Days passed, and Stark’s body slowly began to recover. Krul, the devil who had saved him, provided ample, nutritious food—the first time Stark had ever experienced such care. His once malnourished body was regaining strength.

But rest didn’t come easy. Night after night, the bone-eaters haunted his dreams. Their faces and attacks replayed in his mind, leaving him drenched in cold sweat. Sleep deprivation became a norm.

Stark tried to adapt, forcing himself to push through, but the toll on his psyche was undeniable. The silent interactions with Krul only added to his unease. They barely spoke.

Krul would simply watch him from afar.

Why did he save me? I can’t read him. He thought.

Stark could feel that the devil was powerful, far beyond anything Stark had ever witnessed.

Krul entered the room again, carrying a bowl of steaming stew. It had become a daily ritual—fresh meals brought to him without fail. Stark couldn’t help but wonder how Krul managed it, given he rarely left the cave.

“Um….How do you get food?” He asked awkwardly.

Krul paused, his expression briefly puzzled. “I hunt,” he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Stark drained his bowl of stew, savoring it’s warmth.

“Tasty.” He muttered.

He stared at Krul.

“You need something? Child!”

“Why did you save me?”

“…….”

A heavy silence filled the room. Krul didn’t answer immediately

“On a whim,” Krul finally said. “I was passing by.”

Time passed, and Stark recovered faster than he expected. He could now walk and even exercise, though his nights remained restless. The nightmares refused to fade—creepy doors, smoky hands, and the grotesque faces of the bone-eaters haunted his sleep, replaying in an endless loop.

His days were monotonous. His mind was thinking about the story of the hero Dalius that saved the continent. Stark had been fascinated by strength. He recalled the first time he saw Rakel fight; it was mesmerizing. Power beckoned him, not just for its allure but for the freedom.

He absently-mindedly rubbed his chest, where the slave mark still remained. For the past few days, his only task was to observe Krul. The devil led an oddly mundane life—reading books, hunting, and cooking.

Despite their differences, Stark began speaking with Krul, their conversations growing more frequent. Slowly, a bond started to form between them.

“I’m feeling good now,” Stark muttered one day as he stretched. His bandages slipped off, revealing the new arm. It looked identical to the other, moving without pain or stiffness.

It’s like my arm was never severed.

Stark got up to find Krul.

The cave was a network of interconnected spaces like an ant colony. There were many spaces but a handful were in use by the devil.

Curious, he wandered into Krul’s study. Shelves packed with books close to the muddy wall, and the table was scattered with papers marked with strange and intricate patterns. Stark frowned at the incomprehensible symbols and words—he had never learned to read or write.

Krul wasn’t there. Stark searched until he found the devil reclining on his bed, engrossed in a book. Krul glanced up as Stark entered.

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“I think I’ve recovered,” Stark said, standing straighter.

“Is that so?” Krul replied,

“How can I repay you?” Stark asked hesitantly.

“Repay me? ” He blinked twice.

“I mean it. I’ll do anything to repay you for saving my life.”

"Are you serious?" He scoffed.

Krul clicked his tongue, setting the book aside. “Anything? You’re weak. What use is a feeble child?”

“What if I become strong?” Stark pressed. “Would that be enough to repay me?”

Silence filled the room. Krul studied him, an unreadable expression on his face.

The devil had saved his life—a slave’s life, something most would discard without a second thought.

“Hm... You, strong?” Krul asked, exhaling deeply.

Stark hesitated. “I... I know I’m weak. And just a slave...” He lowered his voice, glancing at the floor. “But I want to be free. I want to be strong, like you.”

Krul raised an eyebrow. “Free? Do you think strength grants freedom?”

“Doesn’t it?” Stark asked cautiously.

Krul leaned back, considering. “Perhaps. Who can say?”

“So... can I become strong like you?” Stark pressed.

Krul didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he countered with a question of his own. “What is freedom to you?”

Stark opened his mouth but faltered. “I... I don’t know.”

