Chapter 15: Chapter 14 - A Costly Mistake

“I see… that definitely makes sense,” the boy replied. He hesitated, his voice still shaky. “But… could you please lower your weapons? They're scaring my sister.”

“Of course. How careless of me.” Fomor turned and barked, “Men! Lower your weapons! Can’t you see there’s a child present?”

The clatter of metal and scrape of wood followed as swords were sheathed and bows lowered or slung behind backs. The sudden drop in tension was palpable—at least on the surface.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said, nodding.

“You're welcome,” Fomor replied smoothly, barely suppressing the amused grin tugging at his lips.

Then the boy continued, “So… you and your soldiers, are you like, the protectors of this realm or something?”

“You could say that,” Fomor said with a faint chuckle. “Though more precisely, we serve under the king who rules this realm.”

“Whoa,” the boy said, sounding impressed. “Then I guess we were really lucky to end up here and not where the enemy forces are. If we had, we might’ve been killed on the spot.”

Fomor gave a slight nod, adopting a serious expression. “That’s true. You were fortunate. We’ve been stationed to protect this part of the realm, which has been under increasing threat. Our patrol just happened to pass through here today, checking for stragglers or hidden enemies.”

All according to plan. Fomor’s words were carefully measured, each line designed to reinforce the image of protection and authority. To turn relief into loyalty. The boy was cautious, yes, but pliable. It wouldn’t take long.

“I see,” the boy said. For a moment, Fomor thought he caught the flicker of a smile, but when he blinked, the nervous expression had returned, almost too perfectly.

“But…” the boy continued, his voice still tentative, “aren’t there a bit too many of you for a patrol? Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep more men guarding your base, especially if it's already under attack?”

Shit. Stop asking questions.

“You’re not wrong,” Fomor replied smoothly, keeping his tone level. “But it’s better to root out threats early. To stop their sneaking and scheming before an attack begins. It’s strategy.”

“That makes sense,” the boy nodded, apparently satisfied. “So… what happens to us now?”

“For now, we’ll escort you safely to the base,” Fomor said. “You’ll be introduced to our king, and from there, we’ll decide your next steps. Don’t worry. We’ve helped many new prisoners settle in peacefully.”

He gestured broadly. “Some arrivals aren’t so calm. Demonic influence affects people differently, some worse than others. It depends on how long they've been under its sway, and how… susceptible they are. But people like us—who still remember morals and order—we keep the violent ones in check. Protect the ones who deserve it.”

The boy seemed to think it over for quite awhile. His gaze drifted upward, contemplative.

Then, suddenly, his head snapped sharply to the left.

It was such a quick, precise motion that Fomor’s instincts flared. His hand shot to the hilt of his great sword and he took a cautious step back, eyes narrowing.

“Are those the enemies you were talking about?” the boy cried out, panic rising in his voice.

What? Outsiders? Now, of all times? Or more new arrivals?

Fomor snapped his gaze toward the direction the boy pointed. Behind him, the soldiers did the same, weapons drawn with practiced urgency.

“Morin—now! Take out the archers first!” the boy shouted.

Before Fomor could register what had just unfolded, a sudden, brutal force smashed into his side. So fast and precise it bypassed his armor entirely. A muted croak escaped his lips as pain bloomed across his ribs and flung his body across the cracked ground like a ragdoll. His world turned sideways, spinning violently as he tumbled.

Instinct kicked in. He fumbled for the hilt of his sword, unsheathing it with his uninjured arm and slamming the blade deep into the dirt to stop his momentum.

When the spinning ceased and his vision steadied, he lifted his head—and froze.

Chaos.

Soldiers screamed, their bodies hurtled through the air, some flailing, others eerily still. Swords clattered, bows shattered, and somewhere in the cacophony was the unmistakable sound of bones breaking. It was a massacre.

“Sir! Are you alright?!” Paion shouted, rushing to his side.

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Fomor gritted his teeth and clutched at his temple, trying to shake off the ringing in his skull. When he tried to rise, a sharp, searing pain shot through his side. That blow had cracked something.

He gathered Pneuma around the injury, forcing the energy into his wound to begin the healing process. With a grimace, he pushed himself upright, using both his sword and Paion’s arm for support.

“Do you need my healing, sir?” Paion asked.

“I’m fine,” Fomor growled. “Caught off guard, that’s all.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes scanning the battlefield as the panic in his chest settled into a cold, simmering rage.

“Now tell me, what the hell just happened?”

“The white-haired boy suddenly kicked you, sir. We were stunned. And as you can see… the girl’s single-handedly taking care of our entire force,” Paion stammered, his face pale, his voice trembling.

“We were played,” Garrick hissed. “Bastards! They acted weak just to catch us off guard!”

