The hunt pressed on in tense silence.
Their boots crunched on the brittle underbrush of Veilwood, where the light was thin and the trees curved like ribs. The bald man's group moved in practiced formation—eyes flicking between the shadows, weapons gripped tight. Yet unease lingered in the air, too heavy to ignore.
One of the mercenaries, a wiry man with a voice like crushed gravel, glanced at Tovan with narrowed eyes. "Bronze skin," he muttered. "He looks like one of those Cindralith-born. You know, from the coasts."
Another scoffed. "He's probably just some orphan. Doesn't even know his bloodline." He chuckled, the sound low and scornful.
Tovan heard it but said nothing. Renil glanced at him, but the boy's face was unreadable—like a sealed door.
Then the wind stopped.
It didn't slow.
It stopped.
The trees went still. Even the insects fell silent, as if the very forest held its breath.
Suddenly, the bald man's eyes widened.
"Duck!" he barked.
They all dropped low. Renil and Tovan threw themselves into the tall grass, barely breathing. The air thickened. Not just metaphorically—no, it was as if the very air had turned viscous, pushing against their lungs, weighing on their skin. Breathing became labor. Movement, impossible.
And then—they heard it.
Thud.
A pause.
Thud.
The ground vibrated slightly beneath them. Not like a beast's gallop. Slower. Heavier. Each step seemed to carry centuries of wrath.
The bald man's face drained of color. His whisper trembled with certainty.
"That's no monster…"
He swallowed.
"It's a demon."
The word sent a chill like steel down spines.
"Stay still. Don't speak. Don't even think loud," he warned.
But not all followed.
Two men in the group exchanged glances. One leaned in, his whisper sharp. "It's a demon… this could be our chance. A weapon made from demonbone—powerful beyond gold."
The other hesitated.
"Come on," the first hissed. "You want to die following orders your whole life?"
That was all it took.
Their greed overran their fear. Slowly, they crept through the grass in opposite directions, knives drawn. The bald man clenched his teeth.
"Idiots…" he whispered. "Stop."
But the fools did not listen.
They couldn't see the creature—only feel it. Its presence was like staring into the sun with your soul. But the man approaching from behind thought he had an angle.
Until the air changed again.
His body froze—not from fear, but because something far older and crueler had laid eyes on him.
Behind him, standing taller than a tree, it emerged from the shroud of Veilwood's breath.
It was beastly. But not bestial.
Its body resembled a malformed titan—a grotesque fusion of shadow and flesh, its sinews woven like tortured roots. Four twisted horns jutted from its deformed skull, which bore no eyes—only a massive vertical maw where its face should be, pulsing with foul breath. Its limbs were long and animalistic, tipped with obsidian claws, and a ragged pelt of black spines covered its back.
It had no scent, yet the grass beneath it wilted. No heartbeat, yet the world bent around its silence.
The man tried to move. He couldn't.
The demon's claw descended slowly—almost tenderly—resting on the man's head. Then, in one effortless motion, it twisted.
Crack.
His head tore clean off, spine still twitching.
The demon hurled it into the trees.
It landed near the bald man's hiding spot with a sickening thud. His breath caught. He had trained himself to feel nothing in battle—but not this. Not this.
The other mercenary—struck by panic—screamed.
"No—!"
Too late.
The demon turned its faceless gaze. The screaming man erupted mid-sound—his chest impaled by an invisible force. He dropped without a word.
One of the women in the group bolted, terror eclipsing reason.
The bald man reached out. "No!"
But the demon moved first.
A spear of bone-like shadow skewered her through the gut. She was dead before she hit the ground.
The bald man, unable to contain his despair, roared. That cry—full of grief, defiance, futility—was all it needed.
The demon turned.
It stepped forward, each movement shifting the world's weight. The bald man stood his ground, drawing his sword with shaking hands. He swung in desperation.
Clang.
The blade shattered. Like glass.
The demon didn't flinch. Instead, it seized the man by both arms—and crushed them. Bone snapped. He collapsed, howling.
"No!" Tovan couldn't take it anymore.
He yanked the long iron spear he'd carried since camp and hurled it with everything he had.
The weapon cut through the air—and struck.
The spear buried itself deep into the demon's arm. Black ichor hissed like acid.
The creature reeled back. Not in pain—but in surprise.
Tovan didn't stop to think. He sprinted through the grass, reaching the bald man. Renil called out—"Tovan, wait!"—but the boy was already dragging the bleeding man toward safety.
They barely moved ten paces—
When the sky seemed to darken.
The demon stood before them.
Just… there.
As if it had always been.
The air crushed them. Tovan's limbs went limp. Renil couldn't speak. Even thought became distant.
There was no escape.
But then—something shifted.
A gale tore through the woods.
A man in a black cloak dropped between them and the demon.
He didn't speak.
He moved.
His fist struck the demon like a bolt of judgment. The force echoed like thunder. Trees in a hundred-meter radius shattered from the shockwave. The wind split, the grass flattened, and the world screamed.
The demon's body froze.
Then its head exploded—shattered into a mist of flesh and bone.
Its lifeless form dropped to its knees.
And the man—tall, muscled, cloaked in shadow—caught the demon's carcass like a sack of feathers. With no effort, he slung it over his shoulder.
He turned, briefly revealing his face.
Tovan blinked.
A Cindralith man.
Not just any—he recognized the emblem scorched on the cloak: a severed crown pierced by seven nails.
A former Drazkhar.
A Warrior and Guardian of Cindralith.
And just like that, the man vanished into the woods.
Tovan stood still. His legs shook. Renil had fallen to his knees.
None of them spoke for minutes.
The forest slowly returned to breath. But they didn't.
They couldn't.
They had seen power—true, unearthly power. The kind of power that didn't belong to mortals.