Ten years after Himmel the Hero died.
Ten years was nothing to an elf.
To a dwarf, it was a brief chapter in a long saga.
To a human, it was the difference between youth and the first gray hairs of middle age.
To Dante, it was an eternity of hunger, discipline, and reinvention.
The mountain pass known as Kaltweg had earned its reputation as a demon hunting ground. Merchants avoided it. Soldiers feared it. The Imperial Mages had declared it a "Class-B Hazard Zone" and posted warning signs at every entrance.
But Dante walked through it like he owned it.
The wind cut sharp and cold against his face, carrying the scent of pine, snow, and something older. Something that reeked of malice and ancient hunger. He paused at the mouth of a cave, his crimson eyes scanning the darkness within.
[Demonic Presence Detected]
[Target: Mid-Rank Demon]
[Threat Level: B]
[Estimated XP Value: 8,500-12,000]
B-rank, Dante noted. Ten years ago, this thing would have killed me in seconds.
He stepped into the cave.
The demon was waiting for him. It had taken the form of an elderly man; a grandfather figure with kind eyes and a warm smile. It sat on a rock near a small fire, warming its hands as if it were nothing more than a lost traveler seeking shelter from the cold.
"Ah, a visitor," it said, its voice gentle and welcoming. "Please, come sit with me. The night is cold, and I have no one to share stories with. It gets so lonely up here in the mountains."
Dante stopped ten meters away. He tilted his head, studying the creature with the detached curiosity of a researcher examining a specimen.
"That form," he said. "You're mimicking someone specific, aren't you? Someone you killed."
The demon's smile didn't waver. "I don't know what you mean, young man. I'm just an old hermit who—"
"His name was probably something like Heinrich or Gerhard. A traveling merchant, maybe. You caught him on this pass about... three months ago? His caravan was found at the base of the cliff. The authorities assumed it was an accident."
Silence.
The fire crackled.
The demon's expression didn't change, but something shifted in its eyes; a flicker of calculation, of reassessment.
"You're well-informed," it said, dropping the tremor from its voice. "And you don't smell like a mage. You don't smell human at all, actually. What are you?"
"Someone who's been studying your kind for a decade."
Dante raised his hand. Shadows coiled around his fingers like living serpents, dense and hungry.
[Skill Activated: Shadow Bind]
The darkness exploded outward, tendrils of pure shadow slamming into the demon before it could react. They wrapped around its limbs, its torso, its throat, and pinning it against the cave wall with enough force to crack the stone.
The grandfather facade shattered. The demon's true form emerged; elongated limbs, skin like cracked leather, a face that was more void than flesh. It thrashed against the bindings, its voice rising to a shriek.
"What is this?! This isn't magic! This isn't— "
"You're right," Dante said, walking closer. "It's not magic. At least, not the kind you understand."
He stopped in front of the demon, close enough to see his own reflection in its hollow eyes.
"I've killed forty-three of your kind in the last ten years," he continued, his tone conversational. "Lesser demons, mostly. A few mid-ranks like yourself. I've learned a lot about how you think, how you hunt, how you lie. But there's one thing I still don't fully understand."
The demon snarled, still struggling. "Kill me or release me, creature! I won't be interrogated by— "
"Why do you keep trying to mimic emotions you don't feel?"
The demon froze.
"It's not just for hunting," Dante said. "You could lure prey with much simpler methods. Fear. Promises of power. Direct threats. But your kind always defaults to love, grief, loneliness. Emotions that require genuine connection to understand. Why?"
For a long moment, the demon stared at him. Then, slowly, it began to laugh; a hollow, rattling sound that echoed through the cave.
"You really don't know?" it rasped. "You hunt us, but you don't understand the first thing about us. We mimic emotions because that's all we are. Echoes. Reflections. We were created to fill the void the Demon King left behind, and the void is hungry. It wants what it cannot have."
Dante considered this. "So you're saying demons are fundamentally incomplete. That you mimic human connection because you're incapable of creating your own."
"I'm saying that we are the absence of everything you take for granted. And that's why we'll never stop hunting you. Because your warmth is the only thing that makes us feel real. "
The demon lunged. Desperate attempt to break free.
Dante's hand was faster.
[Skill Activated: Crimson Execution]
A blade of condensed blood materialized in his grip, and he drove it through the demon's core in a single, precise motion. The creature didn't scream. It simply... stopped. Its body dissolved into mana and ash, scattering on the cave floor like black snow.
[Mid-Rank Demon Eliminated]
[+9,200 XP]
[Level Up! Level 47 → Level 48]
[Skill Points Available: 3]
[Blood Essence Absorbed: Moderate]
Dante dismissed the notifications and sheathed his blade, a motion that was pure habit now. The weapon dissolved back into his bloodstream, ready to be summoned again at a moment's notice.
He walked out of the cave and into the pale morning light.
The sun touched his skin, and he felt the familiar warning tingle—but no pain. Not anymore.
[Sunlight Resistance: 67%]
[Current HP Decay Rate: Negligible]
It had taken five years to unlock the Daywalker evolution path. Five years of grinding, experimenting, and pushing the system to its limits. He still wasn't immune to sunlight, but he could function in it. He could pass as human during the day.
[Level 48], he thought, looking down at the valley below. And still no closer to understanding why I'm here.
The world had changed in the decade since Himmel's death. The Era of Peace was settling into something permanent. Kingdoms were rebuilding. Trade routes were reopening. A new generation was growing up without the shadow of the Demon King hanging over them.
But the demons hadn't disappeared. They had simply gotten smarter, quieter, more careful. They hid in the cracks of civilization, picking off travelers and isolated villages. The world was forgetting to be afraid, and the demons were taking advantage.
Dante had made it his mission to remind them.
He pulled out a worn map from his coat and studied it. His next destination was marked with a small circle: the Holy City of Äußerst, seat of the Goddess's church and home to some of the most powerful clerics on the continent.
He had heard rumors. A former member of the Hero's Party—the priest Heiter—had retired there after Himmel's funeral. The man was reportedly drinking himself into an early grave, haunted by survivor's guilt and the weight of his own mortality.
Heiter, Dante thought. In the original story, he's the one who takes in Fern. He's the one who asks Frieren to teach her magic. He's a pivotal figure in everything that comes next.
But that was still years away. Right now, Heiter was just a broken old man trying to find a reason to keep living.
Dante folded the map and started walking.
He wasn't sure why he wanted to meet Heiter. Maybe it was curiosity—the desire to see a character he'd once watched on a screen, now made flesh and blood. Maybe it was strategy, the understanding that connections to the Hero's Party could be valuable in the years to come.
Or maybe it was something simpler.
Maybe he just wanted to talk to someone who understood what it meant to outlive the people you cared about.
The vampire and the priest. Both of them caught between life and death. Both of them searching for meaning in an era that had moved on without them.
Ten years down, Dante thought as the sun climbed higher. Eighteen more until the main story begins.
He had time.
The question was whether he could stay human long enough to use it.