The air was thick with the scent of dirt, blood, and iron. Daemon's lungs burned, his muscles ached — but his blade pulsed against his palm, humming with dark mana.
His aura flared, flickering black-red like a dying star, and in the space of a heartbeat, he moved.
Faster.
His feet barely touched the soil as he sprinted forward, body low, closing the gap between him and the ogre. The blade in his hand wasn't elegant, but the mana surging through it made up for what his technique still lacked. It vibrated with hunger, eager to bite into flesh.
The ogre roared, that guttural "Kik!" snapping the silence apart, and swung its axe with wild, crushing force. The weapon cleaved through the air — the sound alone sharp enough to make Daemon's ears ring.
He pivoted, narrowly dodging as the axe slammed into the ground, the earth splitting like glass. The shockwave chased him, slowing his legs, breaking his flow.
Every swing was a death sentence.
But he didn't let the fear take hold.
"You're slow," Daemon spat between breaths, circling wide, keeping his distance just long enough to bait the next strike.
The ogre tilted its head, squinting now — as if it was only just beginning to see him clearly for the first time. The playful arrogance in its smirk was gone, replaced with something colder.
"Kik….you….noot normal weak human"
The ogre's stance shifted, heavy feet bracing deeper into the earth. It wasn't just swinging wildly anymore. It was calculating. Adapting.
For the first time, Daemon saw it: the faint glimmer of intelligence behind those yellow eyes. This wasn't just brute force. It was survival instinct. The ogre understood the fight had changed.
"Kik… strong… huuumaan… strong."
Daemon wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and grinned, sharp and bitter.
"Took you long enough, you dumb beast."
The ogre snarled and lunged, faster than before. The distance between them vanished. Axe met blade, the impact shivering up Daemon's bones, numbing his arms. His boots scraped against the dirt, barely holding ground.
For every blow he blocked, the ogre's strength drove him back two more steps.
And still — Daemon advanced. Step by step. Slash by slash.
His breathing was ragged. His limbs felt heavy, slower than he liked, but the fire inside his core never dimmed.
He wasn't strong enough to win yet.
But he'd be damned if he backed down.
"Come on," he hissed under his breath, blade raised, eyes locked on the creature towering over him.
"Let's see which one of us breaks first."
The ogre roared, raising its axe high for another crushing strike.
"Kik…diee…you stupid human"
Daemon's chest heaved as he leapt back, putting distance between him and the ogre. His fingers tightened around the sword's battered hilt. One glance told him the truth: the blade was close to snapping, his aura reserves drained to the dregs.
The clash of steel and roars had already echoed deep into the woods. If the other ogres heard this — it was over. He couldn't win against a whole clan.
The ogre tilted its massive head, yellow eyes glinting with mockery.
"Kik…stupid human… scared?"
Daemon wiped the blood off his split lip, and lifted his gaze — sharp, steady, empty of fear.
In his past life, creatures like this had fallen beneath his blade like wheat. But that was when he'd fought as a soldier — with the refined sword forms of Varyndor, the Kingdom's prized style. Chivalry, discipline, clean strikes. An art built for nobles, built for war… but not for survival.
That style had left his hands trembling now, knuckles cracked and bleeding, and the ogre's hide? It was like striking stone.
He exhaled through his teeth.
Enough.
He straightened his spine, adjusted his footing. His body rooted itself like a fortress, feet locked to the earth — no more fluid noble dance, no more knightly defense.
Ironclad Resolve.
A stance born not for elegance, but for one purpose: outlasting. Enduring.
And breaking.
The ogre hesitated for the first time, its brute instinct sensing something shift in the air. But it didn't back away. It charged, snarling — bone axe raised high.
Daemon's sword no longer danced. It locked, absorbed, and returned every strike with precision and weight.
No wasted energy.
No hesitation.
In the gaps between those blows, as the monster's attacks slowed under the pressure of his iron resolve, Daemon thought deeper.
The Thirteen Steps — the old sword principles he'd memorized since childhood.
They were perfect for a knight.
But he was no knight.
"What if I change them?" he thought, as the aura began pulsing back into his limbs, his breath syncing to his will. The flow of his attacks shifted — unpredictable, erratic, and brutal.
The ogre faltered.
Daemon saw the gap, the moment the beast's foot shifted too wide — and lunged.
One clean stroke.
The blade carved through its thick neck like it was paper.
The ogre's head rolled, thudding against the dirt by the gate, its eyes still wide in shock. Blood fountained from its neck, painting the wooden wall behind it.
The other ogres had heard the battle.
Their cries broke through the treeline, one after the other — snarls and growls rising into a single, deafening roar. Dozens.
Daemon turned on his heel, body aching and mind pulsing from the rush of battle, and sprinted deep into the forest. His hands trembled, his muscles screamed from the strain — but his lips curled into a cold smile.
He had done it.
A new skill, born of blood and instinct, sparked in his chest.
"Shadow Ember."
A sword form not for a soldier.Not for a hero.For a predator.
But the ogres were now searching for daemon.
The forest howled with war cries.
Daemon's lungs burned. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him, but his mind stayed sharp: Don't stop. If you stop, you die.
The ogres were close. He could hear them crashing through the underbrush, heavy footfalls shaking the ground, the scent of blood sharp in the air. His own blood.
One roar sliced through the night — a signal.
"Kik…found him!"
A chorus of snarls answered back. The hunt was on.
Daemon gritted his teeth, forcing his battered body to sprint harder through the trees. His vision blurred, strength draining by the second, but he wasn't giving these bastards the satisfaction.
And then through the gaps in the thickets,salvation.
His horse, Caldrin, waiting.
Daemon didn't slow. He vaulted onto the saddle, nearly collapsing sideways from the motion, slapping his heels hard into the horse's flanks.
"Go!"
Caldrin surged forward, hooves thundering against the earth, weaving through the trees like a shadow on wings.
Behind them, the ogres stormed after him, their massive arms tearing up trunks and boulders, hurling them toward the fleeing boy and his mount. One tree crashed so close Daemon felt the spray of splinters rake his cheek. Another skimmed the horse's flank, sending Caldrin stumbling,but the beast pushed forward.
Daemon twisted around, his pulse roaring in his ears. He stared back at the horde. Their snarling, fanged mouths opened with another cry:
"Kik…weak human… stop running!"
"Kik…prepare… to die, human!"
But Daemon's eyes had already locked onto the horizon. The earth thinned into a sharp cliff edge, and the distant scent of water cut through the iron tang of his own blood.
A drop. Deep, unforgiving.
The perfect gamble.
As Caldrin skidded to the cliff's lip, Daemon turned his head toward the monsters chasing him — and there, at the center, he saw him.
The Chief. Twice the size of the others. Skin lined with black tattoos, muscles like slabs of stone, and an aura that weighed on the air like a storm cloud.
"Kik…hold the human."
Daemon's lips curled into a blood-stained grin. His vision swayed, exhaustion ringing through his bones — but his voice stayed steady.
"I can't believe I lost… but mark my words," he hissed, locking eyes with the Chief.
"I'll hunt your clan down, one by one."
Without another word, Daemon yanked the reins, his horse lunging forward over the cliff's edge.
The ogres roared in outrage, charging to the drop-off. The last thing they saw was Daemon turning midair, raising one hand high — middle finger extended — and a smile cracked across his face.
The water below swallowed him and his horse whole.
The ogres stood frozen, growling, fists curling with rage. But the boy was gone.
For now.