The forest did not feel alive.
It felt hungry.
Aizel's body scraped across the damp ground as he dragged himself forward with trembling arms. Every breath rattled like broken glass. His ribs stabbed from inside, refusing to let his lungs fill properly. Each movement came with agony sharp enough to blur vision, yet the youth did not stop.
Only one thought echoed inside his skull:
Live.
Live.
Live.
His legs were dead weight—numb, useless. Something inside them felt torn; bone might have snapped when his body was hurled earlier. Even so, his fingers clawed at wet soil, pulling himself like a dying creature refusing to be reclaimed by the world.
Branches tore at skin already mangled by the earlier attack. Slashes and punctures covered him; dried and fresh blood mingled across his frame. The copper scent of his blood was thick enough to choke him, yet Aizel merely gritted his teeth.
He had long grown used to pain.
Suffering was familiar.
Death was familiar.
No one would mourn him.
No one ever had.
If he died again, the world would have no reaction—just like before.
He left a smeared crimson trail as he crawled between roots and moss. Eventually, his strength collapsed. His fingers gave way. His forehead struck the earth, vision flickering in and out like a candle fighting the wind.
There were no tears.
He had run out of tears years ago.
A pulse—no, a presence—approached.
Thick. Suffocating.
A pressure so heavy it seemed to bend the air.
The forest stilled.
Even insects dared not whisper.
The thing approaching was not hiding. It wanted him to feel it coming.
Aizel's breathing grew hollow, forced.
His heart pounded—not from fear, but stubbornness.
Live.
He tried to move again, but his limbs ignored his command. His nerves screamed before falling silent. His body had reached its limit.
Leaves trembled.
Trees shook.
Then—
Something thundered through the underbrush, ripping apart a large cedar as easily as tearing cloth.
Out of the splintered carcass of the tree stepped a nightmare.
A towering mass—
At least three stories tall—
Uneven. Hunched.
Like a mutilated beast forced upright.
Its stench struck first.
A nauseating smell like a slaughterhouse left under a merciless sun seeped into the air. The odor coated Aizel's tongue, forcing bile into his throat. Breathing felt like swallowing blood.
Its flesh was not fur or scales.
Just raw exposed muscle—glossy, red, and wet.
Bundles of fiber twitched beneath its surface, as if alive with a mind of their own. Thick veins crawled across its body like coiling black worms, pulsing violently, pumping dark blood that leaked from cracked seams.
Where drops fell, the ground hissed—
as though the earth rejected its presence.
Its ribcage was visible—no, externally grown, like bones forced outward. Between the bone gaps, pale organs swelled and contracted, sloshing heavily, shifting as though trying to crawl out. They moved not with rhythm of survival, but with intent.
With hunger.
Its head was even more grotesque.
There was no familiar shape to comfort the mind.
Two long vertical slits replaced a nose—each slit dripping thick, tar-like blood. Its mouth hung open permanently, a gaping maw lined with flat, discolored teeth. Human-like, but wrong—too many, too wide, stained black.
When it inhaled, the sound was wet and dragging, like someone sucking air through mucus and blood.
Aizel stared back… and refused to shut his eyes.
A fist curled weakly.
Not in defiance—but fearlessness born from resignation.
He had nothing to lose.
The creature bent lower, soaking the air with its stench.
Its attention fully locked onto him.
Aizel attempted to crawl but his muscles failed him; only a pathetic twitch answered his will.
It drew closer…
closer…
until—
Time stopped.
The air stilled.
Wind vanished.
Sound died.
Colors dimmed to ash as something pooled beside him—a mist darker than shadow, black enough to erase light.
A fog.
It didn't drift—
It gathered with purpose.
Aizel's vision blurred, but he could still make out the entity condensing before him, humming with a strangely calm presence, unlike the beast's visceral hunger.
A voice sounded, casual yet ancient.
"Oi, boy."
The tone was neither kind nor cruel. Just bored, as though it stumbled across him by accident.
"Want to be my disciple? I can help you live comfortably."
Aizel stared blankly.
His mind lagged behind his senses.
The fog continued, amused.
"I like your will to survive. Most would've fainted or begged for mercy. But you… you're crawling even when death is licking your bones. Good. Very good. I want you."
The creature behind seemed frozen mid-movement, suspended in the moment. Time still held its breath.
Aizel blinked—the only movement left to him—and his eyes trembled. For a faint second, light returned to his gaze.
Someone… wanted him?
A small spark rose inside his hollow chest.
But then—
Memories resurfaced.
Ugly ones.
Being taken advantage of.
Used.
Discarded.
That faint spark dimmed.
His skull throbbed; emotional pain stabbed harder than physical wounds. He remembered promises that turned into shackles. Words that sounded warm but concealed knives.
No.
Never again.
He wanted to reject the offer.
Wanted to scream back.
But a whisper seemed to echo inside his head:
Live.
Live.
Live.
He couldn't tell if the voice was from the fog…
or from within.
With what little strength remained, Aizel rasped,
"I know… nothing is free.
What… do you want?"
The fog paused.
The straightforwardness seemed to amuse it. Its amorphous shape fluttered as though chuckling.
"Direct. I like that. Many would cry, beg, swear loyalty immediately. But you think first. Good."
The tone shifted—gentle yet cold.
"If you reject, you die. That is the only truth here."
It didn't threaten.
It simply stated a fact.
The voice deepened.
"My name is Min Mo. Sect Master of the once-great Demonic Sect."
The fog dimmed slightly.
"My sect… is gone. Shattered across the Jingnu Region. I am only a remaining fragment. That beast back there? Just a scavenger, not worth mentioning—but enough to devour you."
Aizel exhaled shakily.
Something unexpectedly stirred inside—empathy?
A broken soul recognized another.
"What… can I do?" he whispered.
"I am useless. I don't have spiritual roots."
The fog jolted—almost offended.
"Useless?"
Min Mo's tone cracked like thunder.
"Boy, righteous sects chase flashy colors and fancy spiritual roots. They are blind. You have a heaven-defying talent—rare, hidden, unpolished. A gem thrown into the mud. Their loss."
Words poured like a sermon.
"In demonic cultivation, roots don't matter. Ambition matters. Ruthlessness toward oneself matters."
Aizel swallowed.
Demonic… way?
He'd heard whispers of darkness in his past life—of people offering devotion to demons. Monsters disguised as men. Blood sacrifices, twisted power, corruption.
Min Mo's voice grew calm again.
"Yes, the demonic way. A path feared… because it demands truth. No masks. No pretense. Only strength."
Aizel hesitated.
His morals scraped against survival instinct.
But… what did he have left?
No family.
No backing.
No future.
Morality meant nothing to someone already abandoned by the world.
"…I accept."
The mist shivered—pleased.
A slow laugh echoed, deep as night.
"Good. You have chosen correctly."
A pressure enveloped him—not crushing, but binding like a contract forming with unseen ink.
"I will impart my knowledge to you. Your new life begins now."
The world around them remained frozen—
the beast still looming above, paused mid-lunge.
But everything was about to change.
---