The morning sun Neale had feared was like a cold, white blade that seemed to slash and invade the devastated landscape. The light exposed him far too much, but the boy had to take the risk. With the Order's backpack secured to his back, the remaining piece of the overcoat tightly folded and stowed, and his multi-tool in his right pants pocket, he stepped out of the abandoned border post.
Route 305 looked even more dangerous in the daylight. The asphalt was covered in the scars of war, littered with twisted debris and what looked like the bone dust of a lesser demonic beast—perhaps even a greater one. Neale walked along the shoulder of the road, constantly scanning the forest, peering through the leaves and trees, and glancing at the semi-clear sky dotted with dark clouds. His mind occasionally drifted between sharp focus and memories of his mother's kindness and his father's courage. With those memories came his fury and his constant oath of vengeance: "The cunning and intelligence of our family," he recalled Helyara's words. For a moment, his mind was split between reading the logbook he had found to look for information on Kirden and the Order's base, and the primal need for survival.
He stopped briefly to drink the warm, slightly bitter water from the canteen. The taste was faint but unpleasant, yet it still quenched his thirst. It was in that small moment of carelessness, while trying to put the canteen back into his pack, that danger struck.
It didn't come from the front or behind. It came from above.
A high-pitched sound that seemed to vibrate inside his brain—like the sound of paper tearing under pressure—violently cut through the silence. A lesser winged demonic beast, a rare variation among the demonic beasts of hell, likely specialized in aerial combat and hunting, descended in a violent swoop. Its wings, which looked like supple but strong leather, beat against the wind. Being a lesser winged demonic beast, it wasn't as large or strong as a greater demonic beast, but its power was still terrifying. Even without possessing Righteous Wrath, Neale could feel it. Its claws were sharp, like long, curved knives—very different from the thing that had killed his mother.
Instinct, not training (for Neale had none), made him dive to the side in a clumsy roll. The lesser winged demonic beast missed him by a hair, leaving only a slight scratch on his neck. He could hear its claws slicing the air where his throat had been an instant before. The creature's violent impact shattered the asphalt, kicking up a massive curtain of dust and sending concrete debris flying.
As Neale scrambled up from his near-failed dodge, he was knocked down again by the sheer pressure of the impact, his backpack cushioning the fall. His breath hitched, replaced by a silent, internal scream of pure terror. The lesser winged demonic beast was fast, already pivoting in the air for a second strike.
The knife!
His hand shot to his pocket almost instinctively, gripping the cold, light metal. The multi-tool had a blade that wasn't impressive—maybe four inches long—but it was all he had.
The beast came again, diving with dizzying, violent speed, as if it had been starving for centuries. It was focused on disemboweling its prey, quick and easy.
"I'm going to die here. No—I can't. I promised to get revenge."
The memory of Helyara and Carlos—soldiers of Dark White and Light Yellow Righteous Wrath—flooded him. Neale didn't have Righteous Wrath, but he had longing and a pure, irrational hatred driving him. He clung to that fury, using it like a bulletproof vest against his fear.
He rolled to the right just as the demonic beast thrust its claws toward his head. Neale lunged the multi-tool upward in a desperate, clumsy strike, aiming for the part of the wing that seemed the weakest and most vital for flight: the soft tissue underneath.
The small blade met resistance. For a second, it felt like it wouldn't tear, but the creature's own speed and force helped drive the blade through the wing. There was no cry of pain, only a hissing noise and a hot jet of viscous black blood that splashed onto Neale's face directly from the deep gash he'd carved. The lesser demonic beast lost control, crashing disoriented into a pile of rubble and trees at the roadside.
Neale stood paralyzed, his breath caught in his throat, demon blood dripping from his eyelashes to his mouth. He had wounded it, but not killed it.
The lesser winged demonic beast recovered quickly, staggering as it felt its wing. The wound was bleeding, and it was furious. It let out a roar of hatred so powerful it shook the surrounding trees, and it began to charge toward Neale, abandoning its aerial tactics.
Neale realized instantly that the fight wasn't over. He wasn't an Order soldier or a warrior like his father. He was a fugitive covered in demonic blood.
He scrambled to his feet, wiping the blood from his eyes with the hem of his shirt. Adrenaline forced a decision: fight or flight? The beast was slow and injured.
Fleeing was the only intelligent option; he wasn't strong, and he didn't have lives to spare on a gamble.
He turned and bolted, diving deeper into the forest, his backpack thumping against his back. He had made a promise to kill, but not today. Today, he had only survived. He wasn't strong yet. And the scent of his blood, mixed with the creature's, was all over him.