After flying continuously for days, Oscar was exhausted, yet he finally reached the island of the Forenight Lights.
He touched down on the shore and, drained from weeks of flight, immediately collapsed onto the ground.
"You are pushing yourself too much, kiddo," the demon snarled. It had been asleep for days, but now that it had awakened, boredom laced its voice.
"Let me take your body for now. You sleep."
Oscar's wings folded and sank back into his back. The metallic hull of his armor shifted, plates locking into a more fortified shape. His sword slid into its inner sheath within the armor.
Slowly, Oscar drifted into sleep.
And the demon took over.
The demon rose to his feet, stretching Oscar's limbs with a feral ease. Cracks of shifting bone and metal echoed faintly as the armor adjusted to its new master. The air around him trembled, as if the island itself recognized the presence now walking in Oscar's stead.
The shoreline was quiet, save for the distant crash of waves. Strange lantern-like lights flickered in the depths of the forest ahead, pale and swaying, giving the island its forbidden name.
"Tch. Always the gloomy places," the demon muttered, rolling Oscar's shoulders. "Your taste in rest places are terrible, boy."
He stepped forward, sand crunching beneath armored boots. The forest greeted him with a cold wind that carried the scent of brine and something faintly sweet, like overripe fruit left too long to rot.
The demon's grin widened.
"Now then," he murmured, voice low and amused, "let us see who dares to live on the island of Forenight Lights."
Something moved between the trees.
A glow. Soft, wavering. Watching.
The demon paused, one hand drifting toward the hilt of Oscar's sword even though it was sealed. His other hand rose, fingers curling, ready to tear or burn or crush.
A whisper answered him from the darkness.
"You are not him."
The demon smirked. "And you are not worth my patience, little spark."
The lights in the forest began to gather. Far more than before. Pale blue, pale green, pale white. Hundreds of them.
They drifted closer.
And the demon welcomed them with a predator's delight.
"Come on little spark!"
The demon ducked low and roared.
A crimson wave tore itself from the air and surged toward the faint light, spreading its blood-red miasma across the island. Vegetation blackened, then flushed red, as the sharp stench of iron flooded the shore. Where the fog touched the water, the sea darkened into a deep, abyssal hue, as though light itself were being swallowed.
"Blood Arts: Crimson Sea of Wrath."
The wave expanded, engulfing the island whole, staining everything it touched in shades of red and black. The land was no longer itself. It had become part of the spell.
The demon's body responded immediately. His movements grew faster, heavier, each strike carrying far more force than before. Yet his mind faltered. Reason slipped away, drowned beneath the tide of power.
Rage overtook him.
The deeper the crimson spread, the darker the world became, and with it, the demon descended further into madness, no longer a warrior, but a berserker driven by blood and instinct alone.
The sparks of light flickered more violently, struggling to subdue the monster's spell. Instead, they were drawn into it. The crimson miasma stained the glow, warping its rhythm, driving it into a frenzy of its own. Madness took hold, but without the gift of strength. Only distortion remained.
At last, the crimson wave completed its work.
The light tore free from whatever veil had bound it and fell into the physical world. It took shape as a humanoid man, a lantern clenched in his hand. His skin was aged beyond reason, shriveled and deeply wrinkled, stretched tight over brittle bone. The glow within the lantern pulsed unevenly, sick and unstable.
He raised his head.
When he spoke, his voice rasped like dry hay dragged across stone.
The demon moved before the old man could react.
Crimson tendrils lashed out from the miasma, wrapping around the man's limbs and torso, pinning him in place. The lantern flared violently, its light sputtering as if trying to escape, but the bindings tightened, digging into flesh and glow alike.
The old man screamed. It was thin and broken, more breath than sound.
"Stay still," the demon said, almost casually. "You have served your purpose."
He placed a clawed hand against the lantern.
The crimson sea responded.
Symbols carved themselves into the air, crude and violent, burning with blood-red light. The lantern shuddered as the spell took hold, its glow compressing inward, forced into a tighter and tighter space.
The demon turned.
"Oscar," he said.
The air twisted.
Something was pulled, not physically, but forcibly, like a hook sunk deep into the unseen. Oscar's soul was dragged free, stripped of weight and direction, screaming without sound as it was thrust into the lantern.
The light flared once.
Then it went still.
The old man's body slackened. The lantern dimmed, its glow settling into a steady, muted pulse. The crimson bindings loosened and fell away, leaving the man collapsed and empty, little more than a husk clutching a vessel no longer his.
Silence returned to the island.
Inside the lantern, awareness stirred.
Oscar woke with a jolt.
He felt no body. Almost weightless. Only a tight, enclosed awareness and a faint glow that responded when he tried to move.
"What the hell…" his voice echoed strangely, as though spoken through glass and fire.
The demon crouched in front of him, peering into the lantern with a wide grin.
"Oh good," he said. "You are awake."
Oscar spun, or tried to. The world tilted instead. "Why am I in a lantern?"
The demon laughed. "Temporary housing," he replied. "Very portable. Hard to kill. And honestly, it suits you."
Oscar paused.
"…Get me out."
"Later," the demon said, standing upright. "Consider this a character-building experience."
The lantern's light flickered, sharp and indignant.
The demon only smiled wider.