“We have to retreat, sir. At this rate, we’ll all die. We’ve already lost too many.”

“You haven’t lost anyone,” a voice calmly said behind them.

They spun around.

There stood the white-haired boy, completely unharmed, a smug grin replacing the timid expression he wore just moments ago.

“I told her not to kill anyone,” he said casually. “But I can’t promise they’re only lightly injured.”

“You slimy little bastard!” Fomor snarled, taking a shaky step forward.

“Sir,” Paion urged again, “we have to retreat.”

Fomor turned, eyes sweeping across what remained of his men.

Only one soldier was still on his feet, clutching his sword like it could still save him, until the white-haired girl darted forward like a predator, kicked the weapon from his hands, shattering it, and drove her fist into his gut with bone-snapping force, launching him backwards.

Fomor froze.

What in the name of the Underworld… did we just walk into?

Fomor drew a deep breath, forcing his mind to settle amidst the chaos.

“If I tell you the truth… will you let us go?” he asked at last.

“You have my word,” the white-haired boy replied.

There was no other choice. They had to retreat.

All his men had been incapacitated, some likely with serious injuries. Paion could probably heal them, but he doubted these strangers would give them the chance. They had to report back to the king. These newcomers were too powerful to ignore. If the Outsiders learned of them first and won their favor… it could tip the balance entirely.

Retreat, regroup, and report. That was the rational course of action. His mind knew it. His body, still aching, agreed.

But something about this boy held him there.

Fomor couldn’t explain it. Was it the boy’s face? The scent around him? A presence that lingered like heat in the air? It wasn’t visible, but it was there, wrapping around the boy like a shroud of quiet command, subtle, magnetic, impossible to dismiss.

It was the same kind of feeling he’d once felt in the presence of an Archdemon in the Overworld, the moment he’d sworn loyalty, accepted demonic influence, and doomed himself to imprisonment in this forsaken realm.

Only this… wasn’t the same.

The pressure wasn’t as overwhelming. And it wasn’t evil.

But it was close.

His wounded pride, combined with the sting of having been so thoroughly outplayed, pushed him over the edge. He knew it was irrational—but it didn’t matter anymore.

“Sir? What’s wrong?” Paion asked, glancing at him with concern.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Fomor said, his voice cold and deliberate. “I’ll take care of you myself… and find out what you really are.”

A slow smile curled at his lips. The pain in his side, once a searing presence, began to dull. The sharp edge softened to a low rumble, then to nothing but background noise. It was like his body understood what his mind had already decided. This boy wasn’t someone he could walk away from.

He had to get him.

Fomor raised his greatsword before him, sliding into a battle stance. Calmly, he began circulating his Pneuma, equalizing it throughout his entire body, reinforcing his limbs, sharpening his reflexes. Then, he extended it outward, cloaking his skin in a dense aura of energy, a protective layer that shimmered faintly. Finally, he let the Pneuma flow into his weapon, enhancing its edge, its weight, and its durability.

“Sir, what are you doing? We have to retreat!” Paion said, alarm rising in his voice.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Fomor replied, his eyes never leaving the boy. “I can’t just retreat after what they did to us.”

That was true, vengeance burned hot in his chest. But beneath it, deeper and quieter, was something else. An obsession. A need to understand what this boy was.

That part, he kept to himself.

“Sir, you’re not acting like yourself,” Paion said again, stepping closer.

“You better shut the hell up, or I’ll start with you!” Fomor snapped, eyes burning. His voice came out raw, wild. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d screamed at Paion, let alone felt the urge to hurt him.

Paion fell silent after that, wisely choosing not to speak again.

With the distraction gone, Fomor turned his attention back to the boy. He had stepped back, and now there was a flicker of fear in his eyes again. This time, it didn’t feel like a trick. He’d also taken up a fighting stance. If it could be called that. It was awkward, full of holes, something Fomor had only ever seen from untrained fighters.

So he really was right. He hadn’t been outmatched before, just caught off guard.

Now that he was fully prepared, it was going to be one-sided.

Fomor stepped forward and raised his greatsword, aiming for the boy’s chest. Not a killing blow, he needed the boy alive to extract information, but enough to incapacitate him. He began to bring the weapon down—

—when something crashed into his side with brutal force.

If the boy’s kick earlier had felt like being struck by a horse, this was like being hit by a runaway carriage. Full speed. Direct hit. And worse, it landed exactly where his armor had already been cracked open.

On his bruised, exposed side.

Fomor couldn’t even scream.

The force hit him like a sledgehammer, sending him flying through the air before he even registered the pain. He tumbled violently, Pneuma coating his body, but it was useless. The power behind the blow overwhelmed even his defenses.

Pain exploded from his side, screaming louder than before, radiating through