The Enslaved Fiend was on the brink of death under the demon's relentless assault. The pitch-black shadows wrapped around his neck like a pair of powerful hands, strangling him; they also encased his body like an unyielding armor, rendering him immobile and incapable of resistance.

All he could do was watch as the demon's spiked mace shattered the head of the werewolf Shapeshifter. He was powerless to stop it.

He had taken countless lives and witnessed death countless times, but this time, he saw something different.

A soft, ethereal glow rose from the Shapeshifter’s lifeless body, like fireflies on a summer night. They lingered and danced in the air for a moment, as if reluctant to leave, before slowly ascending to the sky and fading into nothingness.

What was that? A soul?

He didn’t know, nor could he find an answer.

The demon had already stepped forward, grabbing him by the neck with one hand and lifting him into the air.

He struggled desperately to break free, but it was futile.

"Pathetic wretch, stop struggling," the demon growled, his massive hand tightening around the Fiend’s neck, nearly snapping it. "No matter how many times you try, you can never escape from me. You’ll forever be nothing more than a pawn in my hands."

The demon tilted his head slightly, pondering his own words. "A pawn, perhaps that’s giving you too much credit. No, no—you’re nothing more than a slave."

"And how should I punish a disobedient slave?" the demon asked with amusement. Without waiting for an answer, he thrust his hand violently through the Fiend’s body.

Dark red blood spurted out, only to be quickly consumed by the shadows binding him.

"Got any suggestions? Feel free to share," the demon taunted with a smirk.

The Enslaved Fiend writhed in agony, overwhelmed by searing pain. He couldn’t speak; garbled sounds were trapped in his throat.

The demon was still speaking nearby, but it was as if his words no longer reached him.

He felt his consciousness sinking deeper and deeper into an endless abyss, slow yet unstoppable.

In the boundless darkness, countless glowing particles flitted past him.

They ascended while he descended.

He reached out, trying to grasp the particles, but they slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

He caught nothing.

Yet the moment his fingers brushed against the particles, fragments of words and sounds, light and shadow, burst into his mind unbidden.

……

In a small northern town ravaged by snow and wind, he sprinted through the flurry of snowflakes.

"Catch him! Catch that bastard!"

He saw himself calmly facing his pursuers, effortlessly leaving them behind.

He saw himself wielding a sword, striking down each intruder with ease.

……

"I heard you're the best swordsman around here. I wonder, do you dare play a little game with me?"

No one had ever beaten him.

Except her.

A bottle fell, spilling its intoxicating contents across the floor. Warm bodies intertwined, their shared heat igniting unrestrained desire. In their naked embrace, the two spoke of eternal love through lingering kisses.

He wanted those captivating eyes, those soft lips, to belong to him alone from this moment on.

"For you, I’d do anything," he vowed.

"Then, would you become my blade?"

"Just give the word."

In the sweetness of her smile, he lost himself completely.

……

"Tell me, who hurt you?"

The girl cradled her shattered, violated body, and after a long silence, she whispered a name.

"Very well. By dawn tomorrow, that name will vanish from this world forever."

He stood amidst raging flames, crimson blood dripping from his left arm, trailing down the edge of his blade before splattering onto the ground.

Blinded by vengeance, the lives claimed by his sword were nothing more than numbers to him.

Amid the inferno, a blade of betrayal pierced through his body. He turned, only to see the face he loved more than anything.

In the girl’s dark eyes, his own shocked expression was reflected back at him.

Beneath the blood moon, a mysterious man appeared without warning, hovering above the collapsed rooftop. He looked down at the pair below him, as though waiting for something.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"I’ve done it! The ninety-nine souls you wanted! Now, I demand my freedom!"

The girl’s plea received no reply.

The man in the sky smirked mockingly and corrected her, "Ninety-eight."

A blood-stained dagger fell to the ground, and he grasped the girl’s hand in reverse.

"That’s right, I only approached you to repay the price of my deal with the demon."

"Fine, then let me tell you now—I never loved you!"

"You were nothing more than a tool for me to borrow and kill with!"

He seemed to hear something shatter within him. He saw the sword in his left hand slash across the girl’s throat in one swift motion.

But what sprayed out wasn’t blood—it was a dense, fog-like darkness.

"Perfect, ninety-nine souls. I’ll take them all as promised," the man on the rooftop said gleefully, snapping his fingers. "From this day forth, I am your master."

So that’s how it is…

The spreading shadows crept beyond the burning flames, consuming him entirely. He fell under the dominion of those bat-like wings and never managed to escape.

From that moment on, he was trapped in an endless cycle of slaughter, becoming the demon’s puppet, plaything, slave, and instrument of war.

Until one day, he was ordered to hunt down a woman.

The woman was utterly unremarkable, defenseless and unarmed. Why she had become the demon’s target piqued his curiosity.

"Kill me, I beg you."

For the first time, he heard such a strange request from someone at the edge of his blade.

But this time, he didn’t want to kill anymore.

He wounded her, then let her escape.

He watched as she ran toward a human village, where she was rescued by a human woman, seemingly in her thirties.

His master—the demon—was furious, for it was the first time he had defied an order using his own will.

"Very well! You want to save her? Then let her cling to life for just a little while longer," the demon sneered, his anger giving way to a more sinister plan. "At dawn, I will destroy the entire village! And it will all be your fault. Remember that—your fault."

Acorn Town was consumed by darkness.

In the midst of the one-sided massacre, two resilient figures managed to escape with an infant cradled in their arms.

