Zenkhald turned four, and Mira turned six.
There were only four years left before she would leave for the Academy, and for some reason, that thought sent a slight prick of sadness through Zenkhald's chest. When she leaves... it's going to be far too quiet around here.
He never thought he would become so attached to a human—let alone a child.
Mira was a hurricane of energy. Every morning, she dragged Zenkhald out into the yard. Every day, she invented new games. Every evening, she orchestrated miniature adventures.
"Little brother! Brother, hurry!" she shouted, waving a stick. "Today we are heroes, and we are going to save the world from the evil dragon! You be the dragon! Lie down and hiss!"
Zenkhald obediently dropped to the ground and said calmly, "Grrrrr."
Mira poked him with her stick. "No! It needs to be scarier! Like you want to eat me!"
Zenkhald considered this seriously. If I let out a true demonic roar, half the village will faint. So, he simply added a bit more gravel to his voice. "GRrrr... rrr..."
Mira clapped her hands in delight. "Yes! Now I am the hero! Take that!" She tapped him on the shoulder with her wooden sword.
He fell over theatrically. "I am... defeated..."
Mira stood tall, raising her sword to the sky. "I have protected the world!!"
Zenkhald smiled softly. If real heroes were this adorable... perhaps I wouldn't have become the Demon King in the first place.
General Rheim, the animated wooden bear, sat on the windowsill, observing the games.
"Master, I have made a decision!" the bear squeaked. "I am not efficient enough! I require more capabilities!"
Zenkhald looked at him in surprise. "You... decided to evolve?"
"Affirmative! I request an increase in mana supply! I wish to change my appearance! And to be invisible!"
Zenkhald pondered this. In my past life, my generals didn't ask for permission. They just burned everything down and got stronger. But this one...
He reached out his small hand and poured a little mana into Rheim. Just a tiny amount—a single drop from his endless ocean.
The result was immediate. The bear began to glow. Its plush fur sparked with energy, its form blurred, and a moment later, standing before Zenkhald was... a tiny, perfect plush knight. Complete with armor, a cape, and a wooden sword.
"General Rheim... reporting for duty in his new form!"
Zenkhald nearly laughed out loud.
Feeling his new power, Rheim decided it was time to expand the army. "Master! I request permission to animate three more recruits!" He pulled out three ordinary toys: a gray wolf, a white wolf, and an owl with large eyes.
Zenkhald granted permission, carefully injecting just enough mana so they wouldn't become too powerful. The toys sprang to life. The wolves acted like miniature guards, while the owl took on the demeanor of a strategist.
"Squad, ready!" Rheim declared. The toys took their positions: the wolves sat by the door guarding the room, the owl perched on the wardrobe keeping watch from above, and Rheim stood at attention like a knight ready to lay down his life.
At that exact moment, Mira walked into the room.
She stopped. She saw two wolves growling two inches above the floor, an owl rotating its head a full 180 degrees, and a teddy bear in knight's armor standing at attention.
Mira froze. She tilted her head. Her lips trembled.
Then she screamed. "BROTHEEEER!! YOUR TOYS!! THEY!! THEY ARE DOING THINGS THEY SHOULDN'T BE DOING!!!"
Instantly, the toy wolves dove under the bed and played dead. The owl purposefully tipped over and fell off the shelf, pretending to be a lifeless stuffed animal. General Rheim, with terrifying speed, reverted back into an ordinary teddy bear, lying face down on the rug.
Zenkhald sat perfectly still, his face a mask of calm. "Mira... I think you imagined it."
"NO!" Mira yelled. "I saw them! The wolf growled! The owl blinked! The bear was standing!!"
Zenkhald blinked innocently. "Perhaps... it's the magic of your imagination?"
Their father peeked into the room. "Children, what are you doing in here?"
Mira waved her arms frantically. "Mom, Dad, you don't believe me! The toys came alive!!"
Their father chuckled. "Mira, sweetheart, that's impossible. If toys could come alive on their own, we'd have called the mages from the Capital by now."
Zenkhald felt a cold sweat drop down his back.
From the floor, the General whispered, "Master... apologies, but our camouflage was compromised..."
Later that evening, when things had calmed down, Mira lay next to her brother on the rug. "Little brother... if you ever do bring a toy to life... tell me first. Okay?"
He nodded quietly.
She reached out, took his small hand in hers, and said, "We're family. We stick together, right?"
Something warm blossomed in Zenkhald's chest. Yes... together.
When Mira turned six and Zenkhald four, their father made an announcement. "It is time to begin proper sword training!"
He took them to the training ground in the yard and handed each a wooden sword—light, but durable.
It became apparent on the very first day: Mira was a prodigy. She stood confidently. She held the sword perfectly, as if she had been studying master swordsmen her whole life. Her strikes were sharp, precise, and blisteringly fast. Her reaction time was incredible.
Their father watched in absolute awe. "Mira... you... you were practically born with a sword in your hands."
