Garia appeared before me, ideal, a frontier settlement with sturdy walls, cobbled paths, and folk preoccupied but neighborly. Neither suffocating Capital nor paranoid backwater.
Perfection.
From the forest's edge, I studied the gates. "Character time," I whispered.
Peasant linen draped me, too pristine. I seized dirt, ground it into the cloth, wrenched the sleeve. Reluctantly, a concealed claw sliced my cheek.
Agony flared on my chest upon seeing the place. Revolting. Humans endure this daily?
Pressed blood forth for effect, halted regeneration. A moment's lapse and the gash seals.
"Pathetic orphan guise engaged." I say to myself.
Lurching from the trees, I feigned injury, quickened breath to redden eyes. By the road, I resembled war's wreckage.
A merchant's cart neared. My timing flawless, I crumpled before it.
"Whoa!" Reins yanked. Horses halted, breaths hot on my skin.
A burly figure leaped from the wagon. No uniform, just a flour-streaked apron clinging to a tunic stretched tight over his immense belly. His beard, a tangled thicket, framed eyes that flashed with sudden alarm.
"Gods above! A kid!"
Surprisingly tender for such rough, calloused hands—reeking of yeast and spice—he lifted me effortlessly.
"Alive, boy? What happened?"
A feeble cough. "Bandits," I murmured, letting my voice crack. "My family... the caravan... they made me run."
Classic tale. Old as dirt. Yet clichés stick because fools swallow them whole.
"Poor child," the man choked out. "Martha! Grab that blanket!"
A woman's face appeared in the wagon's shadow. Gentle features, worry carved into her brow. "Hans! He's hurt! Get him inside, now. Town clinic, quickly."
Perfect. Phase one done. Ride secured.
—
Two days later, Garia was mine. Well not technically but I managed to get into the town without much problem.
The clinic fixed me up, wasted bandages really on me… But I guess my wounds is realistic enough to fool the humans. Also the humans that found me… Hans and Martha fussed over me like doting geese ever since.
Turned out they ran the Golden Crust Bakery, the busiest shop in the market. No kids, hearts softer than dough, and pathetically easy to play.
Perched on a stool, I studied Hans pounding dough.
"Strong grip, Ren," he noted, grinning as I hefted a flour sack my own weight. "Probably you're destined to bake after all."
"Thanks, Uncle Hans," I lied.
My strength? Dulled to a sliver. One percent more, and that sack would've smashed through the roof.
"Ren!" Martha's voice floated from the front. "Come here, sweetheart. Someone you should know."
Dusting flour off, I obeyed what they said… trying to gain their trust and affection. To make my plan as solid as possible.
But the moment I was in the front counter…
I felt it—an overwhelming wellspring of Holy Mana, slumbering yet potent. Undeniably the Hero's mark. My task was clear… locate the target, secure them.
My gaze swept the room. Searching for a boy.
Prophecies were never specific, just whispers of "The Hero." But history never deviated: always a man. Azaroth fell to one. My grandfather too. I expected some scruffy, stick-wielding kid, buzzing with reckless energy.
Then Martha spoke. "Ren." She motioned to a tiny figure across the glass case. "Meet Zania. Lives nearby. Same age as you."
I stiffened.
Glanced at the girl. Scanned the shop for the boy she must've been shielding.
No one.
"Hi!" she beamed.
Wild auburn hair, barely tamed by a crooked ponytail. Huge amber eyes, locked onto pastries. A smudged nose, a bandaged knee.
I just… stared.
Her?
My Demon Eye flared to life.
Name: Zania
Race: Human
[Class: None (Civilian)]
[Mana Potential: SSS (Dormant)]
[Intelligence: C-]
That mana signature? Pure Holy Light. And terrifying. But… a girl?
I'd braced for a rival. For sparring and camaraderie. Not this.
"You new here?" She grinned, a gap where a tooth should be. "Martha said bandits chased you! Did you do what an adventurer does! Did you fight 'em?"
"I… ran," I muttered, brain lagging.
"Eh," she shrugged. Not judging. Leaned in, hushed. "Smart. I'm fast too. Outran a stray dog once."
She stepped back, extending a finger toward the pastry. "That cream bun, can I take it? The sugared one?"
"Certainly, dear," Martha replied, reaching for the tongs.
Suddenly, I stopped her.
Instinct took over. Not the instincts of a Demon Lord. The relentless need for perfection of my plan.
"No," I murmured, leaning into the case and selecting another. Hidden in the back row. "This is the one. The first is too close to the glass. Drying out. Sun damage. But this one here is fresh, soft, undamaged."
Paper crinkled as I passed it to her.
Zania's grip tightened around the bun. A quick bite. Cream bursting free.
"Mmph!" A gulp. "Clouds. Like eating clouds."
Her gaze locked onto me, brimming with awe typically reserved for cult leaders.
"So…" she whispered. "Ren? Your name is Ren, right?" She said that as she continued, "I'm Zania!" A lick of sugar from her thumb. "You and me are best friends now, Ren. Officially."
She spun, bouncing away, waving her half-devoured prize like a trophy.
Gone.
A child. The famed Demon Slayer was just a sugar-crazed kid.
"Spirited, that one," Martha chuckled, cleaning the counter. "Trouble follows her. Falling, climbing, breaking. Her mother's hair must be gray by now."
"Enthusiastic," I murmured.
Staring at the door. The "Hero" vanished.
Gender is irrelevant. But that power is truly undeniable. But the girl herself? A disaster. Clumsy. Hungry. Foolish. I guess my plan will work out perfectly fine after all…