Krul pressed on. “Then how do you expect to find it? Strength without an aim is useless.”

“But why….I just want to escape this life...” Stark said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Escape and then what?”

“I...I want to see the world.”

Krul stood and placed a hand on Stark’s head, ruffling the hair that had started to grow back.

“A traveler, perhaps a wanderer?” Krul raised his brow. “Is that your wish, Child?”

The thought of traveling definitely filled him with excitement. Although he needed strength to accomplish that desire as well.

“Maybe... but I do wish to travel and see beautiful places.”

“The answer to your question is no." Krul’s answer cut through Stark’s hope like a blade.

Stark blinked, his chest tightening. “Why not?”

Krul sighed, folding his arms. “I examined your body while healing you. You don’t have a mana core, which means you cannot use magic spells.”

The words struck Stark like a physical blow, and his expression darkened. “Never?”

“Never, at least like me.” Krul confirmed, though his tone softened slightly. “But... there may be other paths. You might have the potential of a knight. Aura or martial arts could be within your reach, though I can’t test that.” He shrugged. “Worth a try, eh?”

It’s odd that this child hasn’t gotten a core itself. Krul thought. Since the Mythical Era ended, the continent has been filled with the Mana.

Krul found it odd as the creatures on the continent mutated and began to form cores to store mana to avoid mana poisoning. Even common people had cores but only people with talent and aptitude for mana manipulation could use it to cast spells and become magus.

“Say, Child. Where are you originally from?” Krul asked. “A war zone? Perhaps from across the ocean?”

Stark looked puzzled for a moment. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Honestly, I only remember Kastar, nothing else.”

“I see,”

Stark glanced at his slave mark and clutched it. He vividly remembered getting branded with a hot metal stamp. The pain was awful, the skin burned, and the mark materialized afterwards.

He tried to scrub it away but couldn’t. As he was about to open his mouth—

Krul frowned, his gaze falling to Stark’s hand. “That’s beyond me.”

“Why?”

“It’s Zaras’th divine magic. Priest magic.” Krul’s said with a scowl. “I can’t interfere with it.”

To demonstrate, Krul stretched a hand toward the mark. A flash of golden lightning lashed out, burning his hand.

“See?” he said, holding up his scorched palm.

Stark’s shoulders slumped. “So... how do I remove it?”

“I don’t know... there must be a way to remove it.” Krul explained.

Stark didn’t lose hope. He had endured hell for too long to falter now. Freedom—no matter how painful—was worth the cost.

“Krul… Please teach me to become strong,” Stark pleaded, his voice firm despite his trembling hands.

Krul let out a long sigh, a mix of reluctance and resignation. By the look in his eyes, refusing wouldn’t help.

“Fine, child. I will train you from tomorrow.”

“Really?” Stark’s eyes lit up.

Krul nodded, waving him off. “Go. Rest while you can.”

As Stark left, his excitement visible, Krul leaned against the rough stone of the cave wall, watching the boy disappear.

He will give up soon.

The words replayed in his mind, echoes of countless similar conversations over the centuries. Shaking his head, Krul stepped outside the cave, where the vast desert stretched endlessly beneath the star-laden sky.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve stood here,” he murmured, his gaze distant.

The boy’s words lingered in his mind: Strong people can be free.

Krul chuckled bitterly. “If only that were true, child.”

With a faint hum, two golden shackles materialized on his wrists, crackling with energy. Like Stark, Krul was bound—trapped by the curse of Zaras’th.

An ancient devil, Krul, had roamed Kastar since the Mythical Era; his name brought fear. But no power had ever freed him from the great sands grasp. The desert was an endless labyrinth.

As the memories flooded back, the air around him twisted, a violet aura seeping from his body in a silent storm.

Zaras’th. You vermin…

Once, during the Mythical Era, Krul had been known by another name—a name that had shaken the heavens and cast fear into the hearts of gods. He was the last surviving descendant of the Forsaken.

Krul the God Slayer.