Place:- Japan
Location:- Sakuragami Range
The Sakuragami Range lay far beyond the reach of cities, where even the most detailed maps began to lose their meaning and the roads turned to dirt and then to nothing at all. It was a place untouched by time, a corner of the world that progress had forgotten and civilization had abandoned.
Towering mountains stood like silent guardians, their peaks veiled in drifting mist, as if the earth itself had chosen to forget what rested within its embrace. The air there was unnaturally still—no birds sang, no insects hummed, no leaves rustled in the wind.
Even the breeze moved differently, softer and quieter, like it was afraid of disturbing something sacred.
At the heart of the range, hidden between narrow cliffs and winding stone paths that had been worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, stood a lone cherry blossom tree.
It was an ancient thing, its trunk gnarled and thick, its branches spreading wide like the arms of a benevolent god. The bark was dark and weathered, scarred by storms and lightning strikes, yet it still bloomed every spring, its flowers bursting forth in clouds of pink and white that seemed to glow in the fading light. No one knew how old the tree was. No one knew who had planted it. It had simply always been there, waiting.
And every year, when the blossoms appeared, a man came to sit beneath its branches.
He did not eat. He did not sleep. He simply sat, day after day, night after night, until the last petal fell and the tree returned to its slumber. Then he would rise, whisper a farewell to the empty air, and disappear until the next spring.
This man was known throughout the world as a monster. He was ruthless and cruel, a being who spilled blood for fun and shook governments for amusement. His sins were too many to count, too terrible to name, too twisted to be understood by ordinary minds. People whispered that he had no heart, no soul, no capacity for love or grief or regret. They said he was beyond redemption, beyond salvation, beyond anything except the darkness that lived inside him.
Yet every year, he came to this tree. Every year, he confessed his sins to its branches. Every year, he spoke of his plans, his victories, his failures, his fears. He spoke to the tree as if it could hear him. As if it could answer.
Tonight, he was coming again.
The moon hung low over the mountains, casting silver light across the clearing. The cherry blossoms glowed softly, their petals drifting through the air like snow caught in an invisible current. The wind whispered through the branches, carrying the scent of flowers and old earth and something else—something older, something that had been waiting for a very long time.
Allen emerged from the shadows of the cliff, his black mage robe trailing behind him like a pool of darkness. He was tall, over six feet, with two horns curving back from his temples and long red hair that caught the moonlight and held it.
His face was sharp, angular, handsome in a way that made people look twice and then look away. His eyes were golden, ancient, filled with centuries of memories that he could never forget.
He walked toward the cherry tree, his footsteps soft on the grass, and the wind seemed to welcome him. It swirled around him, lifting his hair, rustling his robe, carrying the scent of blossoms to his nose.
He smiled.
"It has been a while, has it not, Sakura?" he said.
The wind moved through the branches, and the blossoms swayed as if in response. Allen reached out and touched the trunk, his fingers tracing the rough bark, feeling the warmth beneath.
"How are you doing, Sakura?" he asked.
And for a moment, he thought he felt the tree pulse beneath his hand—a heartbeat, faint and distant, like an echo from another time. His eyes grew wet, though he did not weep. Demons did not weep. But something stirred in his chest, something he had thought long dead.
He sat down beneath the tree, his back against the trunk, and watched the sun fade behind the mountains.
In the distance, hidden among the shadows of the cliffs, his generals watched.
They were the three most powerful beings in his army, created from his own blood, bound to him by a connection that transcended life and death. They were not fully demons—not yet—but they were close. Their power was immense, their loyalty absolute, their purpose singular: to protect their lord at all costs.
Xemon stood at the edge of the cliff, his misshapen form barely visible in the darkness. He watched Allen sit beneath the tree, watched him speak to the empty air, watched him touch the trunk with a tenderness that seemed out of place on a being so cruel.
He remembered Sakura. He remembered the woman who had once stood beneath this tree, her hair dark as night, her eyes bright as stars. He remembered the way Allen had looked at her—the only time Xemon had ever seen his lord look at anyone with something other than hunger or contempt.
He remembered the day she died. The day something inside Allen broke and never healed.
He turned to the other generals.
"Leave him," he said. "He needs time."
The generals nodded and slipped away into the shadows, moving to the perimeter to guard against any threat that might approach.