Mira scoffed proudly. "Of course! I'm going to be a hero!"
Zenkhald watched her and thought, Her mana core is growing faster than most adult mages. She doesn't even realize the kind of power she has.
When it was his turn, Zenkhald held the wooden sword exactly as he had held a thousand lethal blades in his past life. But he artificially slowed everything down. His strikes had to be not too fast, not too precise, and definitely not lethal. He tried his best to look like an average four-year-old boy.
His father smiled warmly. "Good. For your age, that's excellent. Your technique is better than other children your age, but nothing supernatural."
Zenkhald sighed in relief. Good. That means I'm believable.
The reason he was so "believable" was thanks to General Rheim and his recruits. The toys had conducted a reconnaissance mission in the village, studying the local trainers, observing the children, and gathering data on the average skill level.
General's Report: > "Master! The average four-year-old child holds a sword like a stick, swings it like a stubborn tree branch, and falls over every thirty seconds. One boy even tried to bite the sword."
"...Bite the sword?" Zenkhald had asked, utterly confused.
"Yes, Master. He claimed it was 'dragon tactics'."
"...I see."
"To blend in, you only need to be slightly better than average. Just one successful strike more than the rest."
It was a simple plan. But problems arose quickly. A few days into their training, village kids began to gather by the fence to watch.
"Whoa... is that Mira Helvard?" one boy whispered. "She swings that sword like she's already ten!"
Another added, "And that one... her brother? Why does he fight like... a normal kid? I thought he'd be a monster too!"
"Maybe he just hasn't awakened yet?" a third chimed in. "Some kids just go 'bam!' and get super strong."
A monster... thanks, Zenkhald thought dryly.
Mira overheard them and spun around fiercely. "Hey!! He's not weak! He's just little! He's FOUR!!"
The kids giggled. "Yeah, right. And you act like you were born a grown-up."
Mira lifted her chin arrogantly. "That's because I'm a genius!"
"Mira, be humble..." their father chided gently.
"Why? It's the truth!"
To make matters worse, while Mira continued to break the laws of physics, she grew frustrated with Zenkhald's apparent mediocrity.
One afternoon, their father set up a large blue combat stone—a dense mineral that even adult knights struggled to chip.
"Is this supposed to be hard?" Mira asked.
"For a child, yes. Take your time. Just try to—"
CRACK!!
The stone exploded into thousands of tiny pieces, as if she had struck a dry biscuit instead of solid rock.
Their father froze. Their mother dropped a pitcher of water. Even a chicken in the yard squatted down in fear.
Zenkhald stood nearby, lazily holding his wooden sword. He walked up to the identical stone his father had set up for him. He couldn't smash it into pieces—that would raise too many questions. So, he simply... pushed his wooden sword straight through the center of the solid rock. Slowly.
His father blinked. "Um... Zen, that's... not bad. Very good, actually. But why such a simple technique?"
"Because he always does that!" Mira complained indignantly. "It's sooo boring! His strikes are totally normal! Even worse than normal! Just once, do something cool! An explosion, wind, lightning!! I can see that you CAN!"
"I am... normal," Zenkhald replied flatly. "Like everyone else."
"Liar! Your eyes glow when you train! I see everything!!"
"It's... the sun."
"WE'RE IN THE BASEMENT!?"
Zenkhald mentally cursed. Damn observant child.
The village kids watching from the fence noticed it too. "Did you see that?" one whispered. "He PIERCED the stone! With a blunt wooden sword!"
"And he did it so calmly... like he's used to it."
"And his toys are acting weird again. I swear that wolf toy just looked at me and nodded!"
Hiding in the tall grass, the toy wolf nervously buried its snout in the dirt. We've been compromised...
The truth was, Zenkhald hid his power not because he thought humans were weak, but because, for the first time in his existence, he wanted to be part of a world, not a threat to it. Around Mira—with her strength, warmth, and fiery character—he didn't feel like the Demon King. He just felt like a brother.
But that didn't mean his old habits had completely vanished.
While Mira was at school and his father was training the knights, Zenkhald would quietly slip away from the estate. He didn't do anything evil, but... he hunted. Not animals. Bandits.
"Master, this is unsafe," General Rheim had warned him.
"I am the former Demon King," Zenkhald replied. "The most dangerous things out here are those two idiots trying to steal a chicken."
Highwaymen, thugs, petty thieves—anyone who threatened the locals quickly and quietly disappeared. He tried not to kill anyone. He merely tied them up, broke a few bones (gently, by human standards), and left them for the guards.
But people started to notice. Rumors spread like wildfire.
"The Night Shadow saved a merchant!" "Someone tied up the entire 'Bear Paw' gang and hung them from a tree!" "I saw him! He's tall, wears a black cloak, and his eyes glow!" "He's not tall, you idiot, he's just a kid!" "Are you stupid? KIDS don't fly at night!"
Zenkhald sighed. Looks like I need a costume.
