After two days of continuous travel, during which hunting instincts replaced theoretical lessons and lonely campfires were his only company, Marc finally reached the border of the Kingdom of Holy Law. This realm was known as the southernmost inhabited bastion of the continent, a land where faith and steel intertwined to keep the darkness at bay.
For many royal cartographers, the forest Marc had just left behind was merely a forgotten province of the kingdom itself; however, to the common folk, that place was a sovereign territory of nightmares known simply as the Blackwood.
Despite his rigorous training, Marc had barely scratched the surface of the horrors hidden within those depths. By inhabiting the northern fringes under Silas's tutelage, he had remained far from the forest's true heart. In the deep reaches of the center and south, where sunlight rarely touched the ground, lay the core of the most colossal and ancient creatures—monsters of such devastating power that they made the white wolves seem like mere pups. But now, with the Kingdom of Holy Law before him, Marc prepared to face a danger of a different nature: human beings.
Instead of an imposing wall or a military checkpoint marking the kingdom's end, the only thing Marc found was a moisture-rotted sign marking the entrance to the Blackwood. The notice, written in rough calligraphy, warned of the lethal creatures lurking among the trees and strongly recommended against crossing the boundary alone, unarmed, and without proven mastery of the blade or the bow.
In the shadows of the forest, not a single human settlement could be seen; to Marc, this made perfect sense given the peril of the local wildlife. No one in their right mind would want to wake up with a white wolf scratching at their door.
He had to press on with his trek for the rest of the day, feeling the terrain begin to open up as the oppression of the ancient trees fell behind him. It was shortly before sunset when, looking down from the crest of a hill, Marc finally found a trace of life. A few kilometers below sat a small village protected by a wooden perimeter wall that, at first glance, didn't seem capable of withstanding the charge of a true beast. It consisted of barely fifteen scattered huts—a fragile refuge in the middle of the vastness, marking Marc's first real contact with the world of men.
Darkness had already claimed the landscape by the time Marc found himself within a stone's throw of the village. After weighing the situation, he decided the wisest course of action was to set up a makeshift camp at a safe distance. There was no point in risking an arrival in the dead of night; showing up at a frontier settlement under the cloak of shadows would only serve to stir unnecessary suspicion.
If his appearance alone—with his hood pulled low and those dark alchemical lenses—made him look like a dangerous character during the day, bursting into the village at dawn would automatically brand him a threat in the eyes of the locals. Marc preferred his first contact with civilization to be under the light of the sun, where he could at least attempt to pass for an eccentric traveler rather than a midnight raider. He settled into the brush, keeping an eye on the low fire he had built, as the silence of the world of men—so different from that of the Blackwood—wrapped around him for the first time.
The following morning, Marc prepared for his first official contact with humanity. With meticulous concentration, he invoked the illusory magic upon his horns, feeling the strands of light bend obediently according to his master's instructions. Next, he placed the dark lenses over his face, concealing the telltale glow of his pupils.
I'd like to have a mirror to see how I look, Marc thought, adjusting his hood. He knew that in these fantasy worlds, a high-quality mirror was a luxury item reserved for the nobility. He remembered jotting down the alchemical formula to craft one in his notes, but for the time being, it was useless knowledge; he had neither the ingredients nor the equipment necessary for such a precise transmutation. With no tools other than his own intuition, Marc had to trust that Silas's veil was solid enough to deceive the eyes of men.
With everything ready, Marc set off toward the village. He recalled that moment, during the eighth month of his training, when Silas had handed him a gold coin "for his effort." At the time, Marc had taken it almost as a mockery; what use was a piece of precious metal in the middle of a forest where the only currency was strength? Now, however, he was deeply grateful not to be reaching civilization empty-handed.
Still, his master's warning echoed in his mind: he had no way of knowing if it was still the Kingdom's official legal tender or how much purchasing power it retained after fifty years of isolation. I hope it's at least enough for a decent meal, Marc thought, feeling the cold embossed metal in his pocket. Asking for a bed at an inn might be too much to hope for—if a village this small even has a place for travelers to begin with.
