Kairo told no one.
Not about the fire in his chest.
Not about the voice that still echoed when the world grew quiet.
Not about the dream that felt more real than waking life.
He returned to the village training grounds three days after the funeral, wearing the same plain clothes, carrying the same worn wooden sword. The whispers returned immediately, as if they had been waiting for him.
"Didn't think he'd show up again."
"Poor kid doesn't know when to quit."
Kairo tightened his grip. His hands felt different—steady, heavier, like they remembered something he didn't.
The instructor barked commands. Sparring began.
Kairo faced a boy named Renn, broad-shouldered and confident. Renn grinned as he stepped forward, already certain of the outcome.
"Try not to cry," Renn said lightly.
The first strike came fast.
Too fast.
Kairo's body moved before his thoughts did.
He stepped aside, smooth and precise, as if guided by instinct. Renn's blade sliced air. A second strike followed, then a third—each one missing by a breath.
The training yard fell silent.
Kairo didn't feel strong.
He felt correct.
Renn hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. That hesitation was all it took. Kairo tapped Renn's chest with the wooden blade—not hard, not aggressive, but final.
The instructor stared. The other students murmured.
"Lucky," someone whispered.
Kairo stepped back, heart pounding. The pressure in his chest tightened, warning him. Too much, something inside seemed to say.
That night, the village was attacked.
It began with screams.
Kairo bolted upright in bed as the air filled with the smell of smoke. Shadows danced wildly against the walls, longer than they should have been. Outside, flames licked at rooftops as dark figures moved through the streets—twisted shapes with glowing eyes and claws like hooked knives.
Demons.
Panic froze Kairo in place.
Run, his mind screamed.
But another voice rose beneath the fear—calm, ancient, commanding.
This is why I sealed it.
A child cried out nearby.
Kairo moved.
One demon lunged at him, faster than any human. Fear surged—and the seal cracked.
Pain exploded through his body, followed by power.
The world slowed.
He saw the demon's movements before they happened, felt the flow of energy through the ground, the air, his own blood. Shadows bent toward him, not as enemies, but as tools.
"No," Kairo whispered. "I don't want this."
The demon struck.
Instinct answered.
Dark flame erupted from Kairo's arm, not wild, not cruel—but controlled. The demon was thrown back, dissolving into ash before it hit the ground.
Silence followed.
Kairo stared at his trembling hands. The flames vanished instantly, leaving no trace—except the mark.
A faint, crimson symbol glowed briefly on his chest before fading away.
From the rooftops, unseen eyes watched.
One voice hissed into the night:
"The Demon King's blood still lives."
Kairo fell to his knees as the seal tightened again, locking the power away.
The village would remember the attack.
But no one would remember the boy who stopped it.
And deep within the seal, his grandfather's voice stirred once more:
Good. You survived.