David stared at Lazarus, shock tightening his throat.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
Lazarus did not answer immediately.
He simply turned his back and walked toward the small pot simmering over the fire. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of herbs and something warm and earthy.
"The food is almost ready," Lazarus said with a gentle smile, as if he hadn't just shattered David's reality.
David rose to his feet, fists trembling.
"Do you know what's inside me?"
His voice cracked with frustration.
"What am I?"
Lazarus stirred the pot slowly, unbothered by the intensity behind him.
"Sit," he said. "Eat. Rest."
"I don't need rest," David snapped. "I need ans.."
His words collapsed mid-sentence.
A sharp wave of dizziness washed over him, blurring the world at the edges. His knees weakened, breath turning shallow. He staggered, gripping the edge of the table for balance.
Lazarus didn't look surprised.
"Your soul is overworked," he said calmly.
"And your body is barely holding together."
David swallowed hard. The spinning worsened.
"If you don't eat," Lazarus continued, voice firm,
"and if you don't let your body rest… you will collapse.
David lay on the bed, his breath shallow, his muscles trembling as if the weight of the world had finally settled on his bones. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
Lazarus stepped forward, the dim lantern-light carving sharp shadows across his face. In his hand was a wooden bowl, steam twisting upward like thin ghosts.
He held it out.
"Drink," he said. "It will calm the storm in your body."
David hesitated. The scent of the herbs was strange, bitter, almost alive. But his limbs were too heavy, his thoughts too raw — so he took it, lifted it to his lips, and swallowed.
Lazarus watched him, eyes steady.
"You're lucky you're still breathing," he murmured, voice low. "Most people die in the process."
Minutes passed, and David's body finally began to settle, the tremors fading into a dull, distant ache. The door creaked open, and Lazarus walked in with two wide bowls of vegetable soup balancing in his hands.
He offered one to David.
But David only stared at it, his hands resting stiffly on his lap. A lifetime of cruelty had carved a lesson too deep to ignore — kindness offered with food was rarely kindness at all.
Lazarus noticed the hesitation, the quiet fear hiding behind David's lowered gaze. He said nothing. Instead, he smiled gently, lifted his own bowl… and traded it with David's.
A simple gesture. A quiet vow.
And in that small exchange, something in David's chest loosened. A small knot of tension in david's chest finally loosen
David picked up the wooden spoon and finally ate.
The warmth of the soup spread through him, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. When they were done, he thanked Lazarus for his hospitality. The man only smiled and said, "You are welcome."
After clearing the table, David looked around the small house, expecting to find Lazarus nearby, but the man was nowhere in sight. He checked the rooms, calling his name once, twice, but silence pressed in from every corner.
Then something caught his eye — a photograph lying face-down on the floor.
He bent and picked it up.
In the faded image stood Lazarus… beside a woman with gentle eyes, and a small girl smiling between them. A family frozen in a moment long gone, their warmth trapped in the frame like a ghost
To David, this must be his family — but where were they now?
He placed the photo back where he found it and stepped outside. The evening wind brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of earth and fading sunlight. Lazarus sat on a wooden chair, his silhouette framed by the dying sun, eyes fixed on the horizon as if searching for something beyond it.
Without turning, he spoke.
"Join me."
David walked closer, the boards beneath his feet creaking softly.
Lazarus exhaled, slow and heavy.
"I guess…" he said, his voice low, "it's time to talk."
"Ask your questions," Lazarus said.
David took a breath. "Who are you?"
Lazarus answered plainly, "I am Lazarus… and I was a third-ranked soldier of the kingdom of Valnic."
Shock flickered through David's eyes. He leaned forward. "How did you end up here?"
Lazarus felt the weight of the question.
Felt the boy's growing curiosity like a hand pressing against an old wound. He nodded slowly.
"Since you want to know about me…" he began, voice thinning with memory. "I was once one of the most honored warriors during the time of King Van Austin. Everything I did… every blade I lifted… was to protect my family and everyone around me."
His jaw tightened.
"But things changed the day a village was attacked. We were deployed to defend it. After hours of fighting, we managed to save the people… barely."