With his hand brushing the hilt of his sword and his face hidden behind the alchemic veil, Marc closed the distance to the palisade, acutely aware that every step took him further from the protection of the Blackwood and closer to his destiny as a King.
Upon reaching the village entrance, Marc came across what was technically a guard. Or at least, what passed for one in that place. It was a lad who didn't look older than fifteen, awkwardly clutching a wooden spear so poorly carved it looked more like a sharpened branch than a weapon. It's a purely symbolic post, Marc thought with a mix of pity and pragmatism. If a real danger emerged from the Blackwood, that boy wouldn't stand a chance. I hope I don't look threatening enough for him to slam the gate in my face and sound the alarm.
"Hello, good morning," Marc greeted, using the most polite and neutral tone he could muster, startling the youth who hadn't even been paying attention to the path.
"Huh?... Yes... morning. What is your name and your business in this village?" the boy stammered, snapping to attention and adopting a forced alert stance—like someone trying, rather unsuccessfully, to look tough and experienced.
"My name is..." Marc hesitated. A question he hadn't foreseen struck him at that moment: should he give his real name when, in the future, that very name would be that of the Demon King? "...David. I am a traveler. I'm looking to resupply on food and, if possible, lodging for the day."
Dammit, why was the first name that popped into my head my stupid former coworker's? Marc cursed internally with sheer contempt. Of all the names in the world, he had picked the one belonging to the guy he used to hate most.
The lad continued his forced act of a stern guard, though curiosity was beginning to win over duty.
"Where exactly do you come from? And why are you wearing those dark things over your eyes? Are you... blind?" he asked the last part with genuine doubt, lowering his spear slightly.
A rather stupid question, Marc thought. How could I have made it this far, through a pathless forest, while blind and without a guide? Nevertheless, he maintained his mask of politeness.
"Blind? No, not at all. You see, I suffer from an ocular condition that makes me extremely sensitive to light. If the direct sun hits me, I could lose my sight permanently. That's why I almost never take them off. If it makes you feel more at ease, I can remove them, but I'd have to keep my eyes closed."
The excuse flowed from his lips with startling naturalness; those years spent inventing pretexts to justify being late to the office were finally paying off in a medieval world.
"Huh? No, don't bother. I wouldn't want to be the cause of your blindness, sir," the boy replied, visibly flustered. "It's just... it surprised me. Can you actually see anything with those on?"
"Yes, they are crafted with a special alchemy," Marc explained. "Even though they look as black as the abyss from the outside, I can see with total clarity."
"With alchemy?" the youth exclaimed, wide-eyed. "That must have cost a fortune. Are you a noble?"
Dammit. Alchemical products must be unattainable luxuries here. I spoke without thinking, Marc reproached himself internally.
"No, no... nothing like that. I'm no noble, nor do I possess great wealth," he corrected quickly. "These lenses were a gift from a feudal lord I worked for years ago. Aware of my condition, he had them specially made for me. A very generous man, truly."
"I imagine so. He must have held you in very high regard to give you a gift of such magnitude," the lad concluded, now looking at Marc with renewed respect—bordering on reverence.
Actually, they were a gift from someone who made me bite the dust every single day, Marc thought with an internal smirk of irony, recalling Silas's brutal training sessions.
"Indeed," Marc said aloud, maintaining his calm demeanor. "And to answer your question, I've been on the road for months now. I began my journey from the northernmost human settlements and have been visiting towns and villages of every kind. I've set myself the mission of traveling across all human territories for my own pleasure; seeing new places and meeting people as kind and refined as yourself is something that fills me with deep joy."
Hearing those flattering words, the young guard swelled with pride, straightening up at his post with a satisfied smile that betrayed his utter lack of experience.
