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Thousands of years ago—in a world beyond the reach of mortals—lay Astara, an ancient land of demons. The young prince, Feng Deming, who appeared no older than ten years of age by human standards, ran through fields with the lieutenant. They rushed toward the dimming light on the horizon, brushing past blades of grass as though each stalk were an outstretched hand urging them forward until they reached the middle of a field.

Deming felt his breath freeze in his chest like a full-force wind over the hollow of his body, his heart beating a drum. It felt as if the ground moved below their feet as hundreds of high faerie lords blocked their path. An acrid flavor that tasted almost metallic from fear clung to his tongue, and the scent of damp earth stung his nostrils. "Enemies," he murmured, feeling a chill down his spine and his pupils fully dilated. Preparing to flee, he turned his attention to the lieutenant, with no way of knowing whatever his next move was.

"Lord Muchen," the lieutenant whispered.

"Muchen?" Deming felt his heart thumping in his chest as he gazed at the faerie leader. 'He killed my father.' A tear leaked from his eye, and he balled up his fists in rage as he replayed the words of his father yet again.

"Take my son to safety, Lieutenant. Protect him with your life."

The faint whisper of the faeries, which was really little more than a low hum, mingled with the rustling of the grass and the gasping of the prince.

The lieutenant said nothing but lowered his sword, and the weight dug against the calluses of his palm. They felt heavy in the space around them, almost suffocating.

"What are you doing? You're going to get yourself killed!" Deming cried out as the lieutenant moved closer to the faerie leader.

"Your grace, you have arrived early," the lieutenant smiled.

"What? Him?" Dropping his jaw, Deming jerked to the lieutenant and the faerie leader, eyes growing wide at the lieutenant's nonchalance. His golden eyes dimmed like a setting sun as the reality settled in. "Don't tell me... that you..."

"Truthfully, Lieutenant, I had concerns that you would not uphold your end of the deal. However, I admit I was mistaken." The faerie leader, Lord Muchen, nodded and commanded, "NOW!"

The faeries waved their wrists, and the chains placed over each limb of Deming's body, etched with twenty layers of glyphs, flared with power.

'What... are these?' Deming thought, gazing at the phantom chains bound around his wrists. He tried to claw his way out, but the chains squeezed against him. Sweat dripped down his forehead as it sunk in that his attempts were in vain—the glyphs holding the bindings were too strong for him to contend against.

"I promise I shall take good care of my slave."

"Me? A slave?" Deming's teeth clenched as his eyes drilled into Lord Muchen in rage. He whipped his head towards the lieutenant, eyes ablaze as he whispered, "What is happening?"

The Astaran lieutenant creased his eyes, and he moved forward with suspicion, all the while catching Deming's attention. He whispered, "What is happening? Your father was a coward who prioritized himself and his son over his own people. I am only doing what he lacked the guts to do for the safety of Astara. And as its new ruler, I will do it right." With a deep bow before the faerie leader, he swept his hand from his chest out toward Deming, as though presenting an offering. "Lord Muchen, as you requested."

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Deming met the lieutenant's eyes with a burning glare, his pulse quickening. "You..." his voice trembled.

The lieutenant sneered at the prince before turning to the faerie leader. "In exchange for my life and the Supreme Throne of Astara, I present Feng Deming—the crown prince."

Deming's features hardened to disgust. "You despicable traitor!" he spat, voice shaking with fury. "My father was blind to trust a coward who stoops to slavery. You are a mockery of a king."

The lieutenant took a step back, sweat running down between his eyebrows as he glanced from Deming to Lord Muchen. 'I have no choice... If I don't hand over the prince, Astara is doomed. The faeries would wipe us out.' He tore at his soul with guilt. "I am aware that slavery goes against our principles. However..." Sighing, he recognized his treason and such violation for what it was: going against their code of forbidding slavery, a rule his tribe had lived by since its foundation millions of years before. 'There's nothing I can do now.'

In one last effort, Deming stared at the lieutenant with imploring eyes, desperate for mercy, with chains forcing him to remain in place.

The lieutenant stared at the ground, ashamed to meet Deming's eyes, his face red with embarrassment. "He is all yours." He spun and left without looking back.

Eyes flickering with pleasure, Lord Muchen took a graceful step forward, regarding the prince with a satisfied eye. "A most generous offering, indeed."

Fury seethed in Deming, scalding from his fists to the pit of his stomach as his life crumbled into a living hell. The taste of rage flooded over his tongue as he spat out his words. "One day, the Faerie Realm will fall, and its name will be forgotten forever—along with yours," he snarled like the low rumble of thunder. "I promise you this!"

The footsteps of the faeries pounded the earth up toward Feng Deming, pounding the beat of drums in his rib cage as they came nearer. As the gap between them closed, he did not know whether the smell of sharp and bitter ozone overwhelmed him or the cold stares of the faeries. His breath turned short, and he felt a taste of anxiety as the lieutenant receded from his sight, leaving him alone to meet the faeries bearing down on him.

"You will all regret this, mark my words!" Deming raged, shaking the chains on his arms. His fingers dug into his palms like talons as he fought the overwhelming force pressing down on him. Tears barely held in; he remembered what his father had taught him: to not back down during difficult times but to fight through it.

"Listen closely, my son—never allow yourself to be trapped... You are our only hope against their millions of years of oppression. The faeries want to crush our pride and destroy our culture. If we lose our identity, everything our ancestors achieved will turn to dust. We will be nothing... They want to weaken us by making us less protective of our heritage, dividing Astara. If they succeed, faerie worship will occur here and doom us all... that even death is a mercy from the only God there is.

Even if they take away our lands and try to break our spirit, we must never turn the other cheek and abandon our ideology... We are Astarans; we never surrender to oppression or lose our dignity, even if death comes near.

One day, you must lead our people because only you can stand up to the faeries. When the time is right, I will reveal who you truly are. Until then, never forget our legacy, our culture, and who we are as a people... Always remember who you are, Feng Deming."

Deming's face brightened then, with hope. Frowning, his mouth a firm line, he exhaled through his nose with all his remaining breath. 'Now I see why he never wanted me to waste time and play like the other kids...'

His mind flooded with memories of the most grueling training sessions.

'That deciphering technique... I haven't mastered it yet, but I will... Father, I promise I'll restore Astara's glory... and once I decipher these seals, I'll break free...' A serving of dread bundled up in his chest. 'But what if I fail after breaking out... and be trapped again... and never see my home again? What will they do to Astara... and my people?'

"Take this... monster... away," Muchen hissed.

Deming's chest tightened at the accusation. 'Monster,' the word twisted in his gut. 'Father knew something about me that he didn't tell. Maybe that's why he trained me all my life. Maybe I am... a monster.'

A burning desire coursed through his veins, planning his getaway as the seed of the foretold day took root in his heart.