The sky blazed gold as the sun sank behind the distant peaks, painting the forest edge in fire. Laughter rang across the grass — a child's voice, pure and bright, clashing beautifully with the quiet roar of the evening wind.
Five-year-old Arin swung a wooden sword bigger than his arm, chasing his sister across the clearing. "Fear me, demon!" he cried, tripping over his own feet and landing in the grass.
His father's laughter thundered behind him. "A fierce hero indeed!"
Their mother smiled, but her gaze never strayed from the line of black trees ahead — the border where the land of men ended, and the demons' began. A faint mist slithered from its roots, whispering with old power.
Arin stood, brushing off dirt, his eyes wide on the horizon. "Papa… is it true? That the Death God sleeps in there?"
The laughter faded. Wind stirred the trees, and for a heartbeat, even the birds went silent.
His father knelt beside him, gripping the boy's shoulder. "Aye," he said quietly. "The seven heroes struck him down long ago — but death cannot kill itself. Every three hundred years, he rises again."
Arin's small hand tightened on the wooden sword. "Then… one day, I'll stop him for good."
His mother's smile trembled. The sky darkened, and thunder rolled far beyond the mountains — distant, but deep, as if something ancient had stirred at those words.
Far somewhere beyond the border, buried beneath black stone and forgotten prayers.