"Well... travelers as polite and distinguished as yourself are always welcome in our village," the lad replied, lowering his spear completely.
A few pretty words and I've got him in my pocket. You're truly useless as a guard, kid, Marc reflected to himself with a mix of contempt and pity. I could be a serial killer and you wouldn't have even noticed. If it were me standing at that gate, I would have interrogated myself to death.
"So, am I permitted to pass?" Marc asked, maintaining the facade of politeness.
"Of course, go right ahead," the youth replied, quickly stepping aside. "The food market is at the far end to the left. If you need lodging, we don't have a formal inn, but Mr. Teo occasionally rents out a room in his house to travelers. You could ask for him at the market."
"Much obliged," Marc nodded, preparing to cross the threshold. "And what is your name, kind young man?"
"Oh, right! I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Marc, I'm the caretaker of this village," the boy said, puffing out his chest with genuine pride.
Marc?, the protagonist thought, pausing for a microsecond. What were the odds that the first person I meet in this territory shares my exact name? Perhaps it's a much more common name in this world than I imagined.
"A pleasure to meet you, Marc," he said aloud, giving him one last enigmatic smile. "I shall hold your name in high regard; I will remember you as one of the kindest and most likable people I've encountered on my journey."
"Thank you very much, sir! It's an honor," the youth replied, offering a clumsy but respectful bow.
Marc stepped through the gate and into the village, leaving the boy behind. You ought to be better at reading people's lies, "Caretaker Marc," he reflected inwardly with a sting of cynicism. If you want to survive what's coming, kindness simply won't be enough.
Just as he expected, his entrance did not go unnoticed. Quickly, Marc became the center of every gaze; some villagers watched him with reverential awe, as if beholding a figure out of legend, while others followed him with suspicion, clutching their farming tools with distrust. They must not get many visitors being this far south and so close to the Blackwood, Marc reasoned. My appearance must be the event of the year; they'll be talking about this in every hut for weeks.
He finally reached the market, which consisted of nothing more than a single street stall with an alarming lack of variety. Small fruits, some grains, and dried meat that didn't look particularly appetizing.
"Good morning," Marc greeted the girl in charge of the stall.
The young woman stared at him, her expression failing to hide her curiosity—an unstable mix of fascination and dread.
"Yes... morning. What can I do for you?" she managed to utter.
"I'm a simple traveler passing through," Marc replied, maintaining that polite, rehearsed tone that had worked so well with the youth at the gate. "I'm looking to restock my food supplies to continue my journey. If you don't mind, I'd like to see what products you have for sale."
Though his words spoke of simplicity, his image was anything but common. With his high-quality cloak and alchemical lenses glinting under the sun, Marc bordered on the eccentric, appearing almost absurd by the standards of that humble frontier village.
"Oh... yes, of course. Go ahead," the girl replied, never taking her eyes off those black crystals hiding his gaze. "Ask for the price of anything you like."
Marc began to browse the meager stock at the stall, trying to ignore the weight of the gazes burning into the back of his neck.
"By the way, before I start asking for prices... could you tell me how much I can get with this?" Marc said, pulling the coin from his pocket and showing it to the girl with feigned nonchalance.
Instantly, the girl recoiled a step, startled. Her face shifted from absolute shock to a scowl of reproach, as if Marc were mocking her with a cruel, tasteless joke.
"Uh... so, what is it worth?" Marc pressed, met only by the vendor's prolonged silence.
The girl's expression shifted again; her eyes narrowed as she realized the stranger was serious and wasn't looking to humiliate her.
"If that coin is real..." she began, her voice barely a whisper, "it's a gold piece from the capital. It's not common at all around here. No one makes purchases with something like that unless it's for a massive transaction. Usually, only nobility or great merchants use them. It's far too valuable; I don't have change for that, nor could I accept it even if I wanted to."
I see. Having this coin here is the same as having nothing at all, Marc thought with a pang of frustration. Silas gave me a treasure that makes me stand out like a beacon, yet it won't even buy me a loaf of bread.
