"Dark. Where am I?" Hastora, or at least what remained of Hastora's consciousness, struggled to grasp reality. It wasn't just darkness that enveloped him, but a suffocating emptiness that swallowed all his senses. The acrid scent of blood and damp earth filled his nostrils, piercing like countless invisible needles, yet felt as though they were stabbing deep into his very marrow. This wasn't death, but something far worse: nothingness. Nothingness of hope, nothingness of future, nothingness of self. Just an endless void.
Trying to open his eyes only yielded failure. His eyelids felt heavy, as if burdened by stones. His body felt crushed, like a rag doll trampled mercilessly. He felt it, not saw it. This darkness didn't just blind him, it imprisoned his soul, gripping him in an unseen yet tangible grasp. A cold, deadly grip.
"What… is this?" The voice returned, weaker, more desperate. A whisper from hell, a question that would never be answered, a scream stifled within the abyss of darkness.
Then, faintly, a shadow emerged. Not light that illuminated, but a shadow that crept, drew closer. A woman, her face pale as chalk, her lips tightly closed, her eyes empty and fathomless. She sat in a weathered wooden chair, like a corpse still breathing. Not a smile, but a thin, fixed sneer etched into her face, like an eternal curse, an expression that hinted at profound falseness, a mask concealing the darkness beneath.
"You… are awake," her voice rasped, like stones grinding together. Not a mother's voice, but the voice of death itself. A voice that foretold ruin, a promise of endless misery. A voice cold, devoid of compassion.
The woman rose, her steps silent, like a ghost gliding. She walked towards a moonlit clearing, not illuminated by light, but by shadow. Not a beautiful garden, but a forgotten graveyard. Dry earth, littered with thorns and scattered bones, hinting at the cruelty hidden behind the enforced peace. A horrifying sight, foreshadowing something far worse.
Another shadow emerged, larger, more terrifying. A man with white hair, his eyes blazing red like hellfire, radiating a chilling aura that froze the soul. His face was handsome, but that beauty was merely a camouflage for the darkness within. He approached, his steps silent, yet felt like death drawing near, inevitable. Death welcomed with silence.
"My love… Hastora is awake." His voice was cold, emotionless, like the slither of a snake, laced with veiled threats. A question that was more of a statement.
"Yes," the woman replied, her voice flat, devoid of expression. No affection, no love, only a chilling emptiness. A performance carefully orchestrated, a play acted out flawlessly.
The man took Hastora, not gently, but with a strong grip, like seizing prey. Hastora felt his bones nearly break, but his infant body was powerless to fight back. He could only surrender, awaiting the fate that awaited him.
"Let's take a walk," the man said, his steps carrying Hastora away from the eerie house. Not a pleasant stroll, but a journey to an unseen hell, a journey into endless darkness.
They passed a river, its water pitch black, the stench of decay filling the air, stabbing his nose and choking his throat. Not a peaceful village, but a collection of dilapidated houses, inhabited by people with vacant eyes, like zombies walking aimlessly, soulless. They were puppets controlled by an unseen force, a malevolent power that held them in its unyielding grip. Their lives, if they could be called lives, were a horrifying charade.
"Good morning, Ard," the greetings were like curses, full of feigned cheer and fear. Their smiles were false, forced, hiding deep-seated terror. Fear that had become a part of their existence.
"Hastora… cute," the words sounded like mockery, dripping with sarcasm, revealing a chilling indifference. A veiled insult.
"You… suit each other," the voice was like a death knell, a prediction of unavoidable misery. A curse disguised as a statement.
Ard only smiled, a frozen smile, devoid of life. Hastora saw the darkness in his eyes, far deeper than the darkness that enveloped him. A darkness without hope, without light, without future. A bottomless darkness.
"They say you're cute," Ard said, his voice cold, emotionless. The words felt like a knife piercing his heart. A statement steeped in irony.