Xemon stayed for a moment longer, watching his lord sit beneath the cherry tree, watching the blossoms fall around him like tears.
Then he, too, disappeared into the darkness.
Allen sat in silence, his back against the trunk, his eyes fixed on the fading light. The blossoms drifted down around him, pink and white and soft, and he caught one in his palm. He stared at it for a long moment, watching the way the moonlight caught its delicate petals, watching the way it trembled in his hand like a living thing.
Then he let it fall.
"You know, Sakura," he said, his voice low and soft, barely more than a whisper, "today I felt fear for the first time in centuries."
He paused, expecting the silence that always followed. He had spoken to this tree for years, pouring out his heart to its indifferent branches, confessing his sins and his sorrows and his secrets. It had never answered. It was just a tree. It could not hear him. It could not respond.
But tonight was different.
The wind shifted. The blossoms stopped falling. The air grew warm, soft, almost alive.
And then a voice spoke.
"Oh, really?"
The voice was gentle, melodic, like water flowing over smooth stones. It was not loud. It did not echo. It simply was, filling the space around him like the scent of flowers after rain.
Allen's eyes widened. His hand moved to the blade at his side, his body tensing, his senses reaching out for the source of the sound. But there was no one there. Just the tree. Just the blossoms. Just the wind.
He looked up at the branches, at the flowers glowing softly in the moonlight, and something stirred in his chest—something that felt almost like hope.
"Who is there?" he asked.
The wind laughed.
It was a soft laugh, gentle and warm, like the memory of a smile. It did not mock him. It did not threaten him. It simply laughed, and the sound wrapped around him like an embrace.
"Who do you think I am, My little Demon?" the voice said.
Allen's breath caught. His hand fell from his blade. His body relaxed, though his heart pounded in his chest.
"Sakura?" he whispered.
The blossoms fell around him like tears from a weeping sky, soft and pink and white, each petal catching the moonlight before drifting to the grass below. Allen sat beneath the ancient tree, his back pressed against the rough bark, his golden eyes fixed on the branches above where the flowers glowed like scattered stars.
For a moment—just a fleeting, impossible moment—he thought he saw a figure standing among them. A woman with pink hair that flowed like silk in the wind, and bright eyes that held the warmth of a thousand sunsets. A woman he had not seen in centuries. A woman whose face he had tried to forget and failed.
He blinked, and she was gone. The branches swayed, the blossoms fell, and the figure dissolved into shadow and memory, leaving behind only the whisper of wind and the scent of flowers. Allen leaned forward, squinting into the darkness, searching for any trace of what he had seen. There was nothing. Just the tree, just the blossoms, just the wind.
"Perhaps I am having hallucinations," he murmured, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "What a strange thing. A demon, feeling emotions like a human. How far I have fallen."
He shifted closer to the trunk, pressing his palm against the rough bark, feeling the warmth that pulsed beneath. The tree was old—older than him, older than the mountains, older than the memories that haunted his dreams. But it was alive. It had always been alive. And tonight, it seemed to breathe.
"You are still so beautiful, Sakura," he said, his voice soft, almost reverent, as if he were speaking to a lover rather than a tree. "Your glimpse is still as admirable as the first time I saw you."
The memory came unbidden, as it always did when he stood beneath this tree. He could see her as clearly as if she were standing before him—pink hair cascading down her shoulders, bright eyes sparkling with mischief, a wooden stick in her hand raised to strike.
"You do not tell me," she would say, her voice sharp and scolding. "Did you kill someone again?"
And he would laugh and deny it, and she would hit him with her stick, and he would pretend it hurt, and they would chase each other around the tree until they both collapsed in the grass, breathless and laughing.
She had always known. She had always seen through his lies. No matter how far he traveled, no matter how many sins he committed, she always found out. And she always beat him with that stick.
He smiled at the memory, and the smile did not feel bitter.
"You know why I am here, Sakura," he said, regret heavy in his voice. "Do you remember what you told me? That there would be a way to free me from the Heaven's curse. From the contract. Do you remember?"
The wind whispered through the branches, and the blossoms swayed, and for a moment, he thought he heard a soft sigh.
"Guess what," he said, a note of triumph creeping into his voice. "I found a way to break it."
