Stark stood in an endless expanse of water, the horizon stretching infinitely in all directions. The surface was unnervingly still, mirroring the vast, clear sky above. When he looked down, his reflection stared back—whole.

He flexed his arm, the one the bone eater had severed. It was there, as though the wound had never existed. His skin was unscarred, his body whole.

He took a step. The water rippled beneath his feet with a soft sound. He could walk.

Stark ventured forward, his eyes scanning the horizon, but there was no end in sight. The water and sky seemed to merge into one.

What is this place? Why am I here?

Fragments of memory came to him: the Elder Bone-eater, a beam of light, ash scattering into the wind. But beyond that, his mind was blank.

Is this death?

He tried to speak, to give voice to his thoughts, but no sound came. His lips moved, forming the words.

I can’t speak?

A chill crept through him as he continued walking. His steps sent ripples across the water, but the sound was swallowed almost instantly, leaving the world eerily calm once more.

Stark walked. And walked. Time seemed to stretch. The only sound was the faint ripple of water beneath his feet, the only sight—the concentric waves spreading out with every step.

The silence pressed heavily around him.

Then, in the distance, a door.

It stood alone, white against the endless horizon. There was no frame, no walls—just the door, solitary. It gleamed faintly, almost inviting.

What is this?

Curiosity and unease within him as he approached. Finally, he reached out towards the cold, smooth knob.

As soon as he turned it, the world shifted.

The boundless expanse dissolved in an instant, collapsing into blinding white light. Stark staggered, blinking as his surroundings reformed into a white room. The door he had reached for was gone; it vanished without a trace.

The room was silent, featureless, and suffocatingly bright. He spun around, searching for any sign of the door or an exit, but there was nothing.

Where am I?

Stark glanced down. His heart pounded as he looked up, only to see a large, dark metal gate materialize before him.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen—a dark, ominous structure bound by rusted chains and talismans that pulsed faintly with an eerie glow. The gate felt almost alive.

Yet, despite its menacing appearance, something about it beckoned him. His body moved against his will, drawn toward it as though an invisible force compelled him.

He stepped closer.

As he neared, the gate's surface began to ripple like liquid, and suddenly, an enormous eye snapped open in its center, glowing a malevolent purple. Stark froze, terror rooting him in place.

From the gate, smoky tendrils shot out, claw-like hands forming at their tips. They twisted in the air before latching onto him.

Stark struggled to break free, but the hands tightened their grip, pulling him toward the gate. The chains rattled ominously, and the talismans glowed as the gate creaked open.

Darkness spilled out, thick and suffocating, dragging Stark toward its abyss.

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No….No…..!

He thrashed wildly, but it was no use. The hands pulled harder. Just as he teetered on the edge, a blinding light erupted from nowhere, forming a barrier between him and the gate.

The smoky hands recoiled, severing with a hiss. The eye in the gate blinked once before the entire structure shuddered violently. Cracks began to splinter through the walls of the white room.

The ground gave way beneath Stark’s feet, and he plummeted into a gaping void of darkness.

"No!"

Stark's eyes shot open abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Sweat trickled down his face.

The rough brown texture of a stone ceiling greeted him, the haunting image of the void and door fading.

He winced as he tried to sit up, his muscles screaming. Stark glanced at his arms. Both were there.

His left arm, which had been severed, was wrapped in cloth and securely attached to his shoulder.

What? That can’t be right! His mind raced. I’m sure my arm was gone!

Stark scanned his surroundings. He appeared to be in a cave. A coarse blanket covered his body, and he realized he was naked beneath it.

Pain flared through him. He clenched his teeth.

"Awake, are you? Human child."

The unfamiliar voice sent a shiver down Stark's spine.

Standing a few feet away was a man—or something close to one. His skin was a deep, unnatural bluish hue with intricate patterns on his forearms. He wore a simple half-sleeve tunic and loose pants, but his appearance was anything but ordinary.