Hastora realized: this wasn't peace, but pretense. The absence of blood wasn't a sign of peace, but the absence of resistance. They lived in fear, awaiting death that could come at any moment, death that had become an inseparable part of their lives. A life filled with falseness and fear.
Hastora tried to speak, but only a baby's cry escaped his lips. His body was an infant's, but his soul was burdened by the dark memories of the past, a weight too heavy for his tiny frame to bear. Memories of war, of murder, of destruction. Memories that would never fade.
"Annoying," he muttered to himself, anger burning in his soul, but it was only embers unable to ignite the surrounding darkness. Anger simmering, waiting for the right moment to erupt. Anger that would destroy everything.
Ard stepped towards a hall. In the vast hall, the air was cold and damp, the scent of mildew mingling with the aroma of the deep blue carpet covering the floor. Two adults sat in large chairs, filling out documents with trembling hands, their movements mechanical, devoid of expression. Ard greeted them, his voice strained, trying to mask the tension radiating from him.
"Brok, Net, how are you?" His greeting sounded empty, lacking warmth of friendship.
The two men only glanced briefly, their gazes cold, emotionless. They resumed their work, their pen strokes unhurried yet firm. A cold, frightening firmness.
"Oi! You're being arrogant!" Ard snapped, his voice filled with frustration. His patience had run out.
One of the men, thinner with sharp eyes, furrowed his brow. "Don't be noisy, we're working," his voice was flat, devoid of tolerance.
Ard sighed deeply, then walked towards them. He tried to maintain his composure, but his anger still burned beneath the surface.
"Hey, baldy," Ard said, pointing at the bald man on the right. His tone was laced with sarcasm.
The bald man, Brok, lifted his head, his gaze sharp and challenging. He stood, displaying a tall, upright posture, showing the strength hidden beneath his simple appearance.
"What is it, old man?" he asked, his voice laced with threat.
"Nothing, just making small talk," Ard replied, trying to defuse the situation. He tried to stay calm, but his anger still simmered beneath the surface.
"Hey! Don't make someone's bald head a topic for small talk!" Brok snapped, his anger erupting.
"Hoho, relax, Brok," Ard chuckled, his voice sounding false. "I'm just visiting."
Brok sat back down, but his gaze remained sharp, watching Ard with suspicion. He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm, but his anger still burned beneath the surface. He rose again, suddenly taking Hastora from Ard's arms. His movements were quick, unexpected.
"What's his name?" Brok asked, his voice cold, emotionless.
"Hastora Vallois," Ard replied, his voice slightly trembling.
Brok stared at Hastora with a sharp gaze, assessing him. Initially, Hastora thought Brok hated him, but that thought was wrong. Brok, who had seemed stern, cold, and fierce before, suddenly changed. He gently pinched Hastora's cheek, a strange smile appearing on his face.
"You're so cute," he said, his voice soft, a far cry from his previous cold tone. A startling change, a change that felt unnatural.
Ard looked proud, closing his eyes briefly, nodding several times. A strange expression, revealing an inexplicable satisfaction.
"What do you think?" Ard asked.
"Ekhmm… not bad," Brok replied, returning to his previous cold demeanor.
Net, who had finished his work, rose from his chair. His eyes were closed, and he stretched his tired body.
"Finally… finished," he said, his voice weary, yet there was a hint of satisfaction in it. He opened his eyes and saw Hastora for the first time.
"Eh?, whose baby is that?" he asked, his voice full of curiosity.
Brok seemed not to hear Net's question. He continued to pinch Hastora's cheeks, fixated on the baby's sweetness.
Net turned to Ard, but he didn't greet him. Net seemed to know who the baby was.
"Give me the baby," Net said, his voice firm.
"Eh? Why?" Brok asked, his voice sounding slightly impatient.
Net sighed. "Can't you see? The baby's scared of your scary face," he said. "So, give me the baby."
Brok seemed unconcerned. He simply replied briefly, continuing to pinch Hastora's cheeks.
"No."
