Moonbeam bent down slowly and picked up the severed piece of his ear, his hand shaking.
Rowan walked toward him, sword still humming with blue energy.
"Hm," Rowan said casually. "You really are tough. That attack should’ve dissected you into ten thousand pieces."
He raised his blade again.
"But don’t worry. I can always do it again."
"Shut up!" Moonbeam snarled. "Don’t get cocky, you bastard! I can heal myself!"
Dark energy surged around Moonbeam’s body, wrapping around his wounds, trying to regenerate his flesh.
Nothing happened.
The wounds stayed open.
Blood continued to drip.
"...What?" Moonbeam muttered, panic flooding his voice. "Why isn’t it working?"
Rowan stopped a few steps away.
"That injury?" Rowan said quietly. "It’s not healing. Ever."
Moonbeam stumbled back, teeth clenched, veins bulging as he growled in disbelief.
"This can’t be happening..."
"He’s... a monster."
Moonbeam’s body trembled uncontrollably.
"No. He’s not a kid. I’m sure of it."
His joints scread in agony. Every movent sent sharp pain through his limbs, as if his body were tearing itself apart from the inside. Rowan had done far more damage than he had realized.
Moonbeam’s knees finally gave out.
He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, his heartbeat pounding wildly in his ears.
"What the hell is happening...?" he muttered. "What did he do to ?"
He lifted his head with effort.
Rowan stood before him, silent, wrapped in a cold blue aura. His sword humd faintly, as if alive, watching, waiting.
Moonbeam’s eyes widened.
"...I see it now."
His breathing grew uneven.
"He’s not human. He’s not a monster either."
A chill ran down his spine.
"He’s sothing far beyond that."
A single thought surfaced in his mind, one that made his heart shake.
"...A god."
The very existence Moonbeam had dread of fighting since he was a child.
Since he was young, while other children played heroes, Moonbeam had always chosen the opposite role.
The demon lord.
While his friends laughed and pretended to save kingdoms, he stood apart, fascinated not by the hero but by the demon.
Why was the demon hated?
Why was its death celebrated?
At night, his father would read stories aloud, tales of heroes slaying demon lords and being praised by the world. But Moonbeam never felt joy listening to them.
He felt sorrow.
Everyone cheered the hero.
No one cared about the demon’s pain.
When his friends insisted he play the hero, he always refused.
"I want to be the demon lord," he would say.
That was when they began to look at him strangely.
Soon, they stopped playing with him altogether.
Even their parents warned them to stay away.
So Moonbeam stopped talking.
When his blessing awakened, it wasn’t the hero’s blessing.
It was the blessing of the sword.
He enrolled in a sword academy, then later taught at the Royal Academy as a sword master. Despite his talent, he remained alone. No friends. No bonds.
Until that day.
A demon appeared.
Not a demon lord, but a true demon.
It slaughtered sword masters, sword lords, even teachers with high-level blessings. Moonbeam stood among them, watching as legends fell one after another.
And for the first ti in his life, his heart raced.
Not from fear.
From excitent.
This was it.
This was the existence he admired.
When the demon was finally gravely injured and forced to the ground, the others raised their blades to finish it.
Moonbeam’s heart stopped.
Before he could think, his body moved.
He stepped forward.
He protected the demon.
The other teachers stared at him in disbelief, but Moonbeam didn’t answer them.
He killed them.
Every last one who tried to strike the demon.
But it was too late.
The demon was already dying.
Desperate, Moonbeam tore open his own chest and pressed the demon’s blood into his body, swallowing it whole.
That was the mont everything changed.
The knights began hunting him.
Moonbeam fled.
And from that day on, he walked the path of no return.
The core reacted.
The demon core Moonbeam had swallowed, what he believed to be a gift, a blessing, suddenly stirred within his body. It pulsed violently, sending waves of heat and madness through his veins.
His mana surged.
It climbed endlessly, uncontrollably, as if sothing inside him was awakening.
That was when he began to hear them.
Voices.
Whispers echoed inside his mind, overlapping, mocking, tempting. They praised him. They urged him forward. They told him he was chosen.
And slowly, he listened.
That was how it began.
Moonbeam beca a bandit.
No, more than that.
He captured people. Experinted on them. Killed them without hesitation. Those with blessings were his primary targets. Knights. Mages. Chosen ones.
Anyone favored by the gods.
To him, those blessings were an insult, chains placed on humanity by a false god. He believed the blessed were the greatest threat to demons, and therefore, they had to be erased.
But his true hatred was reserved for sothing else.
The god.
The being that granted blessings to humans.
The one who decided who was worthy and who was not.
Moonbeam dread of killing that god.
He searched endlessly. Slaughtered endlessly.
Yet no matter how far he went, no matter how much blood he spilled, he never found it.
Until now.
Kneeling in pain, his broken body trembling, Moonbeam lifted his head and looked at the boy standing before him.
The overwhelming presence.
The impossible power.
The calm, rciless gaze.
"...I finally found you," Moonbeam thought.
A god.
Or sothing close enough to one.
A being as powerful as a god, walking the world in human form.
Rowan.
Moonbeam laughed, a broken, hoarse sound escaping his throat.
"So it was you all along..."
His gaze locked onto Rowan, burning with hatred.
"You’re the one responsible for the blessings," Moonbeam said slowly.
"The one who caused the slaughter of demons. The one who tipped the scales of this world."
His voice trembled, not with fear, but obsession.
"I’ve searched everywhere for you. I hunted cities. I burned lands. I never imagined you were here all this ti."
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