Two curved horns poked out from his skull. Long silver hair cascaded over his shoulders.

The man held a bowl in his hand, tilting it slightly as he studied him.

Stark's breath caught, his heart pounded. Who—or what—is this?

“Here, human child. Eat this.” The man extended a wooden bowl toward Stark.

Stark peered into the bowl. It was a stew, its aroma rich—nothing like the stale gruel he had been forced to endure in the slave camp.

“W-…” His voice cracked, barely audible. Fear gripped him, but something about the man’s calm demeanor suggested he wasn’t a threat.

“Do not speak, human child,” the man said, his voice carrying an ancient tone “Your body was on death’s edge when I found you.”

The man placed the bowl on the ground before continuing, “This is Ish’rak meat stew. I found the creatures dead beside you.”

Stark blinked. Ish’rak? Those beasts?

Without another word, the man turned and walked out of the room.

Alone, Stark reached for the bowl. He hesitated, sniffing the stew cautiously.

This or nothing, he thought grimly.

With a resigned sigh, Stark closed his eyes. The sip flooded his senses with warmth and flavor, unlike anything he’d tasted before.

His body, starved, demanded more, and he drank the whole stew.

Who is that man? Stark thought. Is this the devil that the crazy man was chanting about?

He had no idea what a devil was supposed to look like. The stories he’d heard back at the camp were vague at best—whispers of an unbelievably strong and dangerous being meant to terrify.

The man entered again, this time carrying some clothes.

“Here, human child. Wear this.” He tossed them towards Stark, his face devoid of emotion.

Stark hesitated. “U…Um… Who are you?” he asked nervously.

"You... don’t know who I am?” The man’s blank stare lingered as Stark awkwardly began dressing himself in the loose-fitting clothes, which resembled the man’s own.

"No... Should I?” Stark replied cautiously.

“My name is Krul... also known as the Devil of Kastar.”

Krul studied him, waiting for the reaction—fear, panic. To his surprise, Stark simply tilted his head, confusion etched on his face.

“The Devil of Kastar?” he echoed.

During his time in Kastar, Stark had heard the name only a handful of times. It was the kind of tale used to frighten children—a bedtime story. He’d never thought it could be real. And now, here he was, face-to-face with the very devil in question.

“Indeed,” Krul said, breaking the silence. “It seems you have no idea who I am, human child.”

Stark shifted uneasily. “Where am I?” he asked, still cautious.

Sensing his wariness, Krul assured. “You are safe. This is my home, hidden within the great sands.” He spoke with pride,

“Ah…” Stark muttered, unsure how to respond.

“Do you have a name, child?” Krul asked after a moment.

“Um… Yes, my name is Stark,” he said. “And I’ve been wondering for a while now... how am I still alive?”

Krul frowned slightly, as if puzzled by the question. “You are alive because I saved you. When I found you, you were barely clinging to life. It took time, but I patched you up.”

“What about the others?” Stark asked hesitantly.

“The others were already dead when I arrived.”

Stark’s gaze fell to his arm, now wrapped in cloth. He hesitated before asking, "My... arm?”

“Oh, that,” Krul said, glancing at it. “Your arm was severed and beyond saving. It couldn’t be reattached.”

“So I thought, why not craft a new arm using my cells and fuse it to your body?” Krul explained, scratching his chin.

“Huh?” Stark stared at him, struggling to comprehend. “What? How is that even possible?”

“With magic, child,” Krul replied with a smirk. “Your arm was beyond saving, so I fused my cells with mana to craft you a new one.”

He paused, as if recalling the process. “It wasn’t simple, though. Replicating flesh to match your body took time—and more mana than I expected.”

Stark blinked. "You... made me a new arm?”

Krul nodded. “Yes. It was my first time attempting something like this.”

“Quite the experiment, I say. But now I know: It takes a ridiculous amount of mana and high-grade cells to succeed.”

Stark had met someone crazy.