Armin Village looked even smaller at dusk.
The Lower District of Lumisgrave was always wrapped in a grayish murk, but Arsam's village—wedged between the cracked farmland and the rotting forest line—felt like a forgotten world inside a forgotten kingdom. Faint lamps flickered weakly along the dirt path, glowing with the last scraps of magic embedded in them decades ago. A cold breeze swept through the village as Arsam made his way home, his school cloak fluttering behind him like a dying shadow.
His home stood at the very edge of the village—a small wooden house with a sagging roof and walls that groaned whenever the wind pushed too hard. The moment he stepped inside, silence wrapped around him like a heavy blanket.
"Another day," he muttered under his breath, closing the door behind him.
He tossed his bag on the table and walked straight to his room. The wooden floor creaked loudly under his footsteps—another reminder that the house was barely holding itself together, just like him.
He fell onto his old, thin mattress, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
The events from class played in a loop in his mind: Kael's mocking voice, his group's laughter, the flames scorching his desk, Lily's trembling glare, the professor confused by the sudden flicker of magic.
But what stuck to him the most…
what refused to leave him…
was the pulse.
That cold jolt in his chest.
That faint hum that swallowed the classroom's magic.
His hand slowly rose to his sternum.
His fingers brushed the fabric of his shirt.
"Why… again?" he whispered.
It hadn't happened in years—not since that night.
That night when he was twelve.
That night when the beast demon fell from the sky.
His breathing slowed as memories surged like a storm.
---
Flashback — The Night of Shadows
The trees had whispered warnings that night. He remembered that. Their leaves trembled though the air was still. The village dogs howled in unison, spines raised, eyes glowing with fear.
Then the sky had cracked.
Not literally—but it felt like it. A tear of pure darkness opened above the village. A monstrous shape—like shadow made flesh—descended with a howl that shattered the lanterns instantly.
Magic users rushed forward, shouting spells, raising barriers, chanting protection circles.
None of it mattered.
The beast moved like smoke and lightning fused together. It passed through the strongest shields as if they were paper. One touch… one brush of its shadowy tendrils… and a person's body would collapse, their magic ripped clean out of them.
Arsam remembered screaming, calling for his parents. But everywhere he turned, more villagers fell—eyes dimming, bodies hitting the earth like lifeless dolls.
And then…
The beast faced him.
It towered above him, skeletal wings unfurling with a deep rumble. Its eyes—two empty lanterns—glowed faintly. Tendrils of smoky bones drifted toward him, brushing his face.
Arsam remembered the cold.
Colder than winter.
Colder than death.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
The next moment, the beast recoiled.
Not because something stopped it.
Not because anyone saved him.
It simply… backed away.
It circled him thrice.
Its shadow seeped into the earth.
Then—
It retreated into the darkness it had come from.
The rift closed.
The screams faded.
Silence smothered the village.
He alone stood.
Everyone else lay still.
Everyone.
---
Back to the Present
Arsam sucked in a sharp breath and sat up on his bed. Sweat dripped down his temples. His heart hammered painfully.
"Why didn't it kill me?" he whispered.
He had asked himself that question a thousand times.
But the flicker in class today…
that cold pulse in his chest…
It wasn't coincidence.
It wasn't imagination.
It was the same.
The same void-like shiver he felt when the beast looked into him—straight into something inside him that wasn't magic… but something else entirely.
He pressed his hand harder against his chest.
"What are you?" he muttered bitterly. "What's wrong with me?"
The room answered with silence.
His stomach growled suddenly, dragging him out of his thoughts. The sound echoed embarrassingly in the emptiness of his house.
"Oh… right," he sighed. "Work."
School finished early today, but he had spent too long lying here, drowning in memories. The sun was nearly gone; the deep blue twilight crept in like a thief.
He stood up, slipping into his worn boots and grabbing the rusty tool bucket near the door.
"Better get moving," he told himself.
Because no one else would.
Because he had no parents to feed him.
Because he had no one waiting for him.
He was alone.
Always alone.
