The very next morning, unknown to the happy residents of Redfront, fate—and death—closed in. The cult of black magicians, having failed in their previous ritual, chose Redfront as the site for their next sacrificial ceremony.
For the townsfolk, the day began as any ordinary morning: children played in the sunlit streets, merchants hawked their wares, and farmers prepared for their day's work. The entire village hummed with life, unaware that this would be their last dawn.
Surrounding Redfront in a seamless circle, the black magicians commenced their chanting. A dome-like barrier, invisible but absolute, descended and trapped the town. Then, with cold precision, the cult leader strode in, his followers flooding the streets. He uttered a spell—one child collapsed, the first of many.
Terror swept through the children, who scattered in every direction, while townspeople rushed to defend them, wielding sticks and tools in a futile show of courage. But the magicians unleashed a thick, purple smoke: everyone who touched it fell unconscious instantly.
In mere minutes, the entire town had succumbed. The cult systematically dragged the supine townsfolk into the square, piling bodies into the heart of town. As the leader drew a dark magic circle on the ground with black powder, a few magicians searched the houses, including the Littlewater Inn. On the ground floor, they found nothing; the place seemed deserted.
Unbeknownst to them, an old swordsman, in bartender clothes, hid in the shadows upstairs. As the black mage crept up, the hidden defender sprang—his sword radiating with pure energy. He struck hard, wounding the black mage, but a shield of black mist absorbed much of the force. Shouting for help, the wounded cultist fled, but was felled by a lethal blow—a clean sword thrust from behind, splitting his body with finality.
Other black magicians rushed the inn, barraging the swordsman with magical attacks—spectral fireballs, lashing spells. He cut through many spells, landing cuts of his own, but soon realized their numbers were too great. He burst through a side door, racing toward the town center for space to fight.
There, another mage finished the magic circle. The swordsman lunged, sword poised to strike, but was slammed backwards by a sudden, invisible barrier. Coughing blood, he faced the masked black mage who coldly taunted, "A mutt of the kingdom in this remote place? Amusing." The swordsman, shocked, choked out, "You… but the captain said you died at the border. How…?" The cultist only grinned and, with a flick, launched a killing spell—a metal spike piercing the old man before he could even react. He fell, tears filling his eyes that never found release.
The ritual truly began in horror. The unconscious were bound and laid in a heap around the circle. The cult's leader and followers began chanting, awakening the victims one by one. Each cultist, in a frenzy, gouged out the eyes of a townsfolk with a dagger—cries of agony filling the square—then slit their throats, adding their blood to the hungry circle. Men, women, children—no one was spared; their blood became dark rivers feeding the spell's insatiable appetite.
The black powder responded, a sphere of thick, oily mist rising above the circle, growing as more blood spilled. The ground shook as an unnatural presence formed—an enormous demon's hand forced its way through the mist, then another, clawing in frustration and rage. Still, it could not pass—the world resisted, the barrier held.
As the demon struggled, one cultist presented the body of their fallen comrade, enacting another spell. The corpse twisted into pure black mana and was swallowed by the sphere, which widened in response.
Madness overtook the cult. They began offering themselves, gouging out their own eyes, cutting their own throats while laughing maniacally, their flesh turning to corrupted energy. The demon's arms were fully free; its horned head began to force its way through. But with the last crazed sacrifice, the very land responded—a deafening thunderclap split the sky. The sacrifice was insufficient; world-laws rejected the abomination. The demon's body was shredded, streamers of its being torn apart.
Yet in the chaos, its spirit—reduced but still potent—slipped away. No longer corporeal, the demon's soul roamed, desperate for a vessel. Its power decayed even as it delighted in its new-found freedom. Realizing it needed a body, it probed the unconscious forms nearby—too strong, too resistant—until, at last, it found one it could inhabit: a boy lying on the ground, barely alive.
It entered the boy—Blake Dunzel. Simultaneously, from another world, Hwi-seong's consciousness, battered by destiny, arrived as well. The collision of souls was complete. Neither would know, in that moment, that this irreplaceable conjunction marked the birth of a force the world had already begun to fear.