Revive The Demon [1]

In a howling blizzard, a man bundled in layers of thick cloth battled relentlessly against the biting wind.

His gaze remained unwavering despite the swirling snow that plastered his beard and eyebrows with icy flakes. It was morning, but the sun was a rare sight, a distant memory craved by all in this desolate corner of the slums.

Here, the weak succumbed to the elements, and the strong preyed upon the even weaker. This was a haven for criminals who conducted their illicit activities without fear of law enforcement.

The law held no meaning for them, as many were actually under the payroll of so-called nobles, further twisting the already fragile balance of power.

Trudging along a winding path, worn slick with ice and the passage of countless desperate souls, the man suddenly felt a tug on his sleeve. With a jolt of apprehension honed by years of navigating the city's underbelly, he spun around, only to be met with a bizarre sight.

A young boy, no older than fifteen, stared at him with vacant eyes the color of amethyst. His tangled hair, the color of faded royalty, mirrored the emptiness in his gaze.

Malnutrition etched its mark on him, his body protruding in skeletal angles, clothed only in rags – the trademark attire of the slum dwellers.

"Spare a few coins?" the boy rasped, his voice devoid of the usual pleading tone associated with beggars. It was a flat, emotionless request, as if the boy were simply reciting a script he'd been forced to memorize.

"Let go," the man muttered, his glare hardening into a threat. But before the boy could react, the man lashed out, a swift kick connecting with the boy's jaw with a sickening crunch. The boy, defenseless, went flying through the icy snow, the unforgiving rocks beneath dealing a brutal blow to his already emaciated body. A choked gasp escaped his lips, but it was quickly swallowed by the howling wind.

"Filthy thing," the man spat, his voice laced with disgust, before continuing on his way, not sparing the injured boy a second glance. He had seen countless such urchins in his time, begging for scraps, and his heart had long since hardened to their plight. He had problems of his own, far more pressing than a beggar's hunger pangs.

-Ring!-

The harsh ring of his communicator startled him from his thoughts. After rounding a corner through a choked alleyway, he emerged into another narrow passage.

A sudden vibration in his pocket sent a jolt of unease through him. He fished out the device engraved with intricate runes - a long-distance communicator.

"What's the problem, Alfred?" he answered the call with his usual gruffness, his voice roughened by years of exposure to the harsh elements and harsh realities of his life.

"Sir Tyen, you need to get away from wherever you are, as fast as possible," the voice on the other end crackled with urgency.

"Explain yourself," Tyen's voice hardened with seriousness. He knew the urgency in Alfred's voice wasn't a light matter.

"She foresaw your death," was the cryptic reply. The hairs on the back of Tyen's neck prickled. "She" – a single word that held immense power and a sliver of fear within the criminal underworld. He knew better than to question it.

Tyen whipped around, his gaze instinctively scanning the desolate landscape. There. A flicker of movement in the distance. The young boy he'd just assaulted stood there, his amethyst eyes gleaming with an unnatural coldness in the swirling snow.

His eyes then caught sight of something hurtling towards him at breakneck speed, but before Tyen could even react, a glint of metal flashed in the dim light.

A dagger, glinting with a deadly purpose, pierced his neck, the blade finding its mark with chilling precision.

-Swoosh!

-Splash!

"Arckkk!," a choked gasp escaped Tyen's lips, a mouthful of blood erupting from the wound. He crumpled to the ground, his life draining away with each ragged breath. The world blurred around him, the harsh wind replaced by a chilling silence.

The boy, his expression impassive, walked towards the fallen man, ignoring his desperate attempts to staunch the flow of blood with trembling, blood-slicked fingers.

"Pathetic," the boy muttered as he knelt beside the body, his voice devoid of emotion despite the weight of his actions. He moved with a practiced efficiency, carefully extracting the dagger from Tyen's neck.

-Gush!

A crimson gush followed, staining the pristine snow a gruesome red. The boy then retrieved a small plastic bottle from his ragged clothing.

He positioned the bottle near the wound, the crimson tide filling the container much faster than he anticipated. It took a while, but eventually, the bottle brimmed with Tyen's blood, a horrifying trophy in the boy's pale hand.

The boy released the lifeless body with a dull thud. He stood up, the bottle clutched tightly in his hand, the crimson liquid sloshing within.

He glanced around, his senses on high alert, searching for any sign of pursuit. Satisfied, he weaved through the labyrinthine alleyways, his bare feet surprisingly nimble on the icy cobbles.

He arrived at an unassuming building, its iron door scarred and dented. With a swift kick, he shattered the rusted lock and slipped inside. He bolted the door shut behind him, the metallic clang echoing in the confined space.

-Clank!

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a few flickering candles. A dusty table stood in the center, its surface marred with countless nicks and scratches. Upon it sat three other bottles, each filled to the brim with the same crimson liquid – offerings from previous encounters.

The boy placed his bottle on the table, the four bottles forming a morbid quartet. He traced a finger across the cool glass, a small smile playing on his lips.

"It's time," he whispered.