The demon ordered him to eliminate the three survivors, but once again, he fought back with everything he had.

Not for any noble reason—he simply didn’t want to be controlled by the demon anymore. He didn’t want to kill again.

A young black panther, shielded by a massive bear, carried the infant out of the town, yet they could not evade the relentless pursuit of several ghouls.

Meanwhile, his own strength failed him, and he began to lose consciousness.

The last thing his fading vision captured was the radiant, sword-like brilliance of holy magic and the figure clad in a pure white robe.

His master—the demon—was overwhelmed by the holy magic, forced into a desperate retreat before fleeing in panic.

He lay on the ground, as limp and wretched as rotting sludge.

"Kill me, I beg you."

These were the last words he heard himself say to the figure in the white robe.

……

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself imprisoned in a dimly lit chamber.

In front of him stood an elderly man, full of vigor despite his age. His hair was streaked with gray, and he wore a priest’s robe of white trimmed with blue. On his chest was the emblem of the "Blooming Feather"—the renowned insignia of the neutral priest guild, Dawn Prayers, from the human world.

"Why did you save me?"

"You begged me to save you. How could I leave you to die?"

"I only wanted you to kill me. Just kill me!"

"Well, I’ve already saved you. What else can I do?" The old man looked entirely innocent as he turned to a nearby colleague. "Spike, he’s asking me to kill him."

The man called Spike, a middle-aged priest with messy, curly hair, stepped forward. He grabbed the young man by the hair, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"Kill you? Sorry, that’s not part of the services we offer," Spike sneered. "Listen up, kid. We’ve captured you. So, don’t go dreaming about an easy death. You won’t get off that lightly."

"Who are you? What do you want from me?"

Spike released his grip and stepped back, silently observing him.

During this moment, he noticed the ring on Spike’s left hand. It bore a mysterious and controversial insignia—the Sacred Scepter.

He had heard of the symbol but had never seen anyone wear it in person.

"I am Nafal Viktor, the High Priest of Dawn Prayers," the old man introduced himself politely, his demeanor catching him off guard. "This is my colleague, Spike Frey, leader of the Sevenfold Verdict."

Sevenfold Verdict—the legendary elite combat force under Dawn Prayers—was real after all.

"From today, you are one of us," the High Priest cheerfully announced.

"...Are you joking!?" His reaction to the news wasn’t gratitude—it was anger.

He knew he was unworthy of forgiveness. And now, they wanted him to join Dawn Prayers? What kind of cruel joke was this?

"I’m not joking," the High Priest Nafal said, his smile unwavering. "Mr. Rivern Rybirths, please report to the Murmuring Sanctum tomorrow morning. Don’t be late."

With that, Nafal handed him a letter of recommendation and turned to leave.

"Wait! My name isn’t Rivern Rybirths!"

Nafal paused, a slightly troubled expression crossing his face. "Oh, is that so? But the name is already written in the recommendation letter. Too much effort to change it now. Just roll with it, Rivern."

Without another glance, Nafal walked off, leaving him stunned.

Rivern froze for a moment, then sank into a bitter, dry laugh. Afterward, he collapsed onto the ground, silently sobbing.

"What’s wrong with you, laughing and crying like that? Get up. Don’t think just because the High Priest is backing you, you can laze around for the rest of your life," Spike’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

"Why should I get up? Why even ask?"

"Isn’t it obvious? Your official induction is tomorrow, but your first task starts today."

"And what task is that, you ask? Of course—cleaning the latrines!"

Spike’s tone was devoid of warmth, yet to Rivern, it was more comforting than any words of solace could ever be.

Spike led him out of the chamber.

The long-lost sunlight made him squint uncomfortably.

"This is what it feels like to walk under the sun. Remember this feeling. Don’t forget it," Spike said.

Rivern vowed in his heart that he would never forget.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"Thank us? No, there’s no need for that," Spike replied. "We’re simply following the Goddess’s will in bringing you under her banner. From now on, you’re nothing more than a lapdog of the Goddess of Light, Hekarian."

"A lapdog, huh? That doesn’t sound like something a servant of the Holy Light would say," Rivern chuckled.

"Is that so? Well, besides being a lapdog, there’s another identity you bear—one you’d better not forget," Spike said with a smirk.

Before Rivern could ask, Spike provided the answer.

"You’re a prisoner. For the rest of your life, you’ll live under the watchful eyes of the Sevenfold Verdict. That’s the condition of your pardon. If you fall into darkness again, those who punish you won’t be from Dawn Prayers or the Sevenfold Verdict."

"Then who will it be?"

"Who knows? Let’s hope you never have to find out."

Spike tossed a silver ring to Rivern. Catching it, Rivern examined it closely and saw the insignia of the Sevenfold Verdict etched on its surface.

"What’s this? My collar?"

"You could think of it that way," Spike replied with a grin, clearly enjoying the analogy. Then, with a more serious tone, he added, "Wear it. Never take it off, no matter what. When the time comes, it might just save your life."

Rivern tried slipping the ring onto the index finger of his left hand and was startled to discover that the loose ring adjusted itself, shrinking to fit perfectly.

He almost thought he heard a faint metallic clang, as though something had locked tightly around his heart.

A faint smile crossed his lips.

He was content with this outcome. Whether as the Goddess’s lapdog or a prisoner, it was still far better than being the demon’s tool of slaughter.

"Alright then, can I start today’s work now?" he asked with a calm determination.