---
Outside — The Road to Farmland
The dirt road leading to the farmland was quiet, but not peaceful. Strange bird calls echoed from the Wraithwoods at the far edge of the district. Pale mist slithered across the ground, wrapping around Arsam's ankles like ghostly fingers.
Lanterns along the path flickered faintly—dim blue light struggling to survive.
Arsam walked quickly.
He hated traveling alone at night. Every shadow reminded him of that beast. Every sound made his heart skip.
He passed a group of villagers repairing a fence. They glanced up at him.
Some looked away immediately.
Some whispered.
One woman crossed her fingers—a gesture used to ward off misfortune.
Hollow boy.
Curse child.
The one the demon spared.
Arsam kept his eyes fixed ahead.
He was used to it.
He had learned to hear everything and react to nothing.
After fifteen minutes of walking, the farmland came into view—vast fields stretching under the deepening twilight, broken fences, dying crops, tired workers packing up their tools.
Arsam headed straight to the old wooden barn, where the farmland owner, an elderly man named Horen, stood counting sacks of harvested herbs.
Horen looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Late again, boy."
Arsam bowed slightly. "Sorry… I'll work extra."
"Hmph. You always say that."
Arsam didn't argue. He only nodded.
Horen tossed him a pair of gloves and pointed toward the eastern field. "Roots and night herbs. Pull them gently, don't break the stems. They're the only things that keep this farm running."
"Yes, sir."
Arsam walked to the field and knelt among the rows of glowing herbs. Their stems emitted a soft golden light—magic-infused plants used for potions. Even he could feel their warmth. It made him feel… distant.
Everyone else felt magic.
He only felt the warmth of the plant.
Nothing else.
He reached out and began pulling the herbs carefully, placing them into the basket by his knee.
For a while, there was only silence.
Only the sound of herbs being plucked.
Only the wind whispering through the dying crops.
Then the thoughts came back… swirling, heavy, unwanted.
The pulse today… the same pulse from that night.
Why now? After six years… why now?
Did something trigger it?
Or someone?
He paused, staring at the glowing herb in his hands.
The image of Lily flashed in his mind.
Her worried eyes.
Her voice trembling as she told him he didn't deserve the pain.
"Lily…" he whispered without meaning to.
He swallowed.
She didn't deserve to be dragged into his life. She was a magic prodigy—a future Legendary, maybe even Zenith. She had friends, talent, dreams.
He had nothing.
Nothing but fear and a past he couldn't explain.
He shoved the herb basket aside and pressed his palms against his eyes.
"Why am I like this…?"
A familiar pain bloomed in his chest—dull and cold, but growing. He grunted softly and doubled over.
Then—
Thump.
A pulse.
The same cold surge.
The same shiver of wrongness.
The magic herbs around him dimmed.
Arsam froze.
"No… no, not again," he whispered shakily.
The pulse faded slowly.
The light returned.
He gasped for breath as if he had been underwater.
What was happening to him?
Footsteps approached from behind. Arsam jolted upright, quickly resuming work.
Horen walked over, squinting. "You alright, boy? You look pale."
"I—I'm fine," Arsam forced a smile.
"Don't collapse on my crops. They're fragile."
"Yes, sir."
Horen walked away grumbling.
Arsam let out a slow breath.
The pulse hadn't stopped the herbs from growing… but they dimmed.
Magic dimmed.
Just like in the classroom.
And just like…
…the night the demon beast walked past me.
He clenched his fists.
"Why did that monster spare me?" he whispered. "Why… why am I the only one who survived?"
The wind didn't answer.
The darkening sky didn't answer.
Only the cold inside his chest responded—
Thump.
Another faint pulse.
Stronger this time.
Arsam dropped the herb he was holding.
His voice trembled as he whispered—
"…what are you trying to tell me?"
Night fully settled over the farmland, wrapping him in shadows.
He kept working, ignoring the trembling in his hands.
Because he had to earn enough to survive.
Because no one else would help him.
Because he was alone.
But deep inside…
Something ancient stirred.
Something that hadn't awakened in six long years.
Something that belonged not to Lumisgrave…
…but to the demon world.