The borderlands of the Demon Realm stretched ahead, scarlet skies casting long shadows over cracked earth. The strike team moved in quiet formation, the disciplined knights and mages keeping their silence, while the adventurers—less bound by rank or formality—filled the silence with banter.
Their boots crunched on black stone as the group trekked through the narrow pass. The air grew heavier with every step, demonic mana brushing against their skin like an unseen current.
At the back of the group, Lyra, the crimson-braided warrior with a battle axe, broke the silence first. Her voice carried, gruff but steady.
"…Let's be honest for a second." She glanced back at her companions. "If this kid really is as dangerous as they say—ten knights dead, one dragged half-dead to the Demon King himself—could we really strike him down? He's eight years old."
The group slowed, her words heavy in the air.
Kael, the blond confidence swordsman, let out a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Eight years old or eighty, if he can swing a blade like that, he's fair game. I mean, come on—if he was born in Valoria, he'd already be a knight in training. Don't get soft on me."
Darius, the dagger-wielding rogue, shrugged. "You say that now, but what happens when you're standing in front of him? A brat barely past his milk teeth, looking you in the eyes. Still going to cut him down without blinking?"
Kael hesitated, then muttered, "…Depends if he blinks first."
Lyra snorted, unimpressed.
The older mage, Eldrin, pulled his cloak tighter. His voice was calm, almost weary. "Don't fool yourselves. The reports weren't exaggerated. The Demon King's grandson is not just a child. He's a symbol. A symbol that threatens balance. If he truly carries that much power already… then killing him would be mercy compared to what he could become."
Silence followed his words. The knights marching ahead glanced back, unease flickering in their eyes.
Finally, Randel, the quiet smirking adventurer, closed his notebook with a soft snap. His tone was smooth, amused, but his eyes gleamed sharp.
"You're all asking the wrong question. It's not whether we could kill him. It's whether we should. Because if the rumors are true… then maybe this kid's story is only just starting. And if that's the case…" He tucked the book away. "…I want a front-row seat."
The group fell silent again, each lost in their thoughts. Even Kael had nothing to add this time.
Only the faint hum of demonic mana filled the air, pressing heavier as they drew closer to the heart of the Demon Realm.
For all their jokes and bravado, one truth gnawed at every single one of them:
They weren't marching to test a boy.
They were marching to test the Demon King's heir.
✦ Campfire at the Border
The Demon Realm border loomed like a wound across the horizon. The skies were bruised in shades of red and black, the clouds swollen like ash and smoke. Twisted trees bent unnaturally, their branches clawing toward the heavens as though begging for escape. Even the wind tasted strange here—bitter, metallic, charged with mana that prickled across the skin.
The Valorian strike team made camp under that uneasy sky.
For the adventurers, however, it felt more like a raucous tavern night than a war march.
Kael crouched by the fire, poking at a dented iron pot with a mangled ladle. His blond hair reflected the glow, his frown as dramatic as any stage actor.
"If we make it back alive, I swear I'm filing an official complaint with the Guild. Stew duty? This is cruel and unusual punishment. I'm a swordsman, not a soup-maker."
"Soup-maker?" Lyra muttered, sitting on a log nearby. Her crimson braid hung over one shoulder as she sharpened her axe, each scrape ringing like steel teeth. "It's stew, you idiot. And maybe if you stirred like a soldier instead of a drunk pawing at a barmaid, it wouldn't taste like ash."
Kael gasped and clutched his chest in mock betrayal. "That's slander! I stir with passion. Passion separates art from mediocrity!"
"Passion won't stop me from splitting your skull if you serve me another burnt mess," Lyra said flatly, never looking up.
Darius lay stretched out on the ground, arms behind his head, dagger balanced idly on his finger. He smirked at the crimson sky. "Pfft. I'll eat it either way. Beats starving in a dungeon. Honestly, ash stew's practically gourmet compared to prison gruel."
