The sun lingered low over the forest, staining the treetops gold as if reluctant to leave. Light filtered through the branches in fractured beams, warming the earth and the narrow clearing where a single cabin rested. Birds chirped freely, unaware. Leaves whispered as the wind passed through them. The world, for this fleeting hour, remembered how to be gentle.
The cabin was humble—weathered wood, a stone chimney darkened by years of smoke, a door repaired so many times its scars had become part of its design. It was not meant to impress. It was meant to disappear.
Tujin walked toward it alone.
He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his red hair tied back with a leather cord. Stubble lined his jaw, and his eyes carried the sharp awareness of someone who never truly rested. A sword hung at his right hip, its grip worn smooth by callused hands. In each hand he carried a bucket—one filled with fresh river water, the other heavy with fish still gleaming silver in the dying light.
An Elemental Swordsman.
A husband.
But here, beyond the reach of kingdoms and academies, he was simply a father coming home.
As he stepped into the clearing, his pace slowed. His eyes swept the treeline, instincts rising like a tide. The forest felt thinner than it should have. The birdsong hesitated. Beneath the scent of pine and soil lingered something faintly bitter, like rust left too long in the rain.
His thumb brushed the guard of his sword.
Then the cabin door burst open.
"Papa!"
A small figure with wild red hair crashed into his legs, laughter ringing out bright and fearless. Tujin laughed, setting the buckets aside just in time to scoop his youngest son into his arms.
Shujinko—five years old, eyes blazing with life, already clutching a wooden practice sword nearly as tall as he was.
"There's my little swordsman," Tujin said, ruffling the boy's hair.
Shujinko grinned, eyes bright with unfiltered joy. "Did you fight the river again?"
"I won," Tujin replied.
Shujinko smiled harder than ever before, swinging the wooden blade dangerously close to his own head.
From the doorway, another boy watched in quiet observation.
Tokochi was eight, his white hair catching the sunlight like snow. He stood straighter than most boys his age, eyes thoughtful—too thoughtful. He met his father's gaze and nodded once, an adult gesture learned far too early.
Behind him stood Shuza.
She wore a pale gown, simple and flowing, her long white hair loose down her back. When her eyes met Tujin's, the world narrowed. No words passed between them, but the memory did—the reason they had fled civilization after Tokochi's birth. The reason this cabin existed at all.
They never spoke of it.
Inside, warmth filled the cabin. Shuza prepared the fish while Tujin showed Shujinko how to steady his stance. Tokochi watched closely, memorizing each correction, each breath. Laughter rose. The fire crackled. For a while, they were allowed to forget the world beyond the trees.
Then the fire shuddered.
The warmth curdled.
The air thickened, pressing inward from every direction, heavy with something unseen but unmistakable. Breathing became effort. Each inhale felt judged, as if the space itself resented being filled.
A crawling sensation slithered down Tujin's spine. He'd felt this before—He knew what this was.
Malice.
Not heat. Not cold.
A presence steeped in hatred sharpened by intelligence—a wrongness that tasted of fear and sorrow intertwined.
"Shuza," Tujin said quietly, steel entering his voice. "Take them. Upstairs. Now."
The door exploded inward.
Wood splintered as three figures stepped through the wreckage, shadows clinging to them like living things. Long scythes scraped against the floor, their blades warped and blackened, veins of darkness pulsing like exposed arteries.
The Death Bringers.
At the forefront loomed Varketh, the Reaper of Dread. Its form jittered unnaturally, speed coiling beneath its skin as it inhaled deeply, tasting the terror blooming in the room. Fear fed its Vein of Malice, black veins lighting beneath its flesh.
To the left drifted Malrune, the Whisper of Sorrow, its body half-formed, flickering as whispers seeped into the walls—echoes of lost voices, of regret and mourning.
Behind them stood Kaelrix, the Butcher of Hope. Massive. Deliberate. Soul Shards were embedded along its scythe and spine, glowing faintly. The pressure around it was suffocating, final.
Tujin drew his sword.
The Boru of Fire ignited.
Flame roared to life along the blade, heat crashing outward in defiance. The air screamed as fire met malice, pushing back the oppressive weight just enough to breathe.
"Upstairs!" he roared.
Shuza grabbed the boys and ran as Varketh blurred forward, its scythe tearing through the table in a scream of splintering wood.
Cortar.
Tujin swept his blade in a wide arc. Fire detonated outward, ripping through Varketh's shadow and tearing chunks of darkness from its form. The demon recoiled—but laughed.
Malrune moved.
The cabin twisted. Walls stretched. Tujin saw Shuza standing behind him, bloodied, calling his name. Sorrow surged.
He snarled and forced his focus forward.
Sasu.
His thrust pierced Malrune's chest, shattering a Soul Shard. The shard screamed as it cracked, releasing corrupted essence that etched black sigils across the walls—Corruption Marks spreading like infection.
Kaelrix stepped forward.
It burned a shard.
Hope—stolen, twisted—flooded its body. Wounds sealed instantly. The pressure intensified, crushing flame and will alike. The Boru's resonance dulled under spreading corruption.
Sorasu.
Steel met scythe. Sparks and fire exploded. Kaelrix's blade bit deep, carving black veins into Tujin's side. Pain flared, invasive and cold.
Anger surged.
The demons drank it.
"For them," Tujin growled.
Chap.
A vertical inferno split the room. Varketh was cleaved apart, Soul Shards scattering like dying stars. Malrune screamed as illusion shattered.
Still, they came.
Upstairs, the boys heard everything.
Steel.
Fire.
Their father's voice—unbroken.
Tujin fought until his blade chipped, until flame sputtered beneath corruption. He burned the last of his strength holding the stairwell.
They overwhelmed him.
But even as scythes tore into flesh, he never stopped swinging.
Silence followed.
The pressure lifted.
Kaelrix ascended the stairs.
It did not kill Shuza.
It seized Tokochi.
Shujinko screamed as white hair vanished into shadow.
The Death Bringers withdrew, purpose fulfilled.
They left ash.
They left silence.
And they left behind a grieving mother, and a child whose fire would one day hunt the darkness that took everything from him.
As the Death Bringers vanished into the night, a figure watched from the shadows. Prescence could be felt a mile away. Its Pale, lifeless skin stretched over a face carved with cruelty, and a cold, malicious smirk curled its lips.
Its eyes burned with intelligence and a hunger that seemed to consume the very air. Every movement radiated power—not just destructive, but absolute, the authority of a ruler over chaos itself.
This was no mere demon. This had to be the very leader of the Death Bringers, the embodiment of annihilation.
It was pure evil.