Up until now, Belial had always clung to the hope of returning to the demon realm—home. More specifically, to Yuma.
He used to think it was the only demonic planet left in existence. A ruined world of fire-veined canyons and blood-hued skies. But after reading the Prince's entries, learning there were others—whole worlds, long forgotten, filled with demons and stories that no longer reached the stars—it changed something in him.
He wasn't sure if it was hope or dread.
Still, Yuma was his. No matter how far he drifted from it, the name weighed inside his chest like an anchor.
But the night was wearing thin.
He wanted to keep reading, but his body had other plans. His eyes burned with fatigue, his limbs ached from training, and the outcrop was beginning to lose its warmth.
He packed up the notebook and descended the winding path that led back into the forge, then through the corridor into their shared living space.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft blue flicker of a dying wall lantern. Rose was already asleep—curled near the far edge of the massive bed, one leg draped over the sheets, her short black hair splayed messily across the pillow. She looked peaceful, even fragile in a way, though Belial had learned better than to mistake softness for weakness.
She was draped in a loose shirt that wasn't hers and lay sprawled like a queen lounging in a fallen temple. Her gun rested beside her, close enough to reach in an instant, its long silver barrel glinting faintly in the light.
Belial frowned.
He had never held a gun before. Never needed to. His blade and battlearts had always been enough. But ever since Rose joined him, that gun had been in every fight, every escape, every near-death dodge. It was like an extension of her arm—and, in some ways, her lies.
He didn't trust her. Not fully. Not yet.
Maybe never.
So, driven by a mix of suspicion and curiosity, he crossed the room and knelt beside the bed, keeping his movements quiet. Rose didn't stir. She was breathing slowly, steadily. If she was awake, she was doing a good job pretending otherwise.
He reached toward the gun.
It was beautiful—sleek silver craftsmanship, long-barreled and cold to the touch. Ancient, but meticulously cared for. He wondered, briefly, where she got it. What she had done to earn it, or steal it.
He curled his fingers around the grip and lifted—
Or tried to.
His body pitched forward instead, the world lurching like the floor had vanished. Gravity flipped for a moment, as if he'd stepped off a ledge into an invisible drop. His hand slipped, and he stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the bedframe.
The gun hadn't moved.
He blinked and tried again, slower this time. His hand closed firmly around it. He pulled.
Nothing.
It was as if the gun had been glued in place. No—not glued. Rooted. Anchored to the bed itself by something unseen. He tugged again, putting more force into it, but it didn't budge. His arm strained. Still nothing.
A technique? A Talent? Maybe something subtler.
His brow furrowed as he crouched, staring at the weapon.
"...What the hell are you using on this thing?" he muttered under his breath.
What was it? Ether-tethered security? Or something worse—maybe the gun only responded to her. Maybe it knew who was touching it.
He gave it one final, firm pull, gritting his teeth.
Still no movement.
Belial sat back and sighed, rubbing his hand. The metal hadn't just been heavy—it had felt wrong, like it had rejected him on a level he couldn't explain.
He glanced at Rose.
Still asleep. Still breathing steadily. No smirk, no warning, no trap sprung. Just the ghost of a faint smile on her lips.
Was she mocking him even now?
He stared at her for a moment longer. His gaze traced the curve of her jaw, the strange smoothness of her porcelain skin in the moonlight, the way her hand lightly rested near the gun's scope as though by instinct.
Who the hell was she?
He didn't know. And that unsettled him more than the gun's resistance.
Belial stood, shook his head, and walked to his side of the bed. He didn't bother trying to cover her gun or hide it anymore. Whatever enchantment she'd woven around it, it wasn't going anywhere.
He dropped onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, back turned to her, eyes toward the cracked ceiling above.
"Stupid gun," he muttered under his breath.
Sleep took him before he realized his hand was still faintly shaking.
...
The sun had dipped just below the edge of the jagged peaks, casting long shadows into the training chamber below. The golden light filtered through broken arches and danced across the stone floor, giving the massive room a hazy, molten glow. The perfect hour for blood and sweat.
Belial moved like smoke.
He ducked beneath the sweeping arc of the General's colossal Jian, the blade cleaving through the air with a terrifying hum. His feet kissed the floor, barely touching before he vanished again—Bloodless Passage. A ghostly shimmer trailed behind him as he blinked from one point to another in a blur of shadow and ether.
