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Chapter 1 - A hero's descend

It was like she was still there.

"It was a long-fought battle. Some friends were lost, some never came back..."

She thought of it as the best day of her life.

"But Neil and his team had slain the Demon King!"

There was laughter, cheers, gifts. Peace.

"Now let us take a drink and wish these two a happy ever after."

Then why? Why did it all turn to dust?

"Neil, what is the meaning of this?"

It was fast, too precise, no emotion.

"Mom! Dad!"

The screams of haunted guests as their loved ones dropped in front of them.

"Stop him now!"

They put up their best effort.

"Ugh... why?"

But who could kill the Child of Prophecy?

Erica: Neil, speak with me... ugh!

He gripped her throat.

Neil: Now I'll clip your wings.

She was powerless against his iron grip. 

Neil: Now be a good little devil and die.

Then there was darkness.

Days later

Erica raced in the shadow of the night. At this hour, most people would be asleep; those that weren't would be tired. The perfect opportunity. She launched from roof to roof, barely making a thud under her sandals, and allowed the wind to rush past her ebony cloak that covered the entirety of her upper body, leaving only brown pants and boots.

The cool air never failed to calm her pain. And she would need it for what she did next.

Perched on the edge of a roof, she found her location: a prison. Armored troops patrolled it with spears and swords sheathed. Her plan was to break in without too much hassle and steal Neil's journal, which had been taken there for inspection. Neil always kept it with him, writing every victory and loss he encountered. But because it was his diary, he encrypted it with an enchantment that only he and Eris knew to break easily.

Erica made her move. She lifted her right arm, revealing five black sigils that formed tiny swirling patterns like whirlpools. She tapped the bottom of both her shoes with that hand, and the tattoos raced past her body and "leapt" to the soles. Two sigils for each sandal. She kept the last one at the tip of her arm and fell down.

The sigils created a small vacuum of air that softened her landing. Then, with a single thought, air from beneath propelled her like a silent jet thruster. She hovered past the guards out of sight and made her way to the back door where security was lighter. She picked up a rock along the way, placed the last sigil on it, and threw it. The sigil shifted its trajectory to make it seem like it came from the opposite direction. The guards took note and searched for the source while she slipped past them without a sound.

The halls of the prison were made of brick with cracks where moss grew. This prison was once used to house common crooks before they were moved to bigger facilities. But ever since one incident where all the criminals escaped by simply digging, it proved too fragile to hold them. Instead of renovating it, they built another prison with the same purpose en route to the Capital City of Thraw. This place was now mostly used as extra storage. Because of its insignificance, it was bought numerous times and finally landed in the hands of Sir Ernest, who used it to hold evidence from the massacre.

Past the empty halls and the cells with stocks of objects and ornaments, she chanced upon a waiting room where she hid before being spotted. The building was split into two zones with a strange hallway on one side slicing through the square structure. One zone held meaningless goods while the other held more valuable items—which, of course, was the only part rebuilt for defense and the most heavily guarded.

Erica now realized she might not be able to steal the diary without a fight. To not overcomplicate things, she took a coin and snapped two sigils—one from each sole—onto it and rolled it across the floor. It clinked loudly, drawing attention. One guard approached it while the others paid no heed. Then the tattoos on it glowed, and the coin zoomed toward the soldier's armor, striking his eye. His scream caught the others' attention, and some followed to inspect while others kept guard.

Erica: (Really not like the ones outside, huh?)

Erica took the chance, subconsciously removed the tattoos from the coin, and reapplied them to her right arm. Then she whipped them back to her feet and raced past the group that had gathered. She catapulted with the pulse of the foot sigils against the two guards standing before the entryway to the valuable side of the building. The tattoos beneath her feet jumped from her to the chests of the knights' armor and pulled.

Rushing air pushed them off their feet and sent them flying a few steps ahead. She ran with the tattoos reattached to her soles, not minding the guards now chasing her. Spears were thrown, barely grazing her as she hovered from side to side and turned a corner.

An alarm rang, and ahead she saw more guards. She emitted her tattoos further, which thrust her to the ceiling, where she pushed off to dash past them. Up ahead, she saw a door covered by another guard. She unbuckled a knife from her pouch, plastered a sigil on it, and jabbed it toward the guard's helmet. It was parried by a spear, and she felt a sharp pain from behind.

The guards from before had caught up, swords raised—one sliced into her back. The hallway was now crowded with them, with her sandwiched between countless foes to her left and one strong opponent to her right.

Erica: Move. I do not want to harm you.

Guard: Rich talk coming from the scandal who kidnapped the Hero of Phoscyp!

Erica: I didn't!

Guard: Ha! You expect us to believe you? Let's say you're telling the truth—look around you. You trespassed on private property and already injured one of our men. Scum like you shall be punished.

The guards now charged ahead, their armor clanking against each other, creating echoes like a war chant. In that moment, Erica closed her eyes and breathed.

Erica: (I warned you.)

She launched at one, disarmed their spear, and coated it with sigils. She used it to vault past some guards, then placed all five of her sigils on it, allowing wind to build and push everyone away from her. Bodies tumbled and crashed into the now-fragile walls. Gone was the charm of confidence from before, yet someone continued their pursuit. She snapped a sword from under the fallen soldiers and used it to parry the guards ahead. Despite their numbers, only two at a time could face her due to the hallway's narrowness. She parried more blades while keeping an extra eye behind her. Whenever someone got too close, she would shift to cover her rear.

A sharp pain pierced her lower ankle, followed by a crushing thrust from the butt of a spear. Before collapsing, she used her tattoos to give herself a small boost overhead, dodging the next blows.

Erica: (I can't keep this up. Maybe…)

She stopped the racing thought in her head. She knew that if she made that choice, there would be no coming back. So she gritted her teeth and stood atop her soles. She jumped, spear in hand, onto the man's helmet—strengthened by the collective push of four sigils at its tip, it dented the soldier's helmet and left him collapsing. She landed low to the floor, boosted by sigils, whipped back to her feet, and used her spear to trip a fellow guard.

Cries of pain echoed as they fell. She slowly made her way back to the door where the last guard stood, collapsing another opponent along the way. When it was over, bodies of men and women covered the floor. Only one remained. Erica raised the now-cracked and bent spear toward the guard in her way.

Erica: You are not like the rest. But surely you must understand you can't beat me. Now step aside, and no harm will come to you.

The guard laughed.

Guard: What, the Demon Lord's daughter is giving mercy? Like hell I believe that. Look around you, little whore—mountains of my comrades lie on the floor, some too injured to move. And you point that blade, telling me to let you slide?

The guard took a step forward and untied his helmet. Long yellow hair flowed, revealing deep emerald eyes.

Erica: Sir Ernest.

Ernest: After the massacre you laid upon my fellow peers and sister, I gathered all the evidence needed to prosecute you to the capital of Thraw—seeing as you killed all the witnesses.

Erica: But I---

Ernest: To hell with your lies! I, Sir Ernest of the House of Flame Mourn, shall end you for the kidnapping of the Child of Prophecy, the mass slaughter of 11 royal leaders, 53 guests, 42 guards, 97 servants, and of course…

Erica felt heat emitting from Ernest's armor. It wasn't a soothing warmth but a raging wave of flames about to burst.

Ernest: The murder of the Four Hero Core... my sister included!

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