That night, the sky burned—along with the village of Lorthas.

  Screams, smoke, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. A small child walked barefoot through rubble and corpses, his face blank, feet bloodied.

  Nothing remained.

  Except him.

  And then they came—envoys of the Church. Dressed in white robes with gentle smiles, they called him "The Blessed Child."

  That child's name was Ashren—the boy destined to save the world.

  ---

  The Sanctum of Ereshiah welcomed Ashren with open arms. Beyond golden gates and radiant stained glass, he was given more than just shelter—he was given a purpose.

  They taught him prayer, wisdom, and sacred scripture.

  But it didn’t stop there.

  The church’s mages trained him to command the elements, recite ancient incantations, and heal with a mere touch. By the age of nine, he could freeze and incinerate with a single word of High Arcana.

  Not enough.

  The holy knights drilled him in swordplay and spear techniques. His small frame moved with agility and precision. They trained him to protect, to inspire, to become a beacon.

  > "Ashren—the light of humanity’s future."

  That’s what they called him.

  The faithful believed he would become the next great prophet.

  But Ashren did not know—

  the light they planted within him… was forged in hellfire.

  ---

  Then that night came.

  His mentors' smiles turned cold.

  The chapel became a lab.

  And the hands that once guided him… now held him down.

  > “Ashren, the final stage is ready. You will become perfection. The only one who can summon demons without losing his soul.”

  They called it a blessing.

  To Ashren, it was the beginning of his second hell.

  And from that hell, a saint was not born…

  but a harbinger of ruin.

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  ---

  The bars were cold, rough, gleaming under flickering candlelight like the fangs of a beast.

  Ashren thrashed, blood dripping from wrists bound in cursed chains. His breath ragged, his body trembling—not from cold, but from fear.

  > "I’m... a priest of Sanctum Ereshiah...! What are you doing to me?!"

  From the shadows emerged a man in a white coat, his face obscured by a silver wolf mask.

  > “Pointless struggle, boy,” he whispered coldly. “No magic can break those bars.”

  > “Who—what are you?! Let me go!”

  Ashren chanted a spell, desperate—

  but there was no glow. No fire. Only emptiness.

  > “My name is Anubis,” the masked man said with a hidden grin.

  “And you... you are no longer a priest. You are our final experiment. The perfect vessel for a demon.”

  Footsteps echoed. Two figures in white robes entered, carrying sharp tools and dark vials.

  > “NO! Don’t touch me! I’m not—I’m NOT—!”

  His screams were swallowed by the darkness.

  ---

  Ashren was laid upon a stone altar. Iron straps held his small body down.

  Someone injected black liquid into his neck. At first, it was cold.

  Then fire—

  like molten lava coursing through his veins.

  > "AAAAAAAAARGH!!!"

  His body convulsed, veins bulging beneath his skin.

  His eyes rolled back, blood seeping from his lips.

  > “This is only the beginning,” a calm voice whispered beside his ear.

  “Tomorrow, we start the modifications. Today was just warm-up.”

  ---

  The next morning came without light.

  Ashren opened his eyes—or tried to. His vision was blurred, shadows and violet glows dancing in the air.

  His body felt numb.

  As if it no longer belonged to him.

  Footsteps approached. Metal clanged.

  He was unstrapped—only to be moved to the next operating table.

  > “What else will you take from me...?” he whispered, barely audible.

  Anubis stepped through the magical haze, this time with no smile.

  In his hand—an arm. Large. Scaled. Black-purple.

  Not human.

  > “Your right arm is too fragile,” he said.

  “We’ll replace it... with power.”

  Ashren tried to resist.

  But his body was too weak.

  The holy scalpel glinted.

  The pain wasn’t in the cutting—

  It was in the stitching.

  When demon flesh fused with human muscle, his body screamed.

  Ashren’s shrieks echoed long into the depths of the sanctum.

  ---

  Day three.

  The sound of dripping water was like death ticking away.

  They returned.

  This time, with a glass container. Inside—two glowing eyes, floating in green fluid.

  The eyes moved.

  They saw him.

  > “Taken from the last demon slain by the Hero of Light in the Ancient War,” one of the scientists said with pride.

  “A fitting gift for the next master of darkness.”

  > “Please... just kill me...” Ashren whispered, as blood-tears dripped from his now-empty sockets.

  But there was no mercy.

  They implanted the cursed eyes into the hollows.

  The pain—far beyond the flesh.

  It was as if his soul was being torn apart and sewn back together.

  ---

  After that, they tossed him back into the cell.

  His body trembled.

  His mouth could no longer scream.

  Something inside him had shattered.

  But that night—when all was quiet—an explosion rocked the sanctuary.

  Walls crumbled. Fire licked the halls.

  And in the smoke and rage, Ashren found a single chance.

  A chance to escape.

  Maybe… even to take revenge.

  ---

  Smoke and ruin filled the air.

  Flames devoured the night sky—just like in Lorthas, all those years ago.

  Ashren coughed weakly.

  The once-indestructible bars... cracked.

  With his demon hand pulsing and cursed eyes glowing faintly, he drew out the last fragments of magic within him.

  A spell in the language of hell slipped from his tongue—whether he remembered it or something whispered it to him, he didn’t know.

  A small explosion.

  The bars blew apart.

  Ashren stumbled out, fevered and broken.

  But every step—was a step toward freedom.

  Then, from within the flames—

  Anubis appeared.

  > “Did you think you could run, boy?” he said softly.

  “You’re no longer human. You are ours. The world will hunt you—but we will welcome you back.”

  He extended a hand.

  > “Come with me. Or the world will burn you like your village.”

  Ashren stood at the edge of a cliff.

  Behind him—a chasm.

  Before him—the devil who made him.

  > “I’d rather die... than go back to you.”

  Without hesitation, he jumped.

  The river slammed into him like stone.

  The world faded to black.

  ---

  Three days adrift.

  His body floated, battered and broken.

  The wounds darkened. His temperature dropped. But death never came.

  Until finally, he washed ashore—

  on the edge of a forest shrouded in purple mist and nocturnal howls.

  A forest known across the kingdom by one name:

  Death Forest.

  A cursed land.

  Where monsters roam free.

  And no one ever returns.

  ---

  Dark fog danced among black trees.

  Growls echoed, as if the forest itself laughed in welcome.

  His wounds weren’t healed.

  His demon arm still pulsed.

  His cursed eyes glowed faintly.

  But Ashren didn’t flinch.

  Inside him, rage burned.

  Hatred boiled.

  He clenched his fist.

  Raised his head to the darkened sky—

  And screamed with every ounce of soul he had left:

  > “HEAR ME, SANCTUM ERESHIAH—SOMEDAY I WILL RETURN!

  AND I WILL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!!”

  His voice echoed through the forest.

  Creatures stirred.

  Wings flapped.

  And somewhere in the shadows, monsters howled in reply.

  Ashren stepped forward—

  into the cursed woods, carrying a vow that would one day shake the world.