Kellan flinched.
The blade was already coming down.
Demons possessed a terrifying power—the ability to corrupt the mind. Each one embodied a singular, twisted concept. If your will faltered, even for a moment, they'd crawl into your soul and reshape it in their image.
Turn you into one of theirs.
A servant.
A husk.
Corruption.
Just like now. The instant Kellan laid eyes on the demonic weapon, his mind flooded with visions—blades, slicing, severing, rivers of blood.
Blades.
Butchery.
Blood.
Gleaming edges shimmered before his eyes, illusion laced with reality. He couldn't tell which was which. His vision swam red. If he lingered in this trance, he'd fall—he'd become one of them.
He had no choice. He shouted the incantation every demon hunter learns to fear:
"Aphen Flame!"
It wasn't fire meant to burn enemies—it was pain. A roaring blaze that seared the soul awake.
It hit him like a hammer to the heart.
His insides lit up with agony.
And in that agony—clarity.
If needed, he could even drag the Aphen Flame out of his body, wield it like a brand. But not yet.
The burning inside cleared the illusions. The blades vanished. The shadows of his mind recoiled. He came back to himself—back to the twilight forest and the battle still raging.
Instinct took over. He raised his sword.
The corrupted cleaver smashed into his blade, a scream of steel-on-steel, raw power hurling Kellan to the ground. The demonic weapon twisted midair, unnaturally graceful, rising for another strike.
Kellan gasped, clutching his sword.
Too heavy. I can't match its strength head-on. His thoughts raced.
The cleaver spun again, streaks of black and red flashing. It dove. Kellan scrambled to rise.
"End the spell! You'll burn your soul out!" Etienne was at his side in an instant, longsword drawn. Just as the cleaver descended again, Etienne struck—a perfect thrust that deflected its path.
The corrupted weapon sliced past the grass, missing by inches. It hovered again, floating like a predator mid-hunt.
Kellan forced himself to douse the Aphen Flame. If he didn't, it would consume him completely—turning him into a soulless puppet. Etienne had warned him: the longer the flame burned, the more soul it ate. For mortals, even a few seconds could be fatal.
He glanced down.
A jagged gash split his sword where the demon blade had struck. The metal had warped—bent like cheap tin.
Is this all our forged weapons are worth? Kellan clenched his jaw.
So fragile—shattered by a cursed servant of some demon lord?
How the hell are we supposed to fight things like this? He hadn't caught his breath yet when the cleaver surged again.
This cursed blade was definitely the work of a Blade Demon. Kellan could feel it—the dense malice inside. The curve of the blade was unnatural, serrated edges gleaming. Even the air screamed as it moved.
He fought to calm his mind, to shield it from demonic whispers. Etienne stood firm beside him, a seasoned hunter—immune to such tricks.
Whistle— The cleaver slashed toward Kellan again. It had already marked him as the weaker prey. He raised his sword to block, but the weapon twisted midair—faster than he could react.
It dropped like a hawk diving for a kill.
Straight for his legs.
Shit.
He stepped back on instinct—but too slow.
He could already feel it.
He wouldn't make it.
Shit.
Kellan instinctively stumbled back—but he wasn't fast enough. That cursed blade was going to take his legs clean off.
Gritting his teeth, he swung his sword down with all his might—angled, desperate. Steel met steel in a shower of sparks.
The corrupted cleaver smashed into his weapon. A tidal wave of force surged through his arms.
He had to grip the hilt with both hands or lose it entirely.
The two blades locked.
A brutal contest of strength.
And Kellan was losing.
His sword started to groan—metal whining under the pressure, ready to snap at any moment.
Etienne didn't charge in immediately. He muttered something under his breath, eyes locked on the clash of steel. Then, calmly, he reached into his coat and pulled out a coil of rope. With a sharp flick, he threw it.
The rope flew like a striking serpent, wrapping around the cleaver's long handle. It tightened fast—coiling up the length of the weapon, binding it.
Suddenly, the pressure on Kellan's blade vanished. The demonic cleaver dropped limply to the ground, its vicious energy subdued. The rope shimmered faintly with magical force.
Etienne's rope.
Kellan knew it well.
They called it the Demoncord.
Every demon hunter had their secrets—enchanted tools, hidden spells, alchemical brews. None of it was shared. Knowledge was passed from master to apprentice, never peer to peer.
