"How the fuck did you just do that?" Chris asked, his voice echoing in the space of their shared mind.
"That was a Level 1 Blood Art. This body doesn't have the mana capacity for a sphere, let alone a sword."
The Demon Prince remained on one knee, his chest breathing like crazy.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of blood behind.
"That's your capability," the Demon scoffed, though the arrogance was breathless.
"You think just because I am trapped in a weak vessel, I would be weak too?"
He forced himself to stand, his legs trembling violently under his own weight.
"My power is not defined by muscles or mana pools. It is defined by my soul. My will. No matter what form I take, my authority remains constant."
He smirked, a jagged, terrifying expression on Chris's usually plain face.
"I am absolute. I am—"
Drip.
A heavy drop of dark blood splattered onto the back of his hand.
Then another.
The Demon frowned, reaching up to touch his nose.
His fingers came away red.
Suddenly, a wave of vertigo hit him. The world tilted violently to the left.
"Gah!"
His legs gave out completely.
He collapsed face-first into the dirt, coughing as dust filled his mouth.
"So much for 'absolute authority,'" Chris remarked dryly. "You're bleeding out the nose because you fried our brain circuits."
"Silence..." the Demon groaned, trying to push himself up but failing. "Just a minor... setback."
"It's not a setback. It's a warning label," Chris said, his tone shifting from mockery to serious urgency.
"Listen to me. If this body dies, where does your soul go? Back to hell? Or do you just fade into nothingness?"
The Demon went still.
He didn't know the answer. And for a being as old as him, the unknown was the only thing that sparked fear.
"We need to move," Chris continued. "That deer wasn't alone. And the noise of the fight probably attracted every scavenger within a mile. If we stay here, we're dead."
"Fine," the Demon spat, finally managing to roll onto his back. "But I cannot walk far."
"We don't need to go far. We just need to hide."
Chris directed the Demon's attention to the headless cultist lying a few yards away.
"Get the robe."
"I am not wearing the rags of a failure."
"You are if you want to live. We're in the middle of a restricted zone. If we run into knights, they'll kill us for being suspicious. If we run into cultists, they'll kill us for being intruders. That robe is the only camouflage we have."
Gritting his teeth, the Demon crawled—literally crawled—over to the corpse.
It was a degrading experience.
The Prince of the Seventh Layer, reduced to scavenging clothes from a headless grunt.
He stripped the dark red robe from the stiffening body. It was heavy, smelling of sweat and iron.
He pulled it over his head, the fabric instantly hiding his modern clothes and the fresh gashes on his arms.
He tied the sash tight around his waist.
"Pull the hood up," Chris instructed.
The Demon obeyed.
Now, standing in the shadows of the twilight forest, he looked like just another acolyte of the dark order.
"I look like a beggar," the Demon muttered, inspecting the frayed sleeves.
"You look like you belong here. Now, let's go."
"Which way?"
"Follow my lead. And for god's sake, don't argue with me this time. I know the map."
The Demon didn't have the energy to fight back. He surrendered control of the navigation, letting Chris's instincts guide their feet.
They moved away from the clearing, stepping into the dense labyrinth of the Blackwood.
Chris was right about the forest.
It was alive.
As they walked, the trees seemed to shift in their peripheral vision. Roots that were on the left seemed to slither to the right when they weren't looking.
"Take the narrow path between those two briars," Chris directed.
"That looks like a dead end."
"It's not. In the game—I mean, in the lore—that's a smuggler's route. The roots don't close that path until midnight."
They slipped through the gap.
True to Chris's word, the thickets opened up into a deer trail.
They walked in silence for ten minutes. The Demon focused entirely on putting one foot in front of the other, his breathing ragged.
The exhaustion was bone-deep. Every step sent a jolt of pain up his shins.
"Stop," Chris said suddenly.
The Demon froze, leaning heavily against a tree to catch his breath.
"What now? Another deer?"
"No. Look ahead. There's a light."
Through the gaps in the trees, a soft, yellow glow flickered. It wasn't the magical bioluminescence of the forest; it was the warm, steady light of a fire.
"A camp?"
"Maybe. Or a patrol."
"If it is a human, I will kill them and take their supplies," the Demon whispered, his thirst for blood rising again despite his fatigue.
"You can't even kill a mosquito right now," Chris snapped. "We avoid it."
They tried to circle, moving quietly through the underbrush.
But the forest had other plans.
SNAP.
The sound was deafening.
The Demon looked down. He hadn't stepped on a twig. The twig had seemingly moved under his foot.
"Fucking wood..."
"Freeze," Chris hissed.
The yellow light ahead shifted. It grew brighter, swinging toward them.
"Who goes there?"
The voice was clear, authoritative, and young.
It cut through the silence of the woods like a blade.
The Demon's hand instinctively went to his waist for the sword he didn't have.
"More insects?" he growled low in his throat.
"Don't attack," Chris warned, his mental voice spiking with panic. "Do not engage. That voice... I know that voice."
A figure stepped out from the shadows of the treeline, holding a magic lantern in one hand and a longsword in the other.
The light washed over them.
The Demon squinted against the glare, raising a hand to shield his eyes.
The stranger was a young man, perhaps eighteen or nineteen.
He wore shining silver armour that seemed untouched by the mud of the forest. A blue cape hung from his shoulders, embroidered with the crest of a golden sun.
He had hair the colour of spun gold and eyes as blue and piercing as a winter sky.
He was the picture of perfection. The archetype of a hero.
He looked at the Demon—at the blood-stained red robe, the dark hood, and the suspicious posture.
His eyes narrowed in disgust.
"A remnant of the cult?" the young man said, his voice dripping with righteous judgment.
"I thought I cleansed this sector already."
The Demon bristled. "Cleansed? You arrogant little—"
"Shut up!" Chris screamed, effectively silencing the Demon. "Oh my god."
Chris looked at the sword in the man's hand.
Solaris. The blade that burned with the heat of the sun.
He looked at the crest on the cape.
The Order of the Morning Star.
"It's him," Chris whispered, a mix of awe and terror flooding his mind.
"Who is this little shit?" the Demon demanded.
'That's the Protagonist.'
"That is Meriel."
The young hero raised his sword, the blade beginning to glow with a soft, golden light that made the Demon's skin crawl.
"Surrender, cultist," Meriel commanded, stepping forward.
"Or be purified."