The sun rose behind a blood-red haze that morning, casting a sickly glow across the training field. The air felt heavy—tense. Even before the horn sounded, Sir Aldren could sense that something was wrong. He was sharpening his blade when a messenger, his armor scratched and his face pale with dust and fear, stumbled into the courtyard.
"Sir Aldren! Sir Aldren!" he shouted breathlessly, falling to one knee. "The northern border—it's been breached! The Demon King's army is attacking!"
The clang of the knight's sword hitting the stone echoed through the air. Aldren turned sharply, his voice firm. "How many?"
"Thousands," the messenger gasped. "They came out of the mountains before dawn. The outposts can barely hold!"
By then, the hero had already arrived, his expression grim. "Then we don't have time," he said. "Tell me where to go."
Aldren nodded. "The northern pass. Gather your gear—we ride within the hour."
The hero clenched his fist, the same fire that burned in his heart since he arrived in this world rekindling once more. "Understood."
---
The journey to the border took nearly a day, their horses running until their flanks were lathered in sweat. When they arrived, the smell of iron and smoke filled the air. The once-proud watchtowers stood broken, their banners torn to ash. The battlefield stretched as far as the eye could see—bodies of both men and demons scattered across the plains.
"By the gods," one of the knights whispered.
Sir Aldren drew his blade. "No time for mourning. We fight."
As soon as they entered the fray, the chaos swallowed them whole. The Demon King's army was unlike any they had faced before—creatures with armor fused to their skin, their roars like thunder. The hero cut through the first wave, his sword glowing faintly with the holy energy granted by the priestess.
He could feel the burn in his muscles, the ache in his bones, but he pressed on. Every strike mattered. Every enemy he felled brought them one step closer to surviving.
Sir Aldren fought beside him, his blade precise and merciless. "Hold the line!" he shouted. "Don't let them break through!"
The battle raged for hours that became days.
On the second day, reinforcements arrived, but the demons did not relent. On the third, the rivers ran red. On the fourth, even the strongest knights began to falter.
And still—the Demon King did not appear.
---
By the fifth day, the battlefield was nothing but smoke and ash.
The hero sat beside the remains of a barricade, blood running down his arm, his sword chipped from endless fighting. Around him, the wounded groaned, and the exhausted knights tended to the dying.
"It's over," Sir Aldren said, standing among the ruins. "We've pushed them back beyond the border. For now."
"For now…" the hero repeated quietly, looking toward the horizon where the black clouds gathered. "But something's not right."
Aldren turned to him. "What do you mean?"
"The Demon King never showed himself," the hero said. "Not even once. He sent his army to die here. Why?"
The knight frowned, but before he could answer, the distant sound of hooves echoed through the camp. A rider approached, his horse collapsing the moment he reached them. The man slid to the ground, clutching a blood-stained scroll.
"A message—from the palace," he gasped. "The Demon King—he's there!"
The hero's heart dropped. "What?"
"The Demon King and his knights—attacked the capital three days ago!" the messenger cried. "The palace is under siege!"
Sir Aldren's face turned pale. "Then this… was a diversion."
The hero was already moving, his fatigue forgotten. "We ride now!"
Aldren called for the remaining knights. "Leave the wounded in the care of the healers! Everyone else—on your horses! The palace must not fall!"
---
They rode without rest, without food, through the night and into the next day. When the white spires of the capital finally came into view, smoke rose from the city.
The gates were half-broken, the bodies of guards and demons scattered along the road. The air was thick with the scent of blood and fire.
The hero leapt from his horse and ran through the palace courtyard. The sound of battle was gone. The silence was worse than the war itself.
"Sir Aldren," the hero said, breathless, "where is everyone?"
Aldren scanned the scene, his grip on his sword tightening. "Stay alert."
They pushed through the main hall—and froze.
Dozens of bodies lay across the marble floor. Soldiers, priests, servants… all motionless, though not a single one bore a fatal wound. It was as if they had simply fallen asleep in the midst of chaos.
And there, at the far end of the throne room, stood the Priestess.
Her golden veil shimmered faintly in the dim light, untouched by the dust and blood around her.
"Your Majesty!" Sir Aldren called, hurrying forward. "Are you hurt?"
She turned slowly toward them. Her voice was calm—too calm. "No. I am unharmed."
The hero stepped closer, scanning the room. "What happened here? Where's the Demon King?"
"He and his knights have retreated," the Priestess said softly. "They left the moment they heard you were returning from the border."
The hero blinked. "They… left?"
"Yes," she said, her tone perfectly serene. "When word reached them that the Hero lived and was riding back to the capital, they vanished. Their army scattered into the wind."
The hero looked around again. "But… all these people. They're unconscious."
"They were struck by a spell," the Priestess said. "A sleeping curse, perhaps. Nothing more."
Sir Aldren knelt beside one of the fallen guards, checking for signs of life. "He's breathing… shallow, but alive."
The Priestess nodded. "They will awaken by morning."
The hero studied her, unease prickling the back of his neck. She stood so still, so composed amid the ruin—her veil spotless, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Not a single trace of fear. Not even a tremor in her voice.
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to trust that she was telling the truth. But something in her presence—something beneath the mask—felt different.
"Your Majesty," he said carefully, "did the Demon King… say anything before he left?"
There was a pause.
Then, the Priestess tilted her head ever so slightly. "He said only this: 'We are not enemies yet.'"
A chill ran down the hero's spine. "What does that mean?"
The Priestess did not answer.
Instead, she turned her gaze toward the shattered windows, where the dying light of dusk streamed in. "You have done well, Hero. You protected the border, saved countless lives. Rest now. The kingdom stands—thanks to you."
Her words were soft, but hollow—like a melody played from memory, not feeling.
The hero wanted to ask more. He wanted to demand the truth. But Sir Aldren placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come," he said quietly. "We'll see to the wounded."
---
Hours later, after the healers had tended to the injured and the bodies were carried away, the palace grew silent again. The hero sat alone in his chamber, staring out the window at the moonlit city.
He could still hear the Priestess's calm voice in his head, see the way she stood untouched amid the ruin.
None of it made sense.
If the Demon King truly invaded, why retreat without a fight? Why leave everyone alive? And most of all—why was the Priestess unharmed, unafraid, as though she had expected it all?
He leaned back against the chair, his thoughts a tangle of doubt and unease.
"Why didn't he kill her?" he whispered to himself. "If he was here—if he had the chance—why did he stop?"
The question gnawed at him, unanswered.
He closed his eyes, but rest did not come. Images of the sleeping soldiers, the pale moonlight on the Priestess's veil, and her serene, unreadable tone haunted his mind.
Somewhere deep inside, a quiet fear began to grow.
The war might have ended that day… but it no longer felt like a victory.
It felt like the beginning of something far more dangerous—something neither the Demon King nor the Priestess wanted him to understand.
And in the silence of the night, beneath the watchful moon, the Hero could not shake the feeling that he had just stepped into the middle of a game he didn't yet know he was playing.