply obeyed the old man, stepping out into the biting night air to purify himself with his own mystical essence. When he finished, he returned to the warmth of the cabin, where the aroma of the stew already filled the space. They sat at the table in an unusual silence, sharing the steaming meal Silas had laid out.
"You may stay here tonight," Silas blurted out, breaking the heavy silence that enveloped the table. "But, as soon as dawn breaks, it will be time for you to begin your journey. You are ready."
Marc stopped his spoon halfway, looking up with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.
"Do you really think I'm ready?" Marc asked, surprised. "I would have sworn you'd say I still have an eternity to learn."
"And, obviously, you do have an eternity," Silas replied sharply. "But there are lessons that are only etched by fire as you move through the world. You need real experience—the edge of uncertainty. However, make no mistake: just because you are leaving doesn't mean you should neglect your training. You must continue to expand your mana and refine your magical flow. And under no circumstances," Silas added, regaining that didactic and severe tone, "should you allow your skill with the sword and bow to rust."
Marc let out a sigh, visualizing the difficulties that awaited him.
"It will be complicated... surviving the journey and, at the same time, maintaining the pace of training I've kept up until now," Marc admitted heavily.
"It is true that you will no longer be able to dedicate entire days to exercise," Silas conceded, nodding slightly. "But therein lies true mastery: in balance. You must be able to combine your survival with your growth. Dedicate a few hours at sunrise and others at sunset to cultivate your power. Be disciplined and do not abandon your training out of laziness or fatigue. Be intelligent with your decisions and, above all, be relentless with the use of your time."
There he goes, back into master mode. I thought it was strange he hadn't dropped a lesson on me yet tonight, Marc thought, stifling a bitter smile as exhaustion fought against his curiosity.
"Although I'd like to say I have a fixed course, I'm not entirely sure," Marc admitted, fixing his gaze on the steam rising from his cup. "I know my ultimate goal is to overthrow the current Demon King and, afterward, face the Hero. But I don't know if the wisest move is to march straight into demon territory to challenge the King, or if I should first focus on increasing my power within the human lands."
Silas remained silent for a few moments, the shadows of the cabin dancing in the furrows of his century-old face.
"I do not know the true strength of the current Demon King. I arrived in this forest long before he ascended the throne; he has reigned for fifty years since defeating his predecessor," Silas explained, his voice taking on an ancestral gravity. "Even someone with my experience cannot provide you with all the answers. No one possesses the certainty of what tomorrow holds."
The old man leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Marc's with an intensity that seemed to read his very soul.
"From this moment on, you must forge your own path and make the decisions you deem right... or those that best serve you," Silas declared with a wisdom stripped of any embellishment. "Whether your first step should be into demon territory or not is a burden you must learn to carry alone. The world is your chessboard now, Marc."
"I don't know if claiming the demon throne will permanently chain me to that territory and the obligations of the crown," Marc reflected, toying with the hem of his cloak. "As a monarch, I doubt I could visit other lands without a formal invitation or a clear military objective, and before that... I'd like to see this world. Though I know it's a pipe dream being a demon, hated by almost every living race, it's something I want to try."
Silas watched him in silence, weighing his pupil's worldly ambition.
"Perhaps a spell I know can mitigate that inconvenience," Silas replied, his voice dropping an octave. "It is a technique to distort the light around you—a camouflage that, pushed to its limit, could make you nearly invisible. If you concentrate the flow solely on your horns, you could hide them from prying eyes. However, it has its flaws: your eyes will still betray your nature with that mystical glow, and any loss of concentration or the use of another magic would shatter the veil, leaving you exposed in a heartbeat."
Marc sat frozen at the revelation. Camouflage magic? Invisibility? He wondered if this was the same trick the old man used to stalk him from the shadows during his first days in the forest.
"Why didn't you tell me about this spell before?" Marc questioned, a trace of indignation in his voice.
"You never asked me about it," Silas retorted with dry, sharp sarcasm.
Marc sighed, resigned to his master's cryptic non-explanations.
"I guess it doesn't matter now. Good thing I mentioned my dilemma with the horns; otherwise, you would have let me march straight to a human gallows without saying a word."