"Watch carefully, Kellan," Etienne said, eyes never leaving the blade. "Someday, this'll be yours. Learn how it works."
He gave the rope a sharp tug. The bound blade slid across the ground, pulled toward him.
Someday… I'll use that too.
Kellan stared at the rope, awe rising in his chest.
But something was wrong.
The motion was off.
It wasn't the rope dragging the blade…
It was the blade dragging the rope.
"It's still moving!" Kellan shouted.
Etienne's face darkened. He dropped the rope and grabbed his sword again. The Demoncord unraveled in an instant, falling away uselessly.
The corrupted cleaver broke free—rushed forward—straight for Etienne's chest.
The veteran hunter didn't flinch.
He watched.
Waited.
Then struck.
CLANG!
His blade hit dead-on, deflecting the cleaver's trajectory. It missed his heart by inches, skimming past with a howl of torn leather and sheared flesh.
"Grab the rope. Bind it again," Etienne barked.
He hadn't moved an inch. But blood spilled freely from a long gash across his ribs. His armor had been split wide open.
Kellan swallowed hard. Sweat ran cold down his spine.
He darted forward, snatching the Demoncord from the grass beside Etienne's boots. The cleaver hovered again, twitching like a predator ready to flee.
"You've still got blood to lose, old man?"
The demon's voice slithered through the air, low and mocking.
Then the blade spun and bolted, streaking away into the trees.
"You're hurt," Kellan said, glancing at the wound.
It was bad.
Flesh torn open, armor soaked in red.
"I said bind it!" Etienne snarled, still standing tall, sword at the ready. "Forget me—take it down!"
Kellan didn't hesitate. He spun the Demoncord just like Etienne had taught him—wrist loose, aim steady—and launched it toward the fleeing weapon.
The rope shot through the air, arcing cleanly. It snapped tight around the corrupted cleaver mid-flight.
The cursed blade fought back instantly, writhing, twisting. The rope in Kellan's hands thrashed like a live thing.
He held firm, digging in his heels.
The rope didn't slip. It was enchanted—fused with witchcraft that bonded it to its wielder's palm. It wouldn't be torn away unless Kellan let go.
He pulled.
Hard.
Then again.
Each tug was a contest.
His will against its fury.
The cleaver pulsed with dark power, resisting every inch.
His boots dug into the ground, legs straining as he pulled with everything he had.
The corrupted blade kept fighting back, dragging toward the trees, refusing to surrender.
The Demoncord stretched taut—groaning under the pressure of two opposing wills—threatening to snap at any moment.
But then… the resistance weakened.
Kellan felt it—
The power inside the blade… fading.
His heart jumped. He yanked one last time, and the corrupted cleaver suddenly went limp. With the force he was still exerting, Kellan stumbled back several steps, barely keeping his footing.
His arms were jelly. His lungs burned.
But he had it.
He was winning.
Slowly, painstakingly, he began dragging the corrupted weapon back toward them.
"Every demon represents a concept," Etienne said, watching the blade inch closer. "And whatever it corrupts… reshapes into a twisted reflection of itself."
"The Bullhead demon spawns horned beasts. The Bloodfiend turns people into puddles of living gore. The Blade Demon? It gives birth to cursed weapons. Implements of slicing. Of execution."
"Animals, bones, metal… even living humans—they're all raw material to it."
Kellan stared at him, worry on his face. "You were hit."
Etienne's lips were pale. He wiped sweat from his brow, forcing a smirk. "It's my body. I know what happened."
He gestured at himself. "I'm all scars anyway. What's one more? I'm old, Kellan. Weak. Close to the end. That's why you need to remember everything I say. Every word. Someday, all of this… it'll be yours."
You're not dying.
Kellan almost said it.
But he couldn't.
The feeling gnawed at him—that Etienne could die any moment.
And when that day came, he would be alone. The last one standing between mankind and the abyss.
Kellan pulled the Demoncord closer until the cleaver lay at his feet. Its unnatural energy had faded. It was just a black-and-red blade now—eerily silent, but still... wrong.
He stared at it, cold sweat running down his neck.
Was this once a living thing?
A person?
"Give me the blade," Etienne said, voice steady again. "You, go burn that tree."
Kellan handed over the weapon. Etienne slid it through his belt with a grunt.
"Burn it?" Kellan echoed.
