The light was blinding.
Elias tumbled through space and time, reality bending around him like water.
Images flashed past. The obsidian plain. The swirling sky. The faces of a hundred demons burning in golden fire. Sanctus's voice, constant and gentle, woven through every memory.
"You are Mine."
He'd never forget those words. Never.
And then—
Blue sky.
Real sky. With clouds and sun and birds and—
He was falling. Fast. Terminal velocity. The ground rushed up to meet him—medieval Ashwell spread out below, a sprawling maze of stone buildings, thatched roofs, narrow cobblestone streets winding like serpents.
Three years in the spiritual realm. But here? How much time had passed?
It didn't matter. What mattered was—
He was about to hit the ground at lethal speed.
"Shit!" The word tore from his throat.
"The fire. Use the fire."
The fire. Of course.
Elias thrust both hands downward. Golden flames exploded from his palms—not an attack, but propulsion, resistance, a cushion of pure energy pushing back against gravity.
The descent slowed. Not stopped. Controlled.
He adjusted his angle, rotating mid-air, flames pulsing from his feet now too, creating a pillar of golden light beneath him that bent the air, that screamed with power.
People below looked up. Pointed. Screamed.
Elias hit the cobblestones of the market square with tremendous force—but controlled. The golden fire absorbed most of the impact. Stone cracked beneath him. A crater formed, maybe two meters wide.
But he was alive. Standing. Intact.
The flames faded.
Elias looked around. The market square. Wooden stalls. Merchants frozen in shock. A horse reared, neighing in terror. A woman fainted. Children stared with wide eyes.
Ashwell. Just as he remembered it. Stone buildings. Thatched roofs. Dirt and desperation.
But now he could see it clearly.
The demons.
Everywhere.
Shadows clinging to people's backs. Whispers in their ears. Class 4 demons—parasites feeding on anger, on lust, on pride, on every dark emotion that festered in the human heart.
And no one could see them.
Except him.
A merchant cursed at his apprentice. Elias saw the anger demon on the man's shoulder, whispering poison.
A woman eyed a noble's jewelry with hungry eyes. A covetousness demon coiled around her neck like a serpent.
A drunk stumbled past, muttering to himself. Despair demon clinging to his back.
The city was infested.
"My God," Elias whispered.
"Now you see. This is why I chose you. This is your mission."
A guard approached, hand on his sword hilt.
"You there! What sorcery—"
Elias didn't wait. He turned and ran, disappearing into the narrow alleys before anyone could react. His body moved with grace he'd never possessed before—three years of combat had transformed him.
He needed to find shelter. Food. Understand how much time had passed.
And then—
He'd start hunting.
***
Three days in Ashwell. Just three days had passed. That was mindblowing.
Elias had found shelter in an abandoned stable on the city's eastern edge. The owner—an old man who'd died the previous winter—left no heirs. Perfect.
The stable was small. Drafty. Smelled of old hay and horse dung. But it had a roof, four walls, and most importantly, no one asked questions.
He'd fashioned a bed from clean straw and a ratty blanket he'd stolen from a clothesline. Not much, but infinitely better than the obsidian ground of the spiritual realm.
Food was... complicated. He had no money. The copper coins he'd had before the trial were long gone—dropped in some alley three years ago. Or three days ago. Time was confusing.
So he went to do what he'd always done: stealing. Bread from baker's stalls. Apples from carts. A chunk of cheese from a distracted merchant. Enough to survive.
But it felt wrong now. Like he was betraying something. So he stopped himself.
"I will provide."
"I know," Elias whispered. "But You're not dropping spiritual bread in Ashwell. So I have to work with what I've got."
He'd figure it out. Eventually.
* * *
The demons were everywhere.
Elias walked through the narrow cobblestone streets, past timber-framed buildings with thatched roofs, past the blacksmith's forge where hammer rang against anvil, past the tavern where men already drunk at midday shouted and laughed.
And he saw them all.
Class 4 demons. Parasites. Some free-floating, drifting through the air like smoke. Others attached to humans, clinging to their backs, whispering in their ears.
He'd killed three free-floating demons in his first day back.
Easy. Too easy. They were weak compared to what he'd faced in the trial. A single strike of golden fire and they dissolved into ash.
But then he'd tried to kill an attached demon.
And couldn't.
* * *
It happened in the market square. A woman was screaming at a vegetable merchant, face red, spittle flying.
"YOU CHEATED ME! THESE CARROTS ARE ROTTEN! YOU THINK I'M STUPID?!"
Elias saw the anger demon on her back. Feeding. Growing.
He approached. Reached out with his right hand. Summoned the golden fire.
His fingers closed around the demon's throat.
And—
Nothing.
The fire sputtered. Died. His hand passed through the demon as if it wasn't there.
The demon turned its eyeless head toward him. And laughed.
You cannot touch me. Not while I am bound to flesh. Your power is useless here.
Elias staggered back, confused, frustrated.
"Sanctus," he whispered. "What... why can't I—"
Silence.
"Sanctus?!"
More silence.
The demon continued to whisper to the woman. She screamed louder. Raised her hand to strike the merchant.
Elias watched, helpless, as the demon fed on her rage.
* * *
He tried again the next day. Different demon. Same result.
A man drunk in an alley, despair demon coiled around him. Elias reached for it. Couldn't touch it.
A prostitute propositioning men outside a brothel, lust demon whispering in her ear. He tried to burn it. The fire wouldn't ignite.
Every demon attached to a human was untouchable.
"WHY?!" He screamed into the empty stable that night. "Why give me this power if I can't use it?!"
Silence.
Elias punched the wall. Pain exploded across his knuckles. Blood dripped.
He slid down to sit in the straw, head in his hands.
"I don't understand," he whispered. "Please. Help me understand."
And finally—
"Maren Holt will explain it to you. Be patient."
"Maren Holt !? Who is that ?"
No answer.
Elias was even more confused but he clenched his jaw.
He'd learned to trust that voice. Even when it didn't make sense.
* * *
So he focused on what he could do.
Free-floating demons. The ones not attached to humans. He hunted them relentlessly.
In the slums near the eastern gate. In the back alleys behind the guild houses. In the shadows of the old cathedral.
He killed thirty-seven in the first week.
And the city... changed.
Subtly. Gradually. But noticeably.
Fights broke out less frequently. The taverns were quieter. People smiled more. Even the beggars seemed less desperate.
Something was lifting. Like a fog dissipating.
And people noticed.
* * *
"There's this guy," people whispered in taverns. In markets. In the guild halls.
"Tall. Long hair. Golden eyes. Saw him walking through the slums, staring at nothing. Then he'd move his hands and... something would change."
"My daughter stopped crying at night. Just... stopped. Right after he walked past our house."
"Old Tom hasn't touched ale in three days. Says he doesn't want it anymore. Says he feels... clean."
"The butcher stopped beating his apprentice. Just like that. Says he doesn't know why."
Word spread. Slowly. Carefully. In whispers and rumors.
Something was happening in Ashwell.
And at the center of it—
A young man who talked to the air.