The forest air was thick with silence. Not the kind that comes with peace, but the aftermath of something lost.
At the edge of a stream beneath a veil of pine, Derick stood over a grave—shallow, but clean. His fingers trembled as he packed the final mound of dirt over the lifeless boy whose name he never got to know beyond a few days of shared bread, laughter, and dreams of freedom.
Behind him, the rest of the group stood quietly—ten children now. Ten survivors out of twelve.
One had been Bran, now cast into exile for betrayal. The other, now buried in the earth, had taken a claw to the throat before anyone could reach him.
Master Shen's grave lay beside the boy's, marked with his broken blade and the blackened hilt of his sacrificial seal.
Lina knelt beside it, tears silently staining the earth.
Derick placed a hand on her shoulder. "We won't forget."
She nodded but said nothing.
They set out the next morning.
Journey to Grelmire
The road to Grelmire was long and uneven, winding through hills cut by deep roots and overgrown stone. The children moved quietly, worn thin by wounds and grief, but driven by purpose.
They followed the map Master Shen had left in his notes—a path to the border-town of Grelmire, nestled on the edge of the demon-controlled frontier. The town was known as a "shared domain"—a place where demons ruled openly, but where humans were occasionally allowed some roles within the clans, especially those with rare talents.
None of the children had ever stepped foot in such a place.
Derick clutched the letter of passage given to him by Cael Dren, the Spirit Pulse Realm master of the Skysunder Clan. The words of the man still echoed in his head: "When the time comes, bring this to Grelmire. Show it at the gate, and you will find your path."
Now was that time.
Arrival at the Gate
The town walls of Grelmire loomed high, carved from gray stone veined with silver runes. A massive iron gate guarded the main entrance, flanked by two spear-wielding guards—one a demon with crimson skin, the other a stern-looking human in black armor.
A line of travelers stretched before them—humans, beastfolk, and low-ranked demons. Each one paid a small toll before being admitted inside.
Derick and his group reached the front.
The demon guard grunted. "Gate fee. Ten copper for each."
Derick glanced at Lina, who handed him their carefully saved pouch. The children had scavenged and bartered with wandering trappers and cultivators for weeks to gather what little coin they had.
He stepped forward.
But just as he reached to hand over the money, a haughty voice rang out behind them.
"Out of the way, lowbloods."
The group turned.
Behind them, flanked by armored servants, stood a young demon master, likely no older than Derick in appearance but draped in silk robes embroidered with fire serpents. His horns were short and curled, his skin the color of molten bronze. His gaze dripped with arrogance.
"This young master waits for no slave," he sneered.
Derick narrowed his eyes. "We were here first."
The demon's brows arched.
One of his servants, a thick-necked brute with tusks protruding from his jaw, stepped forward and growled, "Want to lose that tongue, whelp?"
But the young master raised a hand. "No. Let them bark. Dogs do that."
The demon guard smirked at the exchange. "What's your payment, boy? Can't smell any coin on you."
Derick didn't answer. He reached into his coat and pulled out the letter.
"This is my toll."
The guard squinted. "Paper?"
The brute demon servant snorted. "So, no coin after all. He wants to pay with paper like a peasant! Should we wipe our blades with it before we throw them out?"
The young master turned to the guard, amused. "Tear it. Teach them about the real world."
The demon guard didn't hesitate. His clawed fingers reached for the scroll.
Just as the letter was nearly in his grasp, a voice cut through the tension.
"Hold."
Everyone turned.
The human guard, who had been watching silently from the other side of the gate, stepped forward. His armor bore the faded insignia of a minor Grelmire defense unit, but his eyes were sharp.
"Let me see that letter."
The demon guard grunted. "Why should you—?"
"Because if you tear the wrong seal, I'll be writing the report explaining to the Skysunder Clan why their envoy's letter was destroyed by a dumb gatekeeper."
The demon froze.
Derick extended the scroll to the human guard, who inspected the wax seal—a triple lightning sigil, faint but unmistakable.
The human's brows raised.
Then he unfolded the letter, reading quickly.
His face went pale.
He lowered the parchment slowly and turned toward the demon guard.
"You nearly tore a personal invitation from Cael Dren himself. Spirit Pulse Realm cultivator. A man this town owes protection treaties to."
The demon guard swallowed hard, his earlier arrogance now buried beneath panic.
The brute servant sneered. "Still looks like a rat to me."
The human guard stepped in front of Derick and his group. "You've seen the seal. I'll take responsibility for their passage."
The demon didn't reply. He simply stepped aside.
The young master watched the entire exchange with a storm brewing in his eyes.
As Derick and the others walked past, the young master didn't move.
But as they entered Grelmire, Derick could feel his gaze like a dagger in the back of his neck.
A gaze that promised their paths would cross again.
Into the Demon City
The gates shut behind them with a grinding boom.
Grelmire stretched before them—a strange fusion of beauty and cruelty. Spires made of obsidian. Vendors shouting in strange tongues. Human workers chained to market stalls, yet others wore robes and walked free, clearly cultivators granted rank and purpose.
They had made it. But this was not safety.
It was the next arena.