Night draped over the village like a thin shroud.
The muddy paths still smelled of rain, and smoke from the ovens mixed with the steam of hot stew. Yozaru sat quietly on the wooden bench outside the inn, staring at the cracks on the drying mud. The day's labor had been long—he had helped carry firewood, gathered tools the children had knocked over, and fixed a broken door for an old man.
Small things, yet they silenced the storm inside him—if only for a while.
A woman handed him a small bowl.
"Here, there's some left. Eat before it gets cold."
He nodded, took it gently, and ate in silence. Around him, the sound of daily life floated: faint bargains from the market, children laughing, people chatting about tomorrow's work.
Ordinary. Fragile. Peaceful.
He had almost forgotten what that felt like.
Then—something shifted.
A sound beneath the wind. A faint vibration in the earth, like a breath trapped under stone. Yozaru froze. The voice of Sentarion echoed faintly in his mind: "Control it. Stay alive—for now."
He exhaled, forced the tension out of his fingers, and set the bowl aside.
The night sky above was dim, painted in false starlight—the illusion of the underworld's sunless ceiling.
---
The scream came softly at first.
Then the wood cracked.
Then came the fire.
Yozaru was already on his feet when the first flame burst through a rooftop.
Smoke rose fast; people shouted, running with buckets of water. He joined them, taking a bucket and hurling it into the blaze. Once, twice—flames retreated.
He turned to shout for more water, but then heard it—
That voice.
Smooth, calm, echoing through the smoke.
"Flames… are not the only thing consuming this place."
He spun around.
At the edge of the square, a tall shadow took form.
Human in shape—but wrong. Its movements too fluid, its eyes hollow pools that swallowed the light around them.
Each step was silent; even the air recoiled.
Yozaru's hand went to his sword.
The villagers froze.
The baby's cry stopped.
Only the crackle of fire dared speak.
"I smell it," the being said, tilting its head. "A scent long buried beneath the ash. So… you still live."
The words made every villager turn—first at the creature, then slowly at Yozaru.
He felt their stares pierce him like needles.
"What are you talking about?" Yozaru said.
He held his blade, tense but not reckless.
The creature smiled—a slow, elegant curve of its lips, noble yet tired.
"The blood of kings," it said. "Hidden, decayed… but never gone. Like embers beneath the earth—waiting for breath to burn again."
Someone gasped.
Another whispered, "King…?"
And fear began to spread like oil on water.
Inside Yozaru's body, something stirred. The black veins beneath his skin shimmered faintly.
Not now. Control it.
"Leave," he said. His voice was low, steady. "These people have nothing to do with you. If you're looking for a fight—take it with me."
The being's grin deepened. "Them? You defend them? The same ones who would cast you aside the moment they saw what you are?"
Its gaze swept across the villagers. "Pathetic. Their fear should have claimed you already."
Yozaru stepped forward, blade raised.
"Then maybe it's time someone teaches fear who it belongs to."
The creature moved first—no visible step, only pressure, like the air itself striking.
The ground cracked. Yozaru slid backward, barely holding his stance.
Again. A second strike, invisible but sharp. He ducked, rolled, used the fallen beams as cover. Sparks danced. He countered with precision, reading the rhythm instead of the attack itself.
The being chuckled.
"Quick mind, weak body. Just like your kind."
Yozaru's teeth clenched.
He struck low, turned the blade, and forced the creature back half a step.
Not a victory—but a pause.
"You're learning," it said, voice like silk. "But you'll call it soon, won't you? That voice. That hunger."
The veins beneath his skin pulsed again. Pain flashed white behind his eyes.
No. Not yet.
He kicked a broken pillar aside, drew a line through the debris, and moved in a half-circle.
A feint, then a cut—metal met shadow, the sound sharp as cracking ice.
The creature's form shimmered, its confidence bending.
For the first time, it sounded cautious.
"You resist. Impressive. But this isn't over."
Its eyes drifted across the villagers.
"Keep him, and you'll learn the meaning of despair."
And then it vanished—melting into the darkness like smoke fading into the night.
---
For a moment, silence.
Then a child whispered, "Is it gone?"
Yozaru lowered his blade. "Yes."
But peace didn't return.
It twisted—turned—to him.
The first torch appeared near the eastern wall.
Then another. And another.
Dozens of hands clutching makeshift weapons—maces, shovels, pitchforks.
The glow of fire replaced the glow of gratitude.
"Yozaru…" the village elder said, voice trembling. "You've helped us. You saved that boy. You put out the flames. But—"
The word hung heavy.
"—we can't ignore what we just heard. That thing… it spoke your name."
Murmurs rippled.
"Demon blood," someone whispered.
"King's curse," another said.
"Get him out," a voice cracked from the crowd.
Yozaru didn't move. The firelight painted his face in gold and shadow.
He looked at their eyes—fear, confusion, pain.
He understood all of it.
"Go," said a younger man, gripping his spear tightly. His hands were shaking. "You might save us today. But what about tomorrow? What happens when that thing inside you wakes up?"
The question hit harder than any strike.
Yozaru drew a breath, deep and steady.
"I understand," he said softly. "You're afraid. You should be."
He paused, looking down at his blade. "But as long as I don't bow to that fear, maybe you don't have to either."
The elder closed his eyes. "We can't take that chance. Leave… before dawn."
One by one, torches lowered—not out of trust, but out of fear of what he might do if they pushed further.
The circle of light opened a narrow path.
Yozaru walked through it.
No one followed.
No one spoke.
Doors closed behind him, one by one, until the sound of the last latch was louder than any goodbye.
He crossed the boundary stone of the village and stopped once, glancing back.
No faces.
Only flame.
Only silence.
"Alright," he whispered. "Then I'll go."
---
The forest was dark and endless.
Yozaru walked for what felt like hours, each step echoing in the damp earth.
He was neither angry nor calm—just empty.
A rustle came from the underbrush.
He turned sharply, hand to sword.
From the shadows stumbled a man—young, but older than Yozaru. His clothes were torn, his body thin from hunger, yet his eyes still carried the spark of a fighter.
Yozaru hesitated. Then he reached into his pack and pulled out a small pouch.
Inside, a few dried fruits.
He handed them over silently.
The man looked at him, wary, then took them. "Haven't seen kindness in a long time," he muttered, eating slowly.
Yozaru said nothing.
When he finished, the man met his gaze. "That road you're walking… it's not for the faint of heart."
Yozaru glanced at the distant glow beyond the forest—the pale, artificial dawn of the underworld.
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "courage just means you've run out of other paths."
The man smiled faintly, exhausted but sincere.
Neither asked for the other's name.
They walked together in silence—Yozaru ahead, the stranger a few steps behind—two shadows sharing the same direction under a sky of false light.
And for the first time that night, Yozaru thought not of fear or anger, but of resolve.
> "You may fear me now," he whispered to the wind, "but one day, that fear will have a new name."