He fashioned a disguise out of a simple black cloak, a dark scarf, a thin mask, and a symbol—a small white circle that Mira had doodled once. He dubbed himself the "Midnight Guardian." (General Rheim had suggested "The Nocturnal Lord of Darkness and Devourer of Worlds," but Zenkhald firmly rejected it).
Now, he only went out at night wearing the mask. The very first peasant he saved fell to his knees. "Oh, great Guardian! Who are you?!"
Trying to deepen his voice, Zenkhald replied, "Just... a passerby." It still sounded like a child, but the mask muffled it enough that people assumed he was a teenager. It worked perfectly.
The forest was dead silent at night. Only the moonlight illuminated the damp grass, and a cold wind rustled the branches. Zenkhald—in his mask and black cloak as the Midnight Guardian—was heading home after another patrol. He was about to turn back when he heard it.
Laughter. Drunken, loud, and vile.
"Pour the ale! We're rich!" "Good catch today!" "Elves fetch a high price!"
Zenkhald stopped. Through the trees, his mana-sensitive eyes saw them: at least thirty men with torches, weapons, and cages. Their auras were filthy, muddy, dark gray. These were men drowning in vice and cruelty.
He frowned. Too many for a simple bandit gang... What are they celebrating?
Then he saw it. Two large iron cages.
Inside were elf children. As small and young as he was.
Zenkhald reached out through the mana link. General.
The miniature bear knight materialized from the shadows. "Yes, Master?"
"Reconnaissance. Everything. Now."
The General saluted and vanished into the bushes. Behind him slipped the wolves and the owl—tiny but flawless scouts. A minute later, they returned.
"Master," Rheim reported. "They are slavers. A large ring. They deal in elves. Today... they captured seven children. Ages range from five to seven."
Zenkhald said nothing. But inside his chest... something tightened.
Demons destroyed cities. But even demons... didn't traffic children.
For the first time in a very long time, something akin to fury stirred within him. Not a cold, demonic rage. A human one.
He exhaled slowly. "General. Recruits. Form: Terrifying Monsters."
The General drew his tiny sword. "Executing!"
The three toys warped. Mana coiled around their small bodies, and in the next heartbeat, the gray wolf became a massive shadow-beast with glowing red eyes. The white wolf morphed into a spectral predator breathing frost. The owl expanded into a night demon with massive, sweeping wings, and the bear transformed into a towering behemoth in spiked armor.
And they charged out of the bushes.
"WHAT IS THAT?!" the slavers screamed. "MONSTERS!!" "WAIT, WHERE DID THEY COME FROM?!"
Absolute chaos erupted. Torches fell into the mud. Shadows tore down the tents, wolves flipped tables, and the owl swooped down, creating the illusion of a dozen giant wings. It was the perfect diversion.
Amidst the panic, Zenkhald walked quietly into the camp. He approached the cages. The young elves—pale, terrified, and shivering—stared at him with wide eyes.
"You are free," he said softly but firmly.
He broke the iron lock with a single movement, carefully making it look like he had struck it with a rock rather than using demonic strength. He pulled the door open.
The elves scrambled out... and immediately collapsed to their knees, weeping.
"Where... where do we go?" "We have... no one..." "Everyone is dead..." "No one wants us..."
Zenkhald looked down at them. They were so small. So fragile. One six-year-old boy was shaking so hard he couldn't speak. A five-year-old girl clutched a crushed flower to her chest—the only thing she had left of her home.
He realized instantly: these children were completely broken.
He knelt down to meet their eyes. They looked at him as if he were their last hope.
"We... lost everything..." one sobbed. "We don't know what to do..."
Zenkhald took a deep breath. And he did what he did best: he gave them a purpose.
"Listen to me." His voice was quiet, but it carried the sharp authority of a demonic commander. "Your enemies... are not humans. They are not these bandits."
The children blinked through their tears.
"They are demons," Zenkhald lied smoothly. "Demons destroyed your homes. Demons sent these men. They stole everything from you—your families, your homes, your joy."
The elves listened, holding their breath.
"You have a purpose."
Silence fell over them. Zenkhald stood up, his voice hard. "Revenge."
The oldest boy, barely seven, wiped his tears. "Revenge...?"
"Yes. You are not powerless. You are alive. And whoever is alive is capable of rising up. You can become the ones who will one day destroy the demons that ruined your lives."
The little girl spoke, her voice trembling. "But... we're so small... We don't know how to do anything..."
Zenkhald held out his hand. "That is why I... will help you."
The elves froze.
"You?" the oldest boy whispered. "Why?"
"Because in this world, the weak deserve a chance," Zenkhald said softly. "And I... will give you that chance."
The elves' eyes lit up. They were still crying, but for the first time, a spark of defiance burned through their tears.
"Help us..." "Please..." "We'll listen..." "We want to live..."
Zenkhald inclined his head. "Then rise."
They stood up. Seven little elves. His first... wards. Not slaves. Not soldiers.
Children to whom he had just given a reason to live.