He paused, waiting. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, but he did not mind. He had spoken to this tree for centuries, and it had never answered. He did not expect it to start now.
"Remember, I told you.. how I was bound to the contract?" he continued. "And, How we lost the silent war led by Zareth? Because of that war, we became submit to the Contract God Geta. We were cursed. Bound. Trapped."
He looked up at the sky, at the stars scattered across the darkness like scattered diamonds.
"After losing you, I spent every year searching for a way to break this contract. Every year, Sakura. Every century. I never stopped. And finally, I found a way."
He smiled, and there was hope in his eyes, fragile and fierce.
"The Children of Chaos. The ones who led the war. The ones who drank Zareth's blood for power. They carry within them something called the Philosopher's Stone. If I can obtain it, if I can consume it, I can become a Zareth Follower. I can free myself from the Heaven's will. I can stop this endless cycle of servitude."
He looked at the tree, at the branches swaying in the moonlight.
"I will not have to make humans my masters anymore for surival, I will not have to kill for power. I can spend my eternity with you."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I know you must be happy."
He paused, and his smile faded.
"But there is a problem. The one who holds the Philosopher's Stone—the Child of Chaos—is protected."
He swallowed, his golden eyes darkening.
"By a dragon."
The word hung in the air, heavy and ancient, and the wind seemed to still.
"As I told you before, dragons are the strongest creatures in the Nova world. They rarely interfere in mortal affairs. But this dragon—she is different. She is married to a mortal. She has bound herself to him. And if I hurt him, I will become her enemy."
He shivered, remembering the wave of killing intent that had swept across the city, the pressure that had made his demons tremble, the presence that had found his hideout in seconds.
"She even found my hideout within moments. She showed me the gap between her power and mine. That is why I am afraid."
He fell silent, and the tree listened.
"I know it is strange to tell you this," he said. "You always tried to stop me from doing terrible things. But I have decided. I am going to kill that mortal—Yuuta—and free myself from this contract forever."
The cherry blossoms fell faster, swirling around him in a gentle dance, and somewhere in the distance, a melody began to play.
It was a soft sound, melodic and sweet, the sound of a Japanese flute echoing through the mountains. The notes drifted through the air, wrapping around the trees, filling the clearing with a warmth that had not been there before. They were slow and gentle, like the memory of a lullaby, like the echo of a voice long silenced.
Allen listened, his eyes growing heavy, his body relaxing. He did not know where the music came from. He did not know how it had found him. But it was beautiful, and it was peaceful, and for the first time in centuries, he felt something he had thought long dead.
Peace.
His eyes closed. His breathing slowed. His head fell back against the trunk.
And he slept.
Above him, hidden among the branches, a woman sat with her back against the trunk. Her pink hair flowed in the wind, catching the moonlight like threads of silk, and her bright eyes watched the sleeping demon below. She held a flute to her lips, and the music that drifted from it was soft and sweet and full of longing—a song of loss and love and the hope that one day, somehow, they would find their way back to each other.
She looked down at him, at the horns on his head, at the red hair spread across the grass, at the face that had once been young and kind and full of dreams.
"Baka Allen," she whispered.
She continued playing, her music filling the night, as the cherry blossoms fell around them both.
________
Location:- Yuuta Apartment
"This is my apartment," Yuuta said, gesturing toward the weathered building with its cracked stairs and flickering porch light. The evening had fully settled into night now, the stars bright overhead, the streets empty and quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, and the sound echoed through the silence.
The old man shook his head slowly, his violet eyes fixed on the windows above. "No," he said, his voice firm with certainty. "I am having a strong scent from here. My granddaughter has been here. Recently."
Yuuta sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Listen, old man, I have been living here for almost two years. I have never seen anyone matching the description you gave me. White hair, violet eyes, short, ruthless—none of my neighbors look like that. Trust me, I would have noticed."
The old man did not respond. His gaze remained locked on the building, his nostrils flaring slightly as if he were drawing in the air, tasting it, searching for something only he could perceive.
"You have been saying the same thing for over an hour," Yuuta continued, his voice gentle but tired. "From the bookstore to my college to the park. Everywhere we went, you said you could smell her. But we did not find her."
The old man's shoulders sagged. For the first time, he looked his age—weary, defeated, ancient in a way that had nothing to do with the lines on his face.