"I imagine there's no way to break this coin into smaller denominations in a place like this," Marc said, sensing the answer before the girl even opened her mouth.
"Not in this village. For that, you'd have to travel to a real city, like the capital," she replied, shaking her head.
I'm screwed, Marc thought. Silas's gold was nothing but dead weight in his pocket.
"Is there any work I could do to earn at least a hot meal?" he asked, maintaining his formality despite his growing frustration.
"I couldn't say for sure. You'd have to ask Teo; he's in charge of assigning tasks in the village and occasionally gives odd jobs to travelers... like yourself," she added with a hint of doubt, her eyes sweeping over Marc's strange appearance. "But I heard just an hour ago that he was heading east with a small group of men. Apparently, several neighbors have spotted tracks of something the size of a troll lingering near the village."
A troll? Marc thought. Interest sparked behind his dark lenses. This was much more promising than hauling grain sacks. Maybe I should find that group. I'm intrigued to see the hunting methods humans use against large-scale monsters.
"I see. Thank you for the information," Marc said, turning away and heading toward the village's eastern exit. He had no intention of missing the spectacle of a human hunt.
Marc began to follow the trail left by the group from the village. He didn't possess the supernatural expertise of the assassin who had stalked him months ago, but Silas had taught him enough to track a column of inexperienced men without much difficulty. The trail led him about seven kilometers cross-country to a spot where the group seemed to have taken a brief break for breakfast; the cold ashes of an extinguished campfire marked the site.
However, the next three kilometers showed a drastic change in pace: the footprints were deep and frantic, reflecting a feverish urgency. Finally, he reached the epicenter of what had clearly been a brief and violent skirmish.
Inspecting the ground, Marc could discern that the small group's formation had completely shattered. They had scattered in panic: two of them veered off to the right, drawing the attention of whatever they were fighting, while the rest of the group fled desperately to the left.
They likely scattered during the chaos without looking back, or perhaps those two served as a distraction so the others could escape, Marc analyzed coldly. However, one detail caught his eye immediately. From the furrows in the dirt and the blood splatters, the group that fled to the left was dragging someone who was severely wounded. The troll hunt had turned into a massacre in mere minutes.
Marc had come with the intention of observing the group's prowess, but at that moment, the abysmal lack of experience and power these men possessed to hunt something like a troll became painfully clear. Nevertheless, true to his initial decision, he chose to follow the trail of the creature and the two men who had served as decoys.
The trail led a few kilometers up a nearby hill, where Marc soon found signs of a second skirmish and more fresh blood. The troll had already wounded another of the men. For a moment, Marc doubted he would reach them before the beast finished them off, but before he could give up, the sounds of battle and the fierce screams of a man tore through the air.
What he saw upon reaching the crest surprised him—not because of the battle itself, but because of the creature his eyes beheld. It was a being about three meters tall, with grayish, coarse, and rough skin that resembled living rock. Its arms were disproportionately long compared to its torso, ending in heavy hands, and its face was a mask of threatening ugliness.
Undoubtedly, something like this would have horrified most people on Earth, Marc thought, watching the scene with almost icy calm. To think that here, this is normal... truly, this is a land of fantasy.
More than a battle, the scene was a display of pure desperation. One man lay motionless on the ground while the other swung his weapon frantically, lashing out at the air with gut-wrenching screams in a suicidal attempt to keep the beast at bay.
I don't know if I should intervene, Marc thought with analytical coldness. I could annihilate that creature in a heartbeat, but I don't want to expose my true power.
In that instant, the man caught Marc's gaze. His eyes were mirrors of absolute terror.
"Help!" he screamed, his voice breaking. "Please, run for help!"
Run for help? Marc questioned. By the time I return with reinforcements, you'll be nothing but a pile of crushed bones.
