Smoke curled from the blackened skeletons of huts, the air thick with the stench of charred flesh and blood.
The village was a graveyard of smoldering ruins, its dirt streets littered with corpses left to bloat beneath the merciless sun.
Among the dead, a figure crouched—his emaciated frame clad only in a ragged loincloth, his skin stretched tight over wiry muscle.
His yellowed teeth sawed through a severed arm, shredding putrid flesh before spitting it out with a disgusted snarl.
"Too spoiled," he muttered, tossing the limb aside.
His eyes scanned the devastation—the footprints in the ash, the drag marks in the dirt.
"They were here first."
With a guttural click of his tongue, he summoned his pack.
They emerged from the ruins like starving jackals—gaunt, feral, their bodies adorned with nothing but scraps of leather and crude stone weapons.
Some still gnawed on half-rotten limbs, their hollow cheeks working mechanically as they chewed.
Hunger was a constant companion, and weakness was a death sentence.
"Find their trail," the leader hissed, his voice like dry bones rubbing together.
"If we return empty-handed, it won't be the enemy's flesh our leaders feast on—it'll be ours."
The pack scattered, sniffing the earth, licking at dried blood splatters.
Then—
—a sound.
A mimicry of a nightjar's call, sharp and unnatural.
They converged like vultures, their lips peeling back in grins as they found what they sought: deep ruts cut into the mud by wagon wheels.
"Fresh," one growled, licking his cracked lips.
"Close," another agreed, hefting his chipped obsidian axe.
With silent, predatory grace, they slipped into the trees, following the tracks toward their next meal.
But shadows have eyes.
Hidden in the brush, a lone figure watched them pass—
—his presence as still as death, his gaze colder than the grave.
…
Inside an opulent tent draped in silks and adorned with golden trinkets, the faint outline of a child trembled beneath thin curtains.
Beads of sweat glistened on his pale skin as he twisted in his sleep, his delicate features contorted in anguish.
A nightmare—vivid and cruel—played behind his closed eyelids.
His breath came in short, panicked gasps, his small fingers clawing at the embroidered sheets beneath him.
With a strangled gasp, the boy lurched upright, his wide eyes darting around the lavish tent as if expecting the horrors of his dream to materialize before him.
The images haunted him still—his father's lifeless eyes staring up at him from the dirt, the grinning Seraph of Death wading through a river of blood, and the cursed power writhing inside him, now frustratingly out of reach.
He clenched his fists, trying to summon his ability to control blood that had once answered his desperation, but it slipped through his grasp like water.
Then—
—movement.
A woman emerged from the shadows, her presence as silent as a ghost.
Clad in sheer scarlet silks that clung to her willowy frame, swirling tattoos—each marking a story, a sin, or perhaps a sacrifice.
Her lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her cold, amber eyes.
"You're awake, my child," she murmured, her voice like honey laced with poison.
"Come. And have a breakfast with us."
Without waiting for a response, Lady Rose turned and slipped through the tent flaps, leaving the child alone with his exhaustion.
His body felt like lead.
Every movement was a struggle—his muscles weak, his head spinning.
He swayed as he stood, his knees nearly giving way beneath him.
He lost too much Blood.
Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself against a carved wooden post, his nails digging into the polished surface.
With a shaky hand, he pushed aside the curtain—and froze.
Morning sunlight spilled over the camp, painting the scene in brutal clarity.
Beneath the gnarled branches of a large tree, his tribesmen lay bound and broken.
Their once-proud bodies were now reduced to battered husks—faces bruised, lips cracked with thirst, their clothing torn and stained with dirt and dried blood.
Some still wore the remnants of their warrior braids, now tangled with leaves and filth.
Others bore the marks of recent beatings—swollen eyes, split lips, the angry red welts of ropes biting into their wrists.
And Kanaz—her childhood friend—sat there, gazing at the sky, lost in longing.
Anik's stomach twisted.
His lips parted—but no sound came out.
Instead, he tasted copper where his teeth had pierced his own flesh.
Swallowing hard, he turned away—toward the woman who called herself his mother.