Silas proceeded to instruct Marc in the intricacies of that illusory magic. With unusual patience, he explained how to manipulate the strands of light so they would curve around his demonic features, concealing the horns that would condemn him to death in human lands. It was a technical and silent lesson: the final magical instruction Marc would receive from his master in that forest. For a couple of hours, the apprentice practiced under the old man's critical gaze, until the veil of distortion became stable and natural.
As the embers in the hearth began to fade, both prepared to rest. Marc, now accustomed to the harshness of his training, found a corner on the wooden floor to lie down, using his travel bag as a pillow. As he closed his eyes, the silence of the cabin seemed to seal the end of an era. That day, which had begun with the study of a book and continued with the fall of a colossus, ended in the shadows of someone else's refuge. It was the end of his training; at dawn, the world would cease to be a concept in a book and become his reality.
When Marc woke up, the sun was barely beginning to lick the edges of the window, but Silas was already gone. In his place, upon the wooden table, rested a brief note informing him that he had departed for the temple and would return in a couple of hours. Beside the message, the old man had left breakfast served and, to Marc's absolute astonishment, a small steaming pot.
Coffee?, Marc marveled, inhaling the earthy, bitter aroma he hadn't smelled since his arrival in this world. I didn't think something so mundane existed in this place. That sip was like a fleeting bridge to his past, an unexpected luxury before the uncertainty of the road.
After eating and washing up quickly, Marc prepared his pack. The note said Silas would return soon, but time was pressing; if he wanted to gain ground on the forest and make the most of every ray of light, he had to set out as soon as possible. However, just as he was adjusting the straps of his bag, the door opened and Silas's lean figure framed the threshold.
"You should have used the morning to train before setting off," Silas blurted out as a greeting, with his usual rigidity.
"Did you really expect me to train today?" Marc countered, arching an eyebrow. "I have no intention of wearing myself out before the long trek ahead of me."
"You could handle that and much more without the slightest problem," Silas grumbled, visibly annoyed by his pupil's lack of discipline.
"What did you go to the temple for today, old man? You're only going to delay me," Marc questioned, trying to hide his curiosity.
"I wanted to know if the God Amir had any last-minute instructions before your departure," Silas replied, regaining his composure.
Marc stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide.
"Can you actually speak with Him directly? Because if I could, I'd have a few choice words for Him regarding that damn Golem."
"I cannot communicate with Him directly," Silas clarified. "Often He leaves notes with His designs, and only on rare occasions has He spoken to me aloud. One of those was to command me to prepare everything for your arrival."
"Ah, when He asked you to hand over your cabin, then," Marc needled, searching for a crack in the old man's armor.
"As I've told you," Silas replied, completely unfazed, "that was no inconvenience for me at all."
"Well? Were there any new instructions?" Marc questioned, finishing his coffee.
"None," Silas replied curtly, without looking away from his gear.
"I see just how much that God cares about me," Marc said with a sarcastic edge. "Not even a pat on the back for the road."
Silas shot him a glaring look that would have made a common man tremble.
"Before you set off, I will give you a map and pinpoint our current position. I have a feeling that if I don't show you how to reach the next town, you'll end up lost before you even cross the border," Silas remarked. "The advantage of you mastering that camouflage is that, at the very least, you'll be able to resupply in settlements and, with luck, spend the night at an inn without being burned alive."
"Though the glow in my eyes is still a dead giveaway," Marc noted, touching his face.
"As for that... I used alchemy to craft these," Silas said, reaching out to hand a small object to Marc. "They are lenses. With them, you can hide the radiance of your pupils. They were forged with my arduous knowledge, so you can start thanking me now."
"Sunglasses?" Marc stood frozen at the sight of the object. "I see this world has more things in common with mine than I thought."
"I don't know what 'sunglasses' are, but these are so dark that not even the brightest glow of your mana will pass through them. Yet, you will be able to see through them with absolute clarity," Silas explained.
Marc put them on, intrigued. To his surprise, they were superior to any glasses he had ever known; the vision was sharp, as if using clear lenses, even though from the outside they looked as black as the abyss.
