Amid the ruins, fire raged across the land, consuming everything in its path. Smoke thickened the air, laced with the metallic scent of blood. Despite the heat, Alex sat frozen on the ground, emotionless—as if he had witnessed a nightmare far beyond imagination.
Tears streamed down his face. The horror he had seen burned into his memory, blackening it with darkness. His entire world had crumbled. The only thing left within him was rage, bitterness, and hatred toward the abominations.
"If only I was a bit stronger... If only I was strong enough, I could have saved everyone." His voice cracked as he cried out, "Mom! Lyra! All of them could've been saved if only I was strong enough!"
He choked back a sob, bowing his head in shame and agony, unable to deny the brutal truth of what he had just lived through. He longed for the power to turn back time—to undo the blood, the fire, the loss. Maybe then... maybe he could have done something.
A moment later, he heard the sound of running footsteps. His body tensed, assuming it was an abomination—but as the footsteps grew louder, he realized they were human.
"Hey, boy, it's okay now," the leader of the group said, extending a hand toward him.
Alex glared at him with murderous intent, fury flaring in his eyes. He wanted to vent his rage, his despair, everything.
"Oh, you've come," he said coldly. "Indeed, you've come at the perfect time."
He breathed heavily, veins bulging with rage. Then he shouted:
"If you had come earlier, none of this would've happened!"
"What were you training for?!" he screamed. "Tell me—did you come to save ghosts? The dead?!"
"You're murderers... every last one of you!"
He broke down again, tears crashing down his cheeks.
"Go away!" he cried. "What are you waiting for? To bury the dead?"
He laughed bitterly, voice hollow.
"Never mind... that's all weaklings like me are good for anyway. You can take your leave."
Then he stood, clenched his fists, and screamed to the sky:
"Every last one of you will pay. Every last one of you will suffer the consequences. I will—
I will erase you all!"
Silence fell. The hunters stared in stunned disbelief.
A boy—barely eight years old—was standing in front of them, not in tears or fear, but in rage. None of them wanted to admit what they saw. Why should they? In all their years as hunters, they had never witnessed a child with such fury in his eyes.
This moment shattered everything they thought they knew. In a normal world, a child would be weeping... broken... terrified.
But this boy?
This boy stood burning with wrath.
---
And then, Alex turned to walk away.
But before he could take a step, Jasper Grimwood, the leader of the hunters, finally snapped back to reality. In a swift motion, he stepped forward and tapped two fingers against the side of Alex's neck.
The boy collapsed unconscious.
Jasper let out a low breath.
"Tough boy... I can't believe what I just witnessed. This is beyond anything I understand... I guess?"
With Alex unconscious, the team began sweeping the area—searching for survivors, clues, anything useful. They found nothing. No signs of life, and no trace of abominations lingering nearby.
They packed up what little they could recover... and moved on.
It was time to report the incident to the higher-ups—and deliver Alex to the orphanage.
---
Deepenbug Orphanage Home.
But this wasn't a normal orphanage.
Behind its iron gates, children were trained not with lullabies and games... but with sorcery and structure. This place forged future demon hunters—ruthlessly and efficiently.
---
When the team arrived, Jasper personally carried Alex into the orphanage. Waiting for him at the door was Mistress Mary Graves, the head of the orphanage.
Jasper gently passed the boy to her arms.
"I'd like you to treat this child like your own. Like... a brother," he said softly.
Mary raised an eyebrow, confused.
"What do you mean by that, Jasper? Are you... related to him?" she asked, her voice low, almost shy.
Jasper quickly shook his head.
"No, don't get me wrong. I'm not family. I just... feel indebted to him. That's all."
He paused, slightly flustered. "I don't have any connection to the boy."
You might wonder why their conversation sounded so informal—almost playful.
Well, that's because they cared for each other.
Mary Graves and Jasper Grimwood were lovers, planning to marry. If not for her duty to the orphanage and his frequent missions, they would've wed long ago.
Mary nodded gently.
"Okay."
Jasper let out a quiet sigh of relief, thankful she didn't push further.
"Then I'll be going," he said, stepping forward. He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
"Goodbye."
Mary's face flushed red—not from anger, but from embarrassment.
"You pervert," she muttered under her breath, hiding a small smile.