Milen, the First Demon of the Eina Clan
Dandern bought a boat and set sail for the stronghold of his first and strongest sister, Milen.
Milen's stronghold was called the Rotten Island. When Yan and her son Dandern arrived at the island, the scene unfolded as if it belonged to a realm between life and death.
The island was surrounded by dark waters — neither blue nor black, but a murky mixture, as if rot had seeped even into the sea. The air itself weighed heavy on the chest with a dampness that blended the scent of the ocean with the stench of decaying earth.
The trees that grew on the island appeared mutated — twisted, cracked trunks, their leaves half vibrant green and half withered black, as if each tree was locked in a struggle between life and decay. The ground was covered in a layer of black moss, occasionally revealing glowing fungi that emitted a faint green light, shimmering like eyes watching the newcomers.
At the heart of the island rose a palace of dark stone. It wasn't vast as much as it was strange — its walls coated with layers of moss and rot, yet amidst the ruin, gleaming geometric engravings appeared, the same symbols Dandern had crafted on his sister's armor. These inscriptions seemed to prevent the entire island from complete dissolution, preserving it in a delicate balance between death and life.
When they entered the palace, they were met by a heavy silence — a stillness broken only by droplets of water falling from the damp ceiling onto the stone floor. The stench of rot was stronger here, yet the place wasn't entirely gloomy. In some rooms, black roses bloomed out of the darkness, offering a strange spectacle of beauty intertwined with corruption.
This was Milen's world… an island half paradise, half graveyard, mirroring the curse she endured every day.
Deep within the palace, Milen sat on a wide bed draped in dark, damp-smelling fabrics. She wore no armor this time, but light sleeping clothes of faded white linen that clung to her slender frame as if revealing more than they concealed. Her chest rose and fell slowly, as if she were battling something inside her at every moment.
Her body resembled a torn canvas caught between beauty and curse. From her chest down to her waist, her skin was soft and pale, radiating a faint light that hinted at her Eina lineage. But everything below that was different — her flesh had begun to transform into corroded tissue, riddled with deep fissures from which thin black vapor escaped, coiling around her like smoke. Dark veins crawled from her stomach down to her thighs, as if the rot was slowly devouring her.
Her face was the most unsettling of all. She had lost her eyes long ago; nothing remained but two hollow sockets glowing with a pale green light, like a cold flame. Yet despite that, her features hadn't lost their femininity. Her lips were full but pale, and her long, silver-gray hair spilled over her shoulders like a curtain trying to hide the ruin.
She struggled to suppress her power, each finger trembling as she gripped the bed sheet, lest the rot break free and turn the place into hell. And yet, there was a strange tranquility in her posture — a mix of a girl imprisoned by her curse and a queen in command of the ruin itself.
As soon as Dandern entered the room and saw his sister Milen sitting on the bed, his eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint he couldn't suppress. He smiled broadly, then suddenly leaped toward her as if he were still a child, arms outstretched to embrace her tightly.
But Milen didn't move from her place. She lifted her head slightly, as if disdainful of his behavior. The moment he drew near, she delivered a swift open-handed strike directly to his face.
Thwack!
Dandern crashed to the floor dramatically, legs in the air and head spinning, and yelled:
"Aaaah! My face!"
Milen looked down at him from the bed with cold features, then said in a sarcastic, commanding tone:
"Is this how you respect your sister, you child?"