Eldrin, seated a little apart from the group, frowned as he adjusted the carved staff across his knees. His voice cut sharp and low. "You three sound like children. This isn't Valoria. Laugh too loudly here, and the ground itself might swallow you whole."
"Relax, old man," Darius replied lazily, flipping his dagger once. "If the dirt tries to eat me, I'll stab it."
Before Eldrin could retort, a firm voice cut across them like a whip.
"Enough."
The adventurers glanced up.
Randel sat with his spear planted in the dirt beside him, posture upright despite the long march. His brown hair was tied back, his expression stern but not unkind. The leader of the adventurers had the sort of steady presence that made people sit straighter without realizing.
"Argue if you like," he said, his tone measured. "But do it quietly. We're already on borrowed ground."
The air shifted.
From the shadows, the knights arrived. Their armor gleamed faintly even in the dull light, every step disciplined, every motion precise. At their head walked Sir Serphiel, sword resting at his side, silk white cloak trailing behind him like a ribbon of moonlight dancing in the wind. His broad frame radiated command without effort.
Beside him strode Liora, long hair swinging over her shoulder, silver-trimmed armor catching firelight. Her gaze swept over the adventurers, and the disdain in her eyes could have frozen rivers.
The chatter died instantly. Even Kael's grin faltered.
"Commander," Liora said crisply. Her voice was sharp enough to cut through the crackle of firewood. "The adventurers chatter like fools. If this is the caliber of our allies, they'll jeopardize the mission before it begins."
Serphiel's gaze drifted over the group slowly. It lingered on Kael, still holding the ladle, then on Lyra's axe gleaming beneath her careful strokes, then on Darius sprawled lazily on the dirt. Finally, his eyes rested on Randel, who met his stare without flinching.
The commander's expression remained carved from stone, but the air around the fire grew heavier.
"They are not soldiers," Serphiel said at last, voice steady and cold. "They are tools. Rough, imperfect—but tools nonetheless. When the time comes, they will fight. And if they cannot…" His gaze sharpened like a drawn blade. "…then they will die."
Kael bristled, cheeks hot. "Tools, huh? Funny, last I checked, knights were just swords with legs who bow when told."
Before he could finish, Lyra's armored elbow jabbed into his ribs. He wheezed, glaring at her, but she muttered, "Shut up before he proves it."
Even Darius, usually first to tease, stayed quiet, his grin thinning. Eldrin adjusted his staff, jaw tight. Randel only exhaled slowly, his grip on the spear firm but calm.
Liora stepped forward, folding her arms. "You speak as though this child is already a storm. But he's still a boy. If these rumors are false, we'll be spilling blood for nothing."
Serphiel's jaw tightened, though his tone never wavered. "If the rumors are true, then this child has already slain ten knights. A child who can kill trained men is no child at all. He is a threat. And threats must be tested—or destroyed."
The fire popped, sparks spiraling into the crimson night.
Serphiel placed his helm back over his head with a hiss of steel, his voice echoing faintly from within. "Rest. Tomorrow, we march. And tomorrow, we will know if this prince is a child…" His voice dipped, colder. "…or a monster."
The knights dispersed to their posts, silent as shadows.
Around the fire, the adventurers exchanged uneasy glances. Kael tried to smirk again, but it faltered halfway. Lyra's grip tightened on her axe. Darius let out a low whistle, murmuring, "Well… stew doesn't sound so bad compared to that guy."
Even Eldrin's usual sharp tongue stayed sheathed as he watched the fire flicker. Randel finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. "Sleep while you can. Tomorrow we'll see if the rumors are smoke… or fire."
The flames flickered, throwing their shadows long across the ground.
And in the silence that followed, one truth settled over them all:
Tomorrow, they would face the Demon King's grandson.
And none of them were laughing anymore.
✦ Into the Demon Realm
The next morning, the camp stirred before dawn. The fire had burned down to blackened embers, little curls of smoke trailing weakly into the blood-red sky. The wind that swept in from the borderlands was colder than the night before, carrying with it the metallic tang of mana so strong it stung the tongue.