"You shouldn't have bothered, Gramps. I didn't know you had such a good heart under all that grit," Marc joked with a lopsided grin.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I've always had a heart of gold," Silas replied, regaining his gruff tone.
The old man then pulled out several maps: a detailed one of the forest and others of a larger scale showing the surrounding kingdoms. With his finger, he traced the routes Marc had to take.
"In this world, maps are precious treasures; they are guarded with one's life. Do not lose them," Silas warned, folding them with an almost ritualistic delicacy before tucking them into Marc's backpack.
"Are you really giving them to me?" Marc blinked, surprised by the generosity. "You're being especially giving today. I should take advantage and ask for some food for the road, don't you think?"
"No. If you want to eat, hunt," Silas replied sharply. "The maps are my final gift."
"Fair enough. It's more than I expected, so I'm not complaining," Marc concluded, tightening his pack. The weight of the gear reminded him that, finally, the threshold of his new life was just a step away.
Both stepped out into the crisp morning air. Silas stopped on the porch, an immovable figure against the weathered wood, while Marc walked a few paces before halting and turning on his heels to face his master one last time.
"I never asked you, but I've always had a suspicion... Are you Zylos? The author of the book," Marc asked, breaking the forest's silence.
"It is a name I left behind many years ago," Silas replied, and for an instant, his voice carried a melancholy as heavy as the centuries themselves.
"In your treatise, you mentioned having lived for hundreds of years," Marc pressed, intrigued by the sheer magnitude of the number.
"Thousands, in fact. Over two thousand years, at the very least," Silas said flatly, as if merely stating the time of day.
Marc stood frozen. The shock robbed him of his speech for a moment.
"Thousands? How is that even possible for a human being?" he exclaimed. "Amir told me I could live for a millennium, but that was because he imbued this body with that power. How on earth did you acquire such longevity?"
"It is different from what the God Amir granted you," Silas explained. "The magic I perfected technically halts the aging process; it's as if it paralyzes the flow of time exclusively within the organs and skin."
"Is it... common in this world?" Marc asked, processing the implication of a man who had seen civilizations rise and fall.
"Not at all," Silas countered. "It is a knowledge I distilled through eons of effort and an absolute mastery of magic. I have only entrusted this secret to three other people in my entire existence, with the certainty that they would never spread a secret of such magnitude."
"And you didn't plan on passing it down to me?" Marc questioned, a hint of reproach in his voice.
"You do not need it," Silas stated firmly. "Besides, you would likely end up teaching it to others. It is not a power to be taken lightly."
"Do you distrust me after all this time?" Marc said playfully, trying to lighten the mood. "If you asked me not to, I wouldn't go around handing out immortality left and right."
"You might think that now," Silas said, locking eyes with his pupil. "But you are far more emotional than you admit. The day someone dear to you is in danger, or simply out of the selfish desire not to lose a loved one, you wouldn't hesitate for a second to use it."
Marc fell silent, struck by how accurately Silas had read his heart.
"That's a bit cruel, don't you think? Are you calling me sentimental?"
"I don't mean it as an insult, Marc. On the contrary, I believe that is why you are perfect to be the Demon King. You could lead your kind into an era of peace and prosperity that history has never seen," Silas confessed. "It is good that you still hold that spark of humanity within you. Though I must warn you: in the future, that very humanity might lead you astray."
"I didn't know you actually thought that of me, Gramps... you're going to make me cry," Marc joked, hiding his emotion behind a smirk.
"Don't take it to heart if you don't want to. But it is the truth," Silas concluded. "I truly expect great things from you, however much it may surprise you to hear it from me."
"It catches me by surprise that you actually expect so much of me," Marc admitted, adjusting his pack straps. "I don't even hold myself in high enough regard to say I'll lead the demons to prosperity."
"You should," Silas stated with unyielding gravity. "Just as you should set off on your journey before the sun gets the better of you."
"Fair point," Marc nodded, turning on his heels. "I guess once I kill that bargain-bin Hero, I'll come back to visit and tell you how I've fared all these years."