And he followed.
Lady Rose and Lily sat beneath the open tent, savoring the fruits served by their maid.
The food had been gathered by the raiders' hard labor, as the untamed slaves could not yet be trusted to forage without attempting escape.
"Come here, Hound. Sit beside me." Lily's voice beckoned him.
Anik—now called Hound—obeyed, settling next to them with uneasy movements.
Too timid to eat, he kept his gaze fixed on the ground, staring at his own feet.
A child burdened with nameless regrets, unable to shape his own fate.
His father was dead—slain by a raider, one he himself had killed.
His tribe had branded him a traitor, though he had only sought to free them.
He had bled, wept, and even died once at their hands.
Lost in confusion, he remembered the betrayal—abandoned, strangled, left for dead.
Yet, bound by lingering loyalty, he had still tried to save them.
Is this how they repay me? By calling me a traitor?
"Are you alright, my son?"
Lady Rose's voice cut through Hound's thoughts.
"What are you thinking?"
Hound glanced at her, avoiding her gaze.
"Nothing…"
Then his eyes shifted to his tribesmen.
"Why do you have to enslave us?"
Lady Rose smiled, casually plucking a grape and slipping it between her lips.
The fruit's juice glistened on her crimson mouth, mesmerizing and faintly seductive.
"Them? You are not one of them, Hound. You are my son."
"Then why enslave them?"
"Because if it weren't us, another clan would. And believe me… their fate would be far worse than serving us."
She offered no further explanation—she didn't need to.
Time would reveal what he needed to know.
"Can you at least feed them?" Hound's plea carried the innocence of youth, his eyes wide and hopeful.
Lady Rose only smiled in response.
"Why do you care for them? They certainly didn't care for you. Yes, they were once your tribesmen, but they disowned you. And you, my son—who chose to serve me to spare their lives—should serve me as a true son, shouldn't you?"
Her words struck like a veiled threat, a reminder: Play the dutiful son, or your people die.
Hound trembled.
Lady Rose's lips curled into a smile as her gaze swept over the slaves.
"Look at them. Weak. Fragile. You've seen how easily their minds break—how quick they were to cast you out in their despair. Is that what you call family?"
She gestured toward Lily.
"She was ready to throw herself into danger for you. And I—I took you in as my own son. Don't be naïve. Why sacrifice yourself for these wretched souls? They are nothing like us."
Her voice dropped lower, laced with persuasion.
"You are a Demon. A Barbarian. You have the power to dominate, to rule—so wield it! In this cruel world, strength is the only truth. Had you been strong from the start, none of this suffering would have touched you."
Hound's eyes, once clouded with shame, now burned with resolve.
He was tired—tired of the pain, the betrayal, the helplessness.
Tired of being hunted, strangled by those he trusted.
Tired of losing what little he loved.
"How do I become powerful?" he asked.
A genuine smile bloomed across Lady Rose's face.
At last—here was a child, pure and malleable, ripe for corruption.
A perfect tool for her ambitions.
"In this vast Realm of Mortals, our actions are but whispers in the wind. And here, in these Savage Lands—coveted by the Clans of the West, guarded against by the Blessed and Mages of the Central Continent—what must we, the people of this untamed earth, become?"
Lady Rose's eyes blazed crimson, her tattoos igniting like molten rivers.
Her voice, honeyed yet commanding, ensnared every soul present.
She stood radiant yet terrifying—a demon clad in a angel's guise, impossible to look away from.
"We must be Savage!"
"The Savage Lands need a true leader—one who can unite the tribes free from the West's Demon Clans and the Gods' meddling churches! We will carve our own Empire. We will break our chains… and one day, we will enslave the outsiders just as they have enslaved us!"
Her burning gaze locked onto Hound.
"And you, my child, will walk this path beside me. I will give you all I know—every lesson, every power I possess. With your brothers and sisters, we will rule these lands… and in time, the world itself."
Her grand ambition electrified all the raiders. They watched her as if she were a living deity—a Demon Lady poised to shake the world. Her rise had begun.