The horizon glowed faintly crimson, like the sun itself was bleeding across the edge of the world.
Sir Serphiel stood at the very front, already armored, helm tucked under his arm, his crimson cloak snapping in the breeze. His knights moved with clockwork precision—checking straps, sharpening blades, tightening saddle girths. Each motion was sharp and exact, honed by years of discipline.
The adventurers, by contrast, were slower to rouse. Their familiar rhythm of banter returned in hushed voices, like tavern songs sung at a funeral.
Kael buckled his sword belt and squinted at the horizon. "This air… feels like the ground itself wants to eat me alive."
Lyra slung her axe across her back, her crimson braid brushing her shoulder. "Good. Maybe it'll shut you up for once."
Kael smirked. "If I die, you'll miss me."
"Not likely."
Darius stretched, letting out a lazy yawn so wide his jaw cracked. "Eh, cursed wastelands all feel the same. Better than prison chains, at least." His grin was quick, but the way his eyes flicked constantly to the horizon betrayed unease.
Eldrin adjusted his staff in silence. The older mage's face was calm as ever, but the faint twitch in his brow betrayed his unease. He scanned the land ahead, lips moving silently as if measuring the mana currents themselves.
Randel, spear in hand, checked each of them in turn. "Eyes sharp, mouths shut. This isn't Valoria. Don't let the land trick you into thinking you're safe." His voice wasn't sharp like Serphiel's, but it carried weight nonetheless—the kind of voice that kept groups alive.
When Serphiel finally raised his hand, silence fell instantly. Even the adventurers straightened, the joking slipping away.
"We march," he said. His tone was low, steady, and absolute.
Crossing the border felt like stepping into another world.
The soil blackened beneath their boots, cracked and dry, glowing veins of crimson pulsing faintly beneath the surface as though the land itself bled magic. Trees twisted into grotesque shapes, their bark gray and split like old scars. Their branches clawed upward like skeletal arms, trembling against a wind that carried no warmth.
Above them, the sky was not just red—it was wrong. The clouds churned sluggishly, thick as molten smoke, their shadows crawling over the ground in ways that didn't match their movement.
Even the wildlife was strange. What should have been birds cried out with warped, broken notes, each sound bending in pitch, echoing like laughter one moment and a death scream the next.
The knights pressed forward in perfect formation, armor creaking faintly, shields glinting in the half-light. Their discipline was the only anchor in a landscape that seemed alive.
The adventurers walked just behind them, their usual swagger muted. Kael's hand hovered close to his sword hilt. Lyra's knuckles whitened around her axe. Darius tried humming, but the sound faltered almost immediately, dying in his throat. Even Eldrin kept his staff half-raised, muttering a ward under his breath.
One of the younger knights whispered shakily, "How can demons live here?"
Without glancing back, Liora's voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. "Because this is what they are. The land reflects its rulers."
Kael muttered, just loud enough for the others to hear, "Cheery place for a family vacation."
Lyra's glare shut him up before Serphiel had to.
The deeper they marched, the worse it became. The air thickened, cloying, pressing against their skin like invisible water. Every breath carried the taste of iron and smoke. Even their footsteps seemed heavy, as if the land itself resented their intrusion.
Serphiel raised his fist, halting the company. His helm turned slightly, gaze sweeping the horizon. The silence was suffocating until his voice broke it—low, even, but edged with steel.
"Welcome to the Demon Realm," he said. "Keep your blades close. This land is alive… and it is watching."
Not one man or woman dared to speak after that. Even Kael held his tongue.
Together, they pressed onward, their boots sinking shallowly into cursed earth that seemed to twitch beneath them. Every step carried them closer—to the unknown, to the truth of their mission, to the boy who had already slain ten knights.
And far ahead, beyond the twisted forest and the bleeding sky, golden eyes stirred awake.
