Years had passed since the one once known as the Demon of Calamity vanished from the demon realm.
His disappearance, shrouded in mystery after the Great War of 3044, left many wondering if he had truly perished. Yet he wasn't dead. Instead, fate had cast him from the battlefield, sending him crashing into a remote, snowy forest within Sylvanara.
The fall, combined with the effects of the battle, had not only stripped him of his memories but also his physical maturity, leaving behind only a hollowed shell of a boy. His combat instincts remained—though dulled—and his mana, once a source of fear, was now a wild, leaking thing.
"Where... am I..." His voice was weak, a hoarse whisper lost to the gnawing cold. The question lingered, unanswered.
Without memory, purpose, and with his mana leaking uncontrollably, he became a silent threat to the nearby village of Faelinor. Dense waves of power radiated from him, causing a sense of primal unease to settle in the bones of any who ventured near.
The once peaceful forest had become an eerie, foreboding place. Villagers who had once relied on its resources now whispered of a cursed presence. Tales began spreading of a mysterious spirit lurking in the wilderness, and the forest soon became a place avoided by all.
Would you like me to keep bold styling for the first line (common for Webnovel chapter openers), or make the whole thing plain text for a consistent tone across the chapter?
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"One Month Later."
The wind howled through the forest, the bitter cold biting at his skin. His once-fine black kimono was now little more than tattered rags, the fabric barely clinging to his small, trembling frame. Hunger was a constant, gnawing pain. He could only eat whatever he found on the ground, as no soul or beast dared approach him; the aura he radiated kept all life at bay, leaving him in isolated agony.
Fatigue pulled at his eyelids, but still, he staggered forward—a small, lost shadow in the dense undergrowth.
Each breath came in short, ragged bursts, each exhale a wisp of mist that vanished into the air. He clutched the ragged kimono tightly, shivering violently.
"C-cold…" he murmured, though his words were swallowed by the snow.
As his feet shuffled, a stray memory flashed—a battle, fierce yet indistinct, filled with fire and screams. He groaned, shaking his head to dislodge the painful fragments.
Months turned into a year, and still he wandered, his mind a blank slate, his body growing weaker each day.
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The soft crunch of boots pressing into the thick snow broke the eerie silence. A lone figure moved swiftly through the woods, a fur-lined cloak trailing behind him. This was Ceng-tae, a villager from Faelinor. Long black hair fell down his back, and a red scarf wrapped around his face, shielding him from the biting cold.
With the village's supplies running dangerously low, he had decided to brave the dense, unnatural mana that blanketed the forest.
Hours passed, and the snow grew thicker beneath his feet. Then, in the distance, he saw something—a small figure huddled beneath the largest pine tree in the forest.
Ceng-tae's brow furrowed as he drew closer. The figure appeared frail, curled into a ball, clutching tattered black rags.
"Is that… a child?" he murmured, cautiously approaching.
The immense, wild mana radiating from the boy sent a chill down his spine.
"That can't be right… no child should have this much power."
As Ceng-tae reached out, the boy's head snapped up unnaturally fast. Crimson-red eyes flashed, locking onto him with feral intensity. Startled, Ceng-tae instinctively pulled back, his heart racing. Yet instead of fear, his lips quirked into an amused smile.
"Well, well," he said, his tone teasing. "So you're the one causing all this mess. You're a little young for such a big, scary aura, aren't you?"
The boy—no older than ten by appearance—let out a low, guttural growl, his body tensing as if ready to strike. His crimson eyes glinted dangerously, but Ceng-tae merely crouched a few feet away, unfazed. He watched the boy closely, posture relaxed.
"You've seen better days, huh, kid?" Ceng-tae said casually, his voice dismissive of the danger.
The boy's eyes flashed again, a warning growl rising from deep within his chest.
"Oh? Still got some fight in you? I like that." Ceng-tae chuckled. "Look, whatever your deal is, you're not gonna last out here much longer. That'd be a waste of potential."
The boy's body, battered and weak, trembled as he tried to push himself up. His arms gave out, and he collapsed back into the snow, shivering violently. His breath hitched, exhaustion overtaking him.
"Easy there," Ceng-tae said, his tone softening. He moved forward and steadied the boy, his touch surprisingly gentle. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The boy's vision blurred. "You're… not, not father," he rasped weakly, voice thin but laced with a confused, haunted suspicion.
Ceng-tae smiled—warm and genuine, his eyes kind. "Nope. Just a guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time. Name's Ceng-tae."
The boy's consciousness faltered, the cold and fatigue pulling him under. Before the darkness claimed him, he caught one last glimpse of Ceng-tae's sharp, calm eyes watching over him.
"You're not dying here," Ceng-tae said firmly, his voice cutting through the haze. "Not on my watch."
With practiced ease, Ceng-tae hoisted the boy onto his shoulder. Warmth seeped from his body into the child's frozen limbs. As he glanced up, snow began to fall harder—the storm closing in fast.
He secured his small burden and began moving quickly through the forest.
"Let's get you home," he muttered, more to himself than to the unconscious boy.
As the storm swallowed them in white, erasing their tracks, the boy finally slipped into slumber.
For the first time in a long, forgotten age, there was only warmth.
And for the first time, the Demon of Calamity did not dream of fire.
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