The son of the Demon King fell to a man cloaked in smoke and shadow. His head hit the ground with a dull, heavy thud, the impact scattering dust into the crimson-soaked earth. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the dirt black as night.
Keiko's vision blurred. His breathing—if it could still be called that—grew shallow, and the world began to dim around the edges. His mind, once alive with thought and pride, began to wither. He could feel his soul peeling away, drifting from his flesh like mist from a corpse. There was no pain in the end—only silence. A silence too complete to belong to the living.
Then, he was gone.
His soul drifted along a river of light—an endless current of pale blue that shimmered like glass. The water was silent, yet he knew it moved; it carried him effortlessly through a vast expanse where time didn't seem to exist. He couldn't feel the water against him, nor could he hear it rushing past. There was no touch, no sound, no sense of direction. Only the faint awareness that he was moving somewhere far beyond the world he knew.
Thoughts came and went like echoes in fog. It was hard to hold onto them. He couldn't tell if he was awake or dreaming, living or merely remembering what life used to be. His soul drifted, drawn by a current that belonged to something ancient and greater than any king or god.
Then, the river ended.
He felt the shift before he saw it—the weightless flow giving way to stillness. Beneath him stretched a muddy plain blacker than night. The air was thick, almost alive, humming with a low vibration that made his incorporeal form tremble. His body—or whatever was left of it—was made of something like light and smoke, a ghostly energy that hovered inches above the ground.
Keiko's awareness sharpened as a figure appeared in the distance. An old man stood at the edge of the dark plain, leaning on a long wooden staff that gleamed faintly in the dim glow. His robes were tattered, his face sunken and wrinkled like a fruit long past ripe. Yet his eyes—deep and endless—carried the kind of weight only immortals possess.
The Ferryman of the Underworld.
When the old man reached out and his bony fingers brushed Keiko's soul, a jolt of sensation ran through him. It was like waking from a deep sleep, like being pulled back into the body after drifting too long. Breathless—though he had no lungs—Keiko felt alive again, in the loosest sense of the word.
When I died, it felt like sleeping, but my eyes were open the entire time. I could see the river flowing, but I couldn't feel it. I could see light, but it didn't touch me. My thoughts were heavy, slow, like they were trapped in tar. The hardest part wasn't thinking—it was realizing that I couldn't control myself. My soul moved without my command. I was alive, yet completely powerless. That was the first time I understood what it truly meant to be dead.
Then he touched me—the old man with the paddle—and it was like I'd been yanked out of that frozen dream. The moment his fingers met mine, I felt presence again, faint and fleeting but real enough to make me gasp.
"Hey, you," the old man rasped. His voice was rough, worn from centuries of guiding the dead. "Demon kid. You got a coin?"
I looked down, trying to search my body, but I had none. I wasn't even sure I had a body. There was no pocket to reach into, no hand to move, no chest to breathe. Just a dim outline of myself, shimmering faintly in the dark. I shook my head.
The old man clicked his teeth. "Broke," he muttered.
It irritated me. Some old fool, calling me broke? I was a prince of the Demonic Kingdom, son of the Demon King himself. Even dead, that title burned in my soul.
"I'll have you know I am demonic royalty, you shitty old man!" I snapped, my voice echoing faintly in the hollow expanse.
He didn't even look at me. With a sigh, he lifted his paddle and tapped it against the ground.
"Then since you've got no coin, broke boy," he said calmly, "I'll be sending you to the Between Realms."
The ground beneath me glowed. A magic circle flared to life—deep crimson runes twisting in slow, deliberate motion. I'd heard whispers of the Between Realms. A place beyond judgment. Neither heaven, nor hell, nor any world meant for souls. Just blackness. A void where time stood still, where even gods refused to look.
My chest tightened—if a soul could even feel that. "Wait! Hold on!" I tried to speak, to bargain, but the circle began to hum, the sound low and final.
Then, a voice echoed from above.
"Stop!"
The Ferryman frowned and turned, but before he could react, a figure descended from the emptiness. A boy with lavender skin and hair like liquid violet light floated down, wrapped in a faint aura that distorted the air. His presence alone was enough to make the black mud tremble beneath him.
The Ferryman scowled. "Who dares—"
But the boy only raised his hand and whispered a spell. The Ferryman's eyes rolled back, his body going limp as he collapsed into sleep. The paddle fell beside him with a hollow thud.
The boy touched down softly, his expression calm but his eyes alive with excitement. He looked young—maybe my age—but his gaze carried something old, something knowing.
He studied me for a long moment, then smiled. It wasn't cruel or mocking. It was almost fond.
"Hey, little brother," he said.
The words hit me harder than any spell.
Little brother?
I stared at him. I didn't know this person—didn't recognize his face, his voice, or his presence. Yet something deep in my soul stirred at his words, like an echo answering a call.
"Who… are you?" I managed to ask, though my voice sounded distant, hollow.
He tilted his head, the smile never leaving his lips. "You'll understand soon enough," he said softly. "But for now… welcome to the other side."
His hand reached out. And as it brushed against me, the surrounding void seemed to twist and pull away. The black mud, the river, even the Ferryman—all of it dissolved into streaks of light and shadow. I felt myself being drawn somewhere new, somewhere in-between life and death, where the rules of either world didn't quite apply.
The last thing I saw before everything vanished was the boy's smile. Bright. Familiar.
And for the first time since dying, I felt something close to fear—not of death itself,but of why he called me brother.