Brain.
His curved blade aimed for the temple—missed.
Throat.
Too shallow.
Shoulder.
Sparks flew. No cut.
Heart. Lung. Stomach. Liver.
Vital points, one after another, but the General—statuesque and relentless—refused to fall. It was like fighting a god made of obsidian and iron.
Belial skidded back, breathing heavy, sweat dripping down his jaw. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. He was faster now, stronger. His command over Bloodless Passage had improved, letting him pivot through enemy strikes with almost intangible movement. But mastery was another thing entirely. The timing, the rhythm, the moment of risk—it still danced just out of reach.
"Hey, Shadow Boy!"
The familiar voice echoed down from the stairwell, loud and smug.
Belial groaned mid-duck and barely avoided decapitation. He leapt back as the General paused, returning to its idle stance, blade upright like a ceremonial guardian.
"Can't you not distract me when I'm about to die?" he shouted upward.
Rose leaned over the railing, chin resting in one hand, legs lazily swinging behind her. Her dark hair caught the fading light in glints of midnight. She was barefoot again. Of course she was.
"Relax. You're dramatic," she said, smirking. "You're getting better anyway, Shadow Boy. Looks like your spooky step finally makes you look cool instead of like a twitchy bird."
He rolled his eyes. Ever since she saw him use Silent Passage—a variation of Bloodless Passage that moved without sound—she'd started calling him Shadow Boy like he was some stray cat she found in an alley.
"You want something, C.C.?" he called back.
That made her groan. Couch Commander. His own nickname for her. Fitting. She was a specialist at doing nothing—except offering snide commentary and saving him with suspiciously perfect sniper shots from the comfort of the stairs.
"You make me sound lazy," she muttered, pouting.
"You are lazy."
"I'm strategic," she corrected with a grin. "And observant. So I have a question—where'd you learn how to use that sword?"
Belial paused.
Instead of answering, he flicked his blade down and pointed it up toward her like an accusation.
"Where'd you get that gun?"
That shut her up.
For once, Rose had no smart comment. She blinked, caught off guard. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again. A beat passed.
Finally, she sighed, stood up, and dusted off her pants. "Tch. I was just trying to warn you. We've got company."
"What kind of company?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Something's down the mountain," she said, already walking up the next flight of stairs. "Didn't get a good look. Go check it out."
Belial raised a brow. "Why don't you check it out?"
"You're the man," she called back with a shrug, disappearing with a wave of her hand.
He grumbled.
Laziness disguised as femininity. Classic Rose. Still, he knew her well enough by now to know she wouldn't have mentioned it unless it mattered.
He sheathed his blade, heading toward the bath chamber first. He wanted to rinse off the stench of near-death and shattered dignity before diving headfirst into whatever fresh nightmare was waiting outside.
Steam drifted through the stone hall as he neared the chamber. The air was warm and humid, laced with minerals and something faintly old.
he walked passed a jagged crystalline—
—and froze.
There, in the shimmering pool, was Rose.
Not the sniping, nickname-hurling nuisance he'd grown used to, but a vision of impossible grace. Her skin gleamed like polished ivory in the water's reflection. The steam curled around her body, softening the curves of her figure, delicate yet dangerous. Her short dark hair clung to her neck, and she sat half-turned away, shoulders bare and glistening.
For a moment—just a moment—Belial forgot that he didn't like her.
Her voice broke the spell.
"You keep staring like you want me," she said lazily, glancing over her shoulder with a glint in her eye. "Want a bite, Shadow Boyo?"
Belial's face lit up red.
"I—I wasn't—! You—You're in the—!"
He spun on his heel and nearly tripped over a rock. "I'm going to go get food! Something to eat!"
A laugh followed him as he bolted out of the room, echoing in the corridors.
A few minutes later, Belial stood at the edge of the cliff, near the mountain's edge. Below, the winds stirred with uneasy stillness.
The keyhole led down the jagged descent—the route they'd cleared weeks ago. Normally, he'd leap down without a second thought.
But tonight… something felt off.
The air was heavier.
Thicker.
Belial stood still, letting the chill run over his skin. He glanced down into the shadows below.
A familiar, haunting feeling stirred in his gut. One he hadn't felt in months. Something not quite memory. Not quite fear.
But close enough.
He leapt.
And something witnessed him fall.