"Perhaps you are right," he said quietly. "Perhaps I am having delusions again. I have had them before, on this long search. Many times."
Yuuta's heart ached for him. He could not imagine searching for someone for so long, following faint trails that led nowhere, hoping against hope that the next step would be the one that brought him home.
"It is late," Yuuta said. "Too late to go to the police station now. They will not be able to help us until morning."
The old man nodded slowly, but his eyes remained troubled, his mind clearly still on his missing granddaughter.
"Old man," Yuuta said, "do you have a place to stay tonight?"
The old man looked at him, his violet eyes empty. "No, lad. I am here for the first time. I arrived this morning. I have nowhere to go."
Yuuta frowned. "You mean you do not have a place to live? Not even a hotel?"
The old man did not answer. He was lost in thought again, his gaze drifting back to the windows above, his lips moving silently as if he were speaking to someone only he could see.
Yuuta studied him for a moment. The old man was clearly a foreigner—his accent, his bearing, his strange way of speaking all marked him as someone who did not belong here. He had traveled far to find his granddaughter, and he had no one to help him.
Yuuta thought about what it would be like to be alone in a strange city, searching for someone he loved, with no one to turn to. He thought about the orphanage, about the years of loneliness, about the people who had helped him when he had nothing.
"Well," Yuuta said, making a decision, "if you do not mind, you can stay at my place tonight. Tomorrow morning, we will go to the police station together and file a report."
The old man's eyes widened. He stared at Yuuta as if seeing him for the first time.
"Why are you so good to me?" he asked. "I am a stranger. You do not know me. I could be anyone. I could be dangerous."
Yuuta shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "I do not know, old man. Maybe because I never had a grandfather. I grew up in an orphanage. I do not know my parents, my grandparents, any of my family. And you—" He paused, searching for the right words. "You remind me of what I imagine a grandfather would be like. Kind. Wise. A little stubborn."
The old man's stern expression softened. He reached out and placed his large hand on Yuuta's head, ruffling his hair the way a grandfather might ruffle the hair of a beloved grandson.
"Young lad," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "if you want, you can call me Grandpa. I would not mind. Not from a human who has shown me such kindness."
Yuuta's heart swelled. He had never called anyone that before. He had never had anyone to call that.
"Can I really?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The old man smiled, a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Yes, lad. You can."
Yuuta took a breath. The word felt strange on his tongue, heavy with years of longing and loss.
"Grandpa," he said softly.
The old man nodded, his violet eyes gleaming. "That is a good lad."
Yuuta grinned, suddenly feeling lighter than he had in days. "Let us go inside," he said. "I will introduce you to my family."
They climbed the stairs together, the old man's tall frame barely fitting in the narrow stairwell, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. When they reached the door, Yuuta pushed it open—it was already unlocked—and stepped inside.
"Welcome home," he said, the words automatic, a habit he had formed long ago when he had lived alone and said them to an empty apartment to make himself feel less lonely.
The old man followed him inside, ducking slightly to clear the doorframe. He looked around at the small apartment—the worn furniture, the drawings on the walls, the toys scattered across the floor—and nodded approvingly.
Yuuta opened the living room door and stepped inside.
"I am home, Elena! I am home, my queen!" he called out.
Erza moved faster than he could see. One moment she was sitting on the sofa, her book in her lap. The next moment, she had launched herself at him, knocking him to the floor and landing on his back. She grabbed his neck and stretched it, her voice cold and sharp.
"You idiot slave!" she said, her violet eyes blazing. "Why are you so late? Do you have any idea what time it is? I sent you out for meat hours ago!"
Yuuta gasped for breath, his face pressed against the floor. "I am sorry, my queen! I was helping an old man! He was lost, and I—"
"Liar!" Erza twisted his neck. "Who would believe that? You are lying mortal!"
And then she felt it.
A familiar aura. Ancient. Powerful. One she had not felt in decades.
She froze. Her hands released Yuuta's neck. Her eyes lifted from his prone form to the doorway behind him.
The old man stood there, tall and silver-haired, his violet eyes fixed on her. His aura was leaking from him like light from a cracked lantern, filling the room with a presence that made the air itself feel heavier.
Erza's face went pale. Her body trembled. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper.
"Grandpa?"
To be continued...