The storm was coming.
✦ Whispers of Intrusion
The strike team marched deeper still, the oppressive air of the Demon Realm clinging to their skin like damp cloth. Every step seemed to echo, swallowed quickly by the unnatural quiet. The forest canopy above thinned until they emerged into a clearing of black stone, the ground veined with glowing streaks of crimson mana that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Sir Serphiel raised a gauntleted hand. The column halted instantly. His knights fanned out with flawless precision, their armor whispering against itself in controlled movements. Liora's silver-trimmed armor caught the faint glow as she swept her gaze across the treeline, her jaw set, her hand tight on her weapon.
For a moment, no one spoke. The silence was suffocating, pressing in like a physical weight.
Then Kael exhaled dramatically, breaking it like glass. "So this is where the prince of demons plays house, huh? Not gonna lie—bit of a letdown. I was expecting something more… ominous. Skulls, fire, maybe a giant throne carved out of bones. You know, proper demon décor."
Lyra didn't bother looking at him. She simply muttered, "Shut up, Kael."
Darius tilted his dagger in the firelight, smirking faintly though his eyes never left the shadows. "Relax. He's a kid. Rumors always get fat on fear. A brat with horns doesn't just wake up and become a warlord overnight."
One of the younger knights chuckled under his breath, emboldened by the rogue's tone. "Can't believe the King of Valoria is worried about an eight-year-old. We could probably cuff him and drag him back before breakfast."
That was as far as he got. Liora's glare cut him off mid-breath. Her voice, sharp as a whip, snapped through the clearing. "Do not underestimate someone the Demon King calls his blood. Demon children are not children in the human sense."
Her words hung heavy, but the mocking tone still lingered. Nervous laughter. Whispered jokes. A thin veneer over the gnawing unease that had begun to spread through them all.
Sir Serphiel said nothing. His helm tilted slightly, scanning the trees. He didn't need to speak for them to feel it—the silence of the forest wasn't natural. It was deliberate. As though the land itself was holding its breath.
The knights tightened their formation. The adventurers went quiet, their earlier bravado fading into wary silence.
Far away, in a ruined courtyard buried deep within the Demon Realm's heart, golden eyes snapped open.
Asura's system chimed faintly, text scrolling across his vision in glowing lines:
Foreign Presence Detected.
Classification: Human Knights / Adventurers.
Threat Level: Variable.
He rose slowly, barefoot against cracked stone, the geta sandals dangling from one hand as though he had no intention of using them. His black-and-gold attire shimmered faintly in the moonlight, the silk overlay fluttering like smoke though no wind stirred.
At his hip, Yamikami no Tsurugi pulsed, a low hum reverberating through the air. On the table behind him, the Crystal Fragment vibrated once, its faint glow flaring as though in recognition of the disturbance.
Asura stretched his arms overhead lazily, rolling his shoulders with the casualness of someone waking from a nap rather than sensing an armed company moving against him. A grin tugged at his lips, sharp and boyish all at once.
"…So. They finally sent the next round, huh?"
For a moment, he tilted his head back, eyes on the sky. Dark clouds were dragging themselves unnaturally across the heavens, blotting out the moon as though the realm itself leaned closer to listen. His childish tone lingered, but there was something old in the glint of his eyes, something ancient that didn't belong in an eight-year-old's face.
"They think I'm just a brat with a toy sword." He brushed his thumb across Yamikami's hilt, the blade's pulse quickening. "Good. Let them laugh first."
The wind shifted, carrying with it the faintest echo of armored boots crunching on black stone, still far but closing steadily.
Asura's grin widened into something feral. The anticipation in his chest wasn't fear—it was excitement, wild and intoxicating.
"Because when they stop laughing…" His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as power coiled around him like smoke. "…that's when the fun begins."
And with that, he vanished into the shadows of his courtyard, the Demon Realm itself shuddering as though it, too, sensed the clash to come.