"We're not making it to the Stonecamp ruins before dark," Etienne said, settling against the base of the alder. "Better to rest here. A burning tree will also signal our position. Maybe someone'll find us."
He pulled out bandages, ointment, and a small knife—ready to dress his wound.
Kellan knelt by the tree roots. He pulled flint and firesteel from his pouch, preparing to spark a flame.
Above him, Julius still hung—bruised, broken, staring into nothing.
"Aren't we going to take him down?"
"Burn him, too," Etienne said without hesitation. "Turning to ash in an unknown forest? That's the cleanest end a hunter can hope for."
"If we die out here, you do the same for us."
He paused, his expression darkening. "Every other kind of death… it's worse. Lose your will and you become a demon's thrall. Get caught by cityfolk, and they hang you like a witch. Or you die from soulburn."
Etienne began stripping off his cloak and unbuckling the straps of his torn leather armor.
"You nearly got yourself killed with that Aphen Flame, earlier," he muttered. "If you hadn't put it out fast enough, your soul would've been cooked to a cinder."
Kellan winced.
He knew.
Every hunter's magic was paid in soul.
The stronger the spell, the more it stole—memories, emotions, identity. And once it started… it didn't stop.
Etienne was already deep in it.
He woke up screaming some nights, convinced he was still fighting demons.
He was always on edge—drinking himself numb, bedding strangers to forget.
Over the past few months, they'd stopped at every tavern, every brothel on the road.
Kellan had learned a lot about surviving on credit.
"Julius died horribly…" he whispered.
"He died with purpose," Etienne replied.
With purpose?
Kellan didn't understand.
Hanging there like bait—gutted, strung up by the Blade Demon, turned into part of a trap—what kind of meaning was there in that?
He didn't even know when or where Julius had died.
Didn't know what finally killed him.
Kellan found a dry branch and struck his fireknife, sending a spray of sparks into the wood. The twig caught easily. He held the flame to the massive tree's bark—
and the fire took.
The outer bark ignited in patches. Fire licked and crawled over the trunk, forming islands of orange that crackled and popped in the night.
The flames grew louder, the sizzle of burning wood merging into a steady roar.
Demon hunters really live like this, Kellan thought, staring into the blaze.
Always in the worst places, facing the worst things… never knowing when death will come.
He turned to look back.
Etienne had stripped to the waist.
His torso was a map of scars, tattoos, and arcane marks. The fresh gash barely stood out, tucked between two old, hideous welts.
"Learn to treat your own wounds," Etienne muttered. Not an inch of his skin was unmarked. "First thing—drink. Just enough to fog your brain. Takes the edge off the pain."
He reached into his pack and pulled out a dark bottle of liquor.
"That's part of our creed, too—never deny yourself pleasure. If there's good booze, drink it. Good food, eat it. Pretty woman? Chase her."
Kellan watched silently as the old hunter threw back two, three mouthfuls of the harsh spirit.
"Once the booze hits…" Etienne pulled out a small clay jar. "Saltwater. Cleans the wound."
He poured the liquid straight into the cut.
"Gods-damned thing—" he hissed through clenched teeth. The pain clearly wasn't dulled enough.
Still, the blood lessened after the rinse.
"Next—witch's salve. Smear it on, bandage the rest, and leave the rest to fate."
He pressed a palm to his forehead. "Most die of infection. The ones who live? They get the Otter Witch's blessing. Start taking hits like iron. Harder to kill."
"Come help me."
He pried open a small tin and spread thick purple paste over the wound. It clung to the flesh like melted wax.
Kellan took the roll of bandages and began to wrap.
The first pass turned red instantly.
The second soaked less.
By the third, only a few dull stains seeped through.
Etienne downed the rest of the liquor in one go. He stared into the fire, eyes unblinking.
Then he said, voice low and strained:
"I hear footsteps. Behind us. Someone's coming."
"I can't take another fight like this. If it's a puppet—someone corrupted, under the Demon's control—I'm useless right now."
"You go. Find out. Could be another hunter. Could be worse. Either way… if you die, I die too."
Kellan swallowed hard, trying not to show how his hands were shaking.
He turned toward the woods.
Toward the darkness behind them.
Took a deep breath.
And saw it—
A shape.
Silhouetted against the night.
It moved toward them.
Slow.
Unnatural.