Demons had already become a myth.
In the past, Gods and demons had waged a war so enormous and bloody, that it made the world shatter in their wrath. The mountains were torn apart, the sea was boiled, and the sky caught fire and lasted years. By the time the war had been over the victor was not there, there was nothing there, there was only ruin. Entire world lost a whole epoch.
The ancient music perished with its performers.
Antique ruins were devoured by earth and rock.
The names of both the gods and the demons faded away leaving only whispers then no more.
But history can never be forgotten.
It hangs--as smoke of a long extinct fire--its sparks deep-laid waiting the slightest spark to rekindle them.
And beneath that desolation...
Something stirred.
It was initially nothing but a shake--so gentle it might have been imagined to have been a matter of imagination. The earth shook, and the dust rose like the dust of a long, uncomfortable slumber rising out of the very soil.
Then--
Something fell from the sky.
Horrifyingly a blur cut through the clouds and the air was being torn open with a scream of strain and fire. It ought to have broken the earth on hitting.
Rather it was hurled back to earth--branches falling, trees that were old as the world shattering as the thing ripped through them--
Before finally--
THUD.
The earth shook so violently. The dust flew up all around, and covered the clearing with itself. A few heart-beats of silence... and floating ash.
As the dust settled, eventually, there was no crater.
Only a figure.
Small.
Human.
At the middle of the clearing stood a young man unsteadily.
He had a pale skin that was not dirty or bloody. His hair was long and white, going down past his shoulders, and staying in the cold wind as though made of silver silk. He had deep crimson eyes, and in them the bewilderment clouded, though they still flashed a last glow like the embers of a fire.
He lost his footing, almost fell, chest heaving up and down, as though he had forgotten how to breathe. His physique was slim, modeled, perfect--there was not a scar of the fall, which should have killed him a thousand deaths, upon it.
And yet...
Something was wrong.
He held up his hands and turned them about, as of a new vision. His fingers shook--not in pain, but in doubt.
Who am I?
Where am I?
The questions rung uselessly in his head.
His mind was divided--glass bits in a very dark field. Responses were almost in his grasp, taunting him. Panic was roused, though it never really exploded. It was suffocated before it could be formed by confusion.
With a grunt that was barely audible he pushed himself up. The coarse, worn-out fabric that was hanging on his body slipped off and showed bruises and shallow cuts that ran up his arms and legs. He barely noticed them.
Pain meant he was alive.
That alone was... reassuring.
He shuddered up his back--not altogether because of the cold. The air felt wrong. Heavy. Pressurized. The world itself stood waiting in suspense.
The shadows were more than they ought to be.
I'm not alone, he realized.
Something lingered nearby.
Not seen--felt.
A faint shift in the air. The slightest shimmer of movement I could have sworn was the wind. His instincts cried to him to keep still, to disappear, to be another of the dead bodies that were decaying in the debris.
He looked mopingly, and slowly towards the darkness.
Something moved.
Now a mana creature was creeping between the fragmented rocks like a living nightmare, part of which had been consumed by darkness. It didn't rush. It didn't growl.
It watched.
Waiting.
The air pressure increased and it pushed on his chest as breathing became laborious. Fear hacked on his throat, yet beneath--some colder thing was awakened. Calculation. Observation.
This is my death, he said bitterly.
Not even a name to curse with.
His eyes flicked downward.
Bones.
Old ones. Bleached. Gnawed.
And there half-buried with them a rusted sword.
Before fear may argue, he moved.
The hilt was grasped between his fingers, and during a moment or two which seemed to be a kind of nightmare the pushing of the blade was, well known. Comforting. The delusion was broken as rust scaled his fingers.
Figures, he thought. Even my weapon is half-dead.
Awkwardly he started to his feet, sword extended as an offensive more than defensive gesture. His red eyes were whipping through the ruins, making note of exits, shadows, angles. The beast didn't follow.
It didn't need to.
He slowly backed away, and then turned and walked--one step, another, all in step, all under control. The ruins were shed into a wood, thick and claustrophobic, trees reaching up to the sky as hands to the mouth.
All that crossed his mind was survival.
Hours passed.
Then--
Voices.
Harsh. Guttural.
He stood still and ducked down, and looked over the trees.
His eyes widened.
His hand was shaky though he was trying to keep it still.
Cold ran down his spine. His mouth went dry.
And within easy reach, merely a few strides distant, was a creature so enormous as to be incredible--a transporter two armed, two times on board, and more. It was no mere tiger.
It was something ancient. Wrong.
The powerful muscle of its striped fur was twitching in a crouch, one huge paw thrust forward in a direction, and its claws sank to the hilt in the ground like the weapons of an executioner. Its tail was thrown around its back, coarse and twisting, bound in a strand of dim glowing beads--sacramentary, conscious.
Then there was its head.
Gods--
The central face was snarling, a wild black mane which burst out like the fire of the dark. Streaks of blood-red were smeared on its features. There were other faces in the mane, smaller ones, twisted, demonic, and with horns, beards and ravenous eyes.
Multiple souls.
All staring at him.
Ribbons of red wound round its huge shape, and rattled like life in gold, and bursts of blue energy flashed through the air, and hummed within themselves with stifled violence.
He retreat backward--
Tick.
One of the branches broke under his feet.
The beast turned.
Its numerous eyes were fixed upon him, craziness and hunger in them, and they were keen with age and battle.
Glup.
He took it, and scraped the parched throat with his tongue.
Run, his body screamed.
but his mind already was calculating distance and time and death.
Coiled muscles beneath his skin were about to burst at any moment of first opening--however slender.
The monster moved, strength moving through the hide, nails plunging further into the earth.
It could leap at any moment.
He didn't blink.
Because somehow--terrifyingly