He paused, gaze fixed on the ground, as if the dirt itself held ghosts.
"Then another report came," he continued quietly. "Two more villages were under attack. And one of them…" His voice faltered. "…one of them was where my wife and child were staying."
Our orders were to ride to the village where the king was," Lazarus said, his voice low, almost trembling. "I asked about the other village… about my family. But the order was clear: protect the king. Nothing else."
His hands tightened on the arm of the chair, knuckles turning white.
"My hands were shaking. Fear filled my chest until I could barely breathe. I kept imagining what my wife and child might be facing. And when we mounted our horses…" He swallowed hard. "I made a decision."
He looked at David.
"I ran. I ran toward the village where my family was. I didn't look back. I didn't care about consequences, or rank, or honor. I rode like a man already dying."
The air around him felt heavier, colder.
"On my way, I could hear the screams… people crying for help from far away. And before I even reached the village, I knew something horrible had happened."
A long silence stretched.
"When I arrived… the deed was already done." His voice cracked. "Bodies were scattered across the streets. People I knew. People I once fought beside. Dead."
His breathing wavered.
"I ran to my house. The door was broken. Blood everywhere. My wife… lying on the floor." He looked away, as if the memory itself burned his eyes. "And beside her… my daughter. Her face so ruined… I couldn't even recognize her."
His shoulders sagged as the final words fell out like ash.
"The ones I swore to protect… the ones who needed me the most… were gone."
"I ran," Lazarus continued, "as far as my legs and my guilt could carry me. Far from the kingdoms. Far from the wars. Far from the world and all its horrors."
He exhaled slowly, the sound hollow. "And that is how I ended up here."
David's eyes softened—pity mixed with disbelief.
How could a man who had lost everything still manage to smile?
How could someone carry that much grief and still sit beneath a sunset as if it were gentle?
Silence fell between them like a curtain.
Then Lazarus spoke again, voice quieter this time, almost fragile.
"Now tell me…" he said, turning to David. "Where are you from?"
(THE CAPITAL OF VALNIC)
Far from Lazarus' quiet refuge, the capital of Valnic stood like a wounded beast against the horizon—towering walls cracked, banners torn, its once-golden rooftops stained black from years of unending war.
Night had begun to fall.
The streets were crowded, but not with celebration—only desperation.
Merchants bartered with hollow eyes. Soldiers marched with steps heavy from battles they never asked for. And above them all, the palace spires glowed faintly, illuminated by the cold blue fire of the kingdom's ancient wards.
Inside those walls, something stirred.
A council chamber lit by a circle of candles.
Whispers dancing like serpents in the dark.
High-ranking officers bent over maps drenched in red ink
(INNER WAR ROOM)
The war room burned with torchlight, shadows stretching across walls lined with maps of fallen villages. High-ranking officers stood gathered, their armor clinking softly with every tense breath. And among them stood a man unlike the rest — silver armor gleaming like a shard of moonlight, posture straight, eyes cold and unreadable.
A general stepped forward, voice low and weighted.
"Reports have reached us from the southern region. The village head sent a letter… claiming a slave attacked their people."
He hesitated.
"Killed two. A woman… and another slave. Witnesses say he used demonic powers."
A ripple of unease stirred the room.
"He displays destructive abilities beyond anything we've documented. I strongly suggest we dispatch First Rank soldiers to eliminate the threat before it grows."
Silence.
Heavy. Sharp.
Council members exchanged grim looks, each calculating the danger of letting such a creature roam free.
Finally, one of them nodded.
"The proposal is accepted. A search party will be."
A voice cut through the chamber like a blade dragged across stone.
"Send me."
All heads turned.
The man in silver armor stepped forward, eyes burning with cold resolve.
"Give me a unit," he said. "I will handle the threat myself."
The council murmured. They knew that voice.
They knew the reputation behind it.
A monster hunting monsters.
At last, one council member rose to his feet.
"Your request is approved. Choose your men."
A pause.
"Find the threat… and kill it, SHINO."
The man bowed his head slightly.
"Yes, Council."
As he turned, the torches flickered—almost recoiling from his shadow.
The kingdom's blade was now moving…
and David had just become his target.