Marc remained motionless for a few seconds, calculating every variable. He couldn't use magic or draw his sword with total freedom; the extreme effort might break the veil on his horns and reveal his demonic nature. If he saved him and they discovered what he was, gratitude would turn into a manhunt. But if he let him die and by some miracle the man survived, Marc would be branded as the coward who didn't lift a finger, closing the village gates to him forever.
Maybe I should just move on to the next town, he considered. This was never my battle.
However, their eyes met again. The villager's eyes were flooded with tears and anguish, already resigned to an imminent death. His movements with the steel grew slower, betraying total exhaustion. The troll, sensing the weakness, began to lumber toward its prey.
"Dammit," Marc growled, as he drew his bow and notched an arrow, aiming at the beast's head. "You shouldn't intervene, you idiot."
The arrow flew with superhuman speed and struck the troll's skull. Though it ricocheted off the stony hide, it left a deep, bloody gash on the monster's bare forehead. The troll let out a deafening roar of pain and diverted its fury toward the new attacker.
"Get out of here!" Marc shouted to the man. "My legs still have strength; I'll distract it. Get back to the village immediately!"
The man, nearly breathless, nodded slightly. But instead of fleeing, he crawled toward his fallen companion to protect him. Marc clicked his tongue; he had hoped the man would leave so he could unleash his magic without witnesses, but now he would have to lure the beast away from their sight.
The troll was slow, almost clumsy compared to the opponents Silas had accustomed him to, but Marc understood why those villagers couldn't escape. He kept a light jog, regulating his speed so as not to lose the monster, and guided it toward a thick grove a few hundred meters away. There, among the shadows and far from prying eyes, Marc could finally finish the job his way.
Once the shadows of the grove hid them from any prying eyes, Marc dissipated the illusory spell on his horns and released his mana. He summoned gusts of wind magic—invisible blades that cut with the precision of a saber. However, he forced himself to hold back; if the troll's body appeared too mangled, the villagers might suspect a power that didn't belong to a "simple traveler."
The cuts barely managed to furrow the monster's stony hide, but the attrition was evident. Overwhelmed by the speed of the attacks, the troll let out shrieks of agony. In an act of desperation, the creature dug its massive claws into the earth, tearing up chunks of rock and soil to hurl at Marc. Unfazed, Marc summoned a magical barrier that pulverized the projectiles before they could even touch him.
"Fine, I'll let you land a few hits," Marc whispered toward the beast. "I need to leave traces that this was a fierce battle I struggled to win."
He ceased his magical attacks and allowed the creature to lung at him. Marc limited himself to dodging the troll's slow and erratic movements, moving with an elegance that bordered on mockery. That game of shadows infuriated the monster even further, its roars of frustration growing louder and louder.
"What's wrong, pal? Does it bother you that the hunter has become the prey?" Marc said with a haughty, contemptuous tone.
After a few minutes of this macabre dance, Marc decided there was enough evidence of a "fight to the death." He drew his sword and imbued it with earth magic; the steel became coated in a blade of rock as sharp and dense as mithril itself. With a clean, surgical strike, Marc slit the troll's throat.
Sound died in the beast's throat as a crimson cascade stained the ground. The troll, clutching its neck in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding, threw one last desperate claw strike. Marc, with an agile leap, moved out of the reach of its long arms. The creature finally collapsed, and life faded from its gray eyes.
Marc looked down at the troll's lifeless corpse with a mixture of indifference and disdain.
"That was a bit disappointing," Marc muttered to himself. "I expected a greater challenge from such a creature, but that Golem gave me far more trouble."
He dispelled the magic imbuing his steel and sheathed the sword at his belt, hiding it once more beneath the folds of his hood. With practiced focus, he invoked the illusory veil over his horns again before stepping out into the open. It was yet another victory for the bright-eyed demon; a triumph that, while necessary, served as a silent reminder of his evolution. His power was beginning to border on the abnormal—a monstrous strength that distanced him further and further from the human fragility he once knew.