"It will not be so," Silas cut in. His voice sounded strangely light, stripped of its usual harshness. "I have removed the anti-aging magic from my own body. The days have begun to count for me, Marc. In a few short years, I will be dead. This is the last time we shall see each other."
The revelation hit Marc with the force of a physical blow. He stopped dead in his tracks, forcing himself to turn once more, disbelief etched across his face.
"What do you mean? Why now, after so many centuries?" he asked, his voice cracking with shock.
"I have lived long enough. Though it may not seem so, we all fear death, and that fear was what drove me to cling to life for so long," Silas explained, looking up at the treetops. "But after this year of training you, I realized my work on this earth is done. I have nothing left to live for. Ten years ago, before you arrived, my last wife passed away. I tried to use immortality magic on her, but she refused; she said she preferred to follow the natural cycle of life and death without alteration. That woman, strong and serene, did not fear the end... unlike me, a millennial old fossil clinging to existence. I am at peace. I have achieved much, and I have suffered just as much. My cycle will finally end, and I will rest beside her."
Marc remained in deathly silence for several seconds, processing the weight of this final farewell.
"I understand," was all he could manage to articulate.
"This is a goodbye, not a 'see you later,'" Silas said, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "But do not be saddened, young demon; your adventure is only just beginning. Throughout your life, you will see many people depart, but let that not discourage you. As long as you draw breath, you will live incredible experiences. A life, whether short or long, can be filled with joy if you so choose."
"Don't go getting sentimental on me now, old man," Marc joked, swallowing the lump in his throat to hide his sadness.
"It's the age," Silas played along. "If you ever reach my years, you will understand."
"I doubt anyone could ever reach your age," Marc concluded solemnly. "Well, Gramps... I'll see you on the other side then."
"Don't hurry to get there," the old man replied.
Marc turned away, raising a hand in one last gesture of farewell before setting off. This time, just as Silas had taught him through the example of the cabin, he did not look back. His figure began to blur amidst the dense grove, while the echo of his footsteps faded into the whisper of the forest. And, just as the old sage had declared, this was no "see you later," but a final goodbye. That morning of uncertain light was, indeed, the last time the millennial master and his young pupil would ever cross paths in this world.
After two hours of steady trekking, the forest seemed to close in around Marc, who remained submerged in the labyrinth of his own thoughts. A strange mix of euphoria at the start of his adventure and a sharp melancholy for leaving behind his master—the first and only person he had known in this world—weighed heavy on his chest.
I didn't expect the farewell to affect me this much, Marc admitted to himself, feeling the weight of the pack on his shoulders. I always imagined that by walking away from Silas, I'd be jumping for joy at not having to see his face every morning. I guess I held a much deeper affection for the old man than my pride allowed me to admit.
Suddenly, the dry snap of branches breaking to his right tore him from his reflections. Marc tensed instantly, his right hand instinctively reaching for his weapon's hilt while his eyes scanned the thicket. There, just a few meters away, emerged a massive white wolf with snowy fur, identical to those he had faced in his first bloody hunt.
His warrior instinct put him on high alert. Marc scanned the surroundings, looking for the rest of the pack that should have been stalking him, but the silence was absolute. There were no other tracks, no other heavy breaths in the shadows. The wolf didn't seem to notice his presence until that very moment either. Their gazes met in the chilly air; Marc raised his hand, mana flowing through his veins ready to summon a deadly ice stake. However, he stopped.
In the animal's eyes, there was no defiance, no hunger, nor that frenetic bloodlust he remembered. Only a serene, profound observation. Marc slowly lowered his hand.
—"It's you... the one who survived that time, isn't it?" Marc murmured aloud, his voice breaking the stillness of the clearing. "That's why you have no pack. You're as alone as I am."
The wolf maintained eye contact, as if understanding the weight of the words.
—"I guess, after everything, we've both ended up alone in this world," Marc continued with a sad smile.
Without another word, and without the predator showing any intent to attack, they both resumed their journey. The wolf disappeared into the thicket and Marc followed the path—two lonely souls moving toward the horizon without looking back.