Vierfort was a major port city on the Ascended Continent, perched along the jagged border where human lands met the demonic territories. Because the demonic region sat at a slightly higher elevation, the cliffs separating the realms were not as steep here, allowing travel—and danger—to pass more freely.
With monsters and strange creatures wandering nearby, Vierfort held a massive army presence. Yet that military strength did little to temper the city's darker reputation. Vierfort thrived on trade, exporting fish by the tons, but it also carried the highest crime rate on the continent.
Past the busy market roads—through rows of shops, crooked houses, and bustling docks—the city rotted inward into its alleyways. There, under the shadow of stacked buildings and the stench of salt and rot, a woman screamed for help.
No one came.
A guard stood only a short distance away, leaning lazily against a wall, but he did not turn his head. Most guards were paid off by the crime lords. Looking away was safer.
Beside the crying woman stood a large man with a gold watch and extravagant clothes. His grip tightened around her wrist, pulling her close.
"Don't struggle," he said, leaning in with a smirk. "No reason for a whore like you to refuse someone like me."
Before he could drag her away, a rustle sounded from around the corner.
The man stiffened. "Who's there?"
He yanked the woman along with him and turned the corner.
A cloaked figure sat against the wall, slowly wiping blood from a short sword. The figure was small—likely a boy—and long pointed ears slipped from beneath the hood. An elf.
The man scoffed. "Get lost, elf. You're far from home, and you're pissing me off hanging around these alleys."
The elf didn't look up. "It's free rein around these parts. But if you want me gone… sweeten the offer."
"Really? You want to play tough?" The man barked a laugh. "I'm someone important around here. If you threaten me, every crook in this city will come running. So move before you—"
"Please!" the woman cried. "Help me!"
"Shut up!"
The man struck her across the face. She crumpled, whimpering.
The young elf tilted his head. "Hmm. From the way you talk… you must be rich."
"Yes, obviously, you idiot. But you're not getting any mon—"
His words ended in a blur.
Steel flashed.
The man's head separated from his neck before he even realized the blade had moved. His body toppled, blood spraying across the stone. The woman stared wide-eyed, trembling.
The elf's hood fell from the force of his swing, revealing pale white hair and deep purple eyes—unblinking, cold.
"T-thank you," the woman stammered. "I won't tell anyone. I swear."
The elf ignored her and knelt beside the corpse, rummaging through the man's pockets until he found a pouch heavy with gold coins.
Only then did he speak. "I trust you. Dead people can't talk anyway."
Before she could react, he drove his sword into her throat. She gagged, eyes widening as blood dripped down her chin. Her body glowed faintly purple. A ghostly shape—a soul—peeled free from her form, drifting helplessly into the elf's chest before dissolving.
He sheathed his sword, placed the coins into his pockets, and watched as a creature materialized before him.
It had no eyes, only smooth white scales and curled purple horns.
The White Devil.
"You did well… Cecilus."
"I don't need you to appear every time," Cecilus muttered.
The creature chuckled. "Praise is part of my purpose. Anyway, we've gathered enough coin. After you buy food, we can leave for the demonic territories. You need proper summons."
"I still don't understand," Cecilus said quietly. "I went into the soul world like you told me. There were creatures there, but a barrier kept them away from me."
"Exactly. Your memories are gone, but your innate abilities remain. Your old summons exist—they're simply locked away, just like your past. Collecting enough souls will return both. If you could access your former summons now, their memories would show you everything you've forgotten."
Cecilus exhaled slowly. "Why did you only tell me my name? You know more."
"It's easier to restore memory than explain it," the White Devil replied. "You need one hundred thirty-seven souls in total. You have seventeen… plus the two from today. Nineteen."
Cecilus fell silent.
After awakening in a world he didn't recognize, the White Devil had appeared immediately. It taught him how to draw out the soul of a dying person—how, at the brink of death, a soul panics and will abandon its body if another power reaches for it. Cecilus learned to consume those escaped souls, gaining fragments of strength and memory, though only temporarily.
He had taken a sword from a caravan of thieves he'd slain. The weapon felt natural in his grip—too natural. The White Devil claimed he retained the skills of his previous life, even if he did not understand them. Cecilus had doubted that until the moment the blade moved effortlessly for him.
Following the devil's instructions, he traveled for over half a year, killing along the way to pay for food, shelter, and steeds. He was told to reach Vierfort, earn money, then head into demon lands to acquire summons capable of protecting him.
But getting to Vierfort was only the beginning.
Now, with the gold from his latest kill jingling in his pocket, he stepped out of the alley and into the crowded streets.
The city buzzed with life—demons with gray skin, dwarves with braided beards, humans with mismatched eyes or vibrant hair colors. Traders shouted, children ran between stalls, and dockworkers hauled crates of fish down the pier. Vierfort was a crossroads of countless races and cultures.
To Cecilus, who had no memory of any other city, it felt ordinary.
He approached a large stable at the end of the road. He needed a horse for the long journey ahead.
A voice echoed in his mind—smooth, unsettling.
Buy a horse. Then kill it slowly. Contract it. I don't know why you never made a horse summon in your past life, but you should now. A contracted beast doesn't die permanently.
Cecilus ignored the comment for the moment and stepped into the stable yard.
A large stable hand—twice Cecilus's width but a head shorter—looked him up and down. Even so, Cecilus had grown tall these past months, five inches away from six feet already.
"What kind of horse are you looking for?" the man asked.
"A fast one."
The stable hand burst into laughter. "Aren't we all? What breed? What color?"
"That one." Cecilus pointed to a single solid-black mare with no markings.
"You've got boring taste," the man chuckled. "But lucky for you, she's unnamed. You get to choose. Complimentary."
"If I took another, couldn't I just rename it?" Cecilus asked.
"Sure, but your conscience might nag at you."
Cecilus stared at him blankly.
"...Right," the man coughed. "Anyway, she's twenty-four silver. Discounted. But you gotta tell me her name."
He fetched the horse and handed over the reins.
"I'll name it Horsey," Cecilus said.
The man blinked. "You're joking, right lad?"
"Did it seem like I was?"
"Oh. No, it didn't. I was just… hoping you'd pretend after I called you out." He shook his head. "You can't name her Horsey! Tell you what—on the house, I'll give her a proper name."
He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
Cecilus's impatience simmered.
Is a horse's name really important? I could kill him and take it. Nothing's stopping me.
Also, why is he acting like naming the horse is some big costly thing that I'm skimping out on for not paying for?
Before he moved, the man snapped his fingers. "Xena! Perfect name for a fine horse."
Cecilus handed him silver—more than the cost, because he also purchased a saddle—and took the reins.
The stable hand waved as Cecilus walked off into the streets.
The White Devil's voice echoed faintly in Cecilus's mind.
Good. Next, we prepare for the journey… and for the souls you still need.