"What!" Net was slightly annoyed. He took a piece of paper and stuck it on Brok's bald head.
"You should cover that up, sunlight can reflect and hit the baby," Net said. "The reflection of sunlight from your bald head is very hot."
Ard immediately took Hastora from Brok's arms.
"It seems Net has a point," Ard said, looking at Brok with suspicion.
Brok ignored their words. He snatched Hastora from Ard's arms and ran out of the hall, pushing open the large door with a loud creak. The baby cried, his voice echoing through the silent hallway.
"My son!" Ard shouted, his voice filled with panic, and he immediately ran after Brok.
"That child is in danger," Net exclaimed, running after Ard. The three men ran around the city, causing the onlookers to burst into laughter. Their laughter sounded hollow, like the laughter of people who had lost hope.
"What's going on? Hahaha!"
"It seems they're fighting over a baby!"
"You're right, Mr. Brok is the type who really likes cute babies."
After running for five minutes, Brok stopped at the edge of a calm river. He returned Hastora to Ard, but his gaze remained sharp, showing that he hadn't given up.
"Finally, you give up, huh?" Ard said, panting.
Brok folded his arms across his chest, closing his eyes, trying to look calm and mature. However, tension still lingered in his body.
"You damn bald bastard," Net cursed, pointing at Brok with his index finger.
Brok ignored Net. He invited them both to follow him. Net and Ard, unaware of what was happening, just stayed silent and followed Brok from behind.
Brok led them to the edge of a calm river, its water clear, too clear. He took out three fishing rods from a magic pouch, his movements quick and skillful.
"You understand what I mean?" Brok asked, his voice flat.
Ard and Net nodded, taking the fishing rods Brok gave them. They sat by the river, using small fish they caught in the shallows as bait. The atmosphere around them was silent, only the sound of the flowing water breaking the stillness.
"Whoever catches the least will be a loser," Net said, his voice full of challenge.
"Definitely not me," Ard replied, his voice full of confidence.
"Don't be too sure," Brok smiled cynically. His smile was cold, showing that he wouldn't be easily defeated.
They fished until the afternoon, but not a single fish took their bait. Hastora, who just sat silently and did nothing, felt very bored and annoyed.
"Damn, you shouldn't have brought me here," he muttered to himself. "I probably wouldn't be bored if that woman had brought me."
The three of them returned with expressions of dissatisfaction. The journey home was filled with bickering between Brok and Net.
"The fish must have run away because of your bald head," Net started the argument.
"Watch your mouth, you bastard!, the fish must have run away because of your short stature," Brok retorted fiercely.
"What!, you damn baldy!"
"Your temper is pretty big for a shorty!"
Their argument continued until they reached the crossroads. Ard parted ways with them, returning to his home. Brok and Net returned to the hall to finish some more work.
Upon arriving home, Ard was greeted by the black-haired woman, Elsia.
"You're a little late," Elsia said, her voice flat, showing no emotion.
"I apologize, Elsia," Ard replied, his voice sounding tired.
Elsia smiled, then hugged Ard and Hastora together. Then, in front of Hastora, she kissed Ard passionately. A cold kiss, devoid of love.
"Damn, even though I'm still a baby, my soul isn't a baby," Hastora thought. "I am Hastora, the Tyrant Demon Lord, the one who will one day change this world."
Elsia held Hastora, feeding him breast milk. Hastora felt uncomfortable, how could a Great Demon Lord, dubbed the tyrant, be given breast milk by a woman? It was a bit embarrassing.
Hastora had no choice but to drink the breast milk, it was good for him to grow quickly. After he finished, Elsia carried Hastora to the bedroom, followed by Ard from behind.
"Sleep soundly, Hastora," Elsia said, her voice soft, but there was something cold behind the softness.
Hastora slept in bed, between Elsia and Ard. He felt warmth, a warmth he had never felt before.
"Not bad," he muttered.
"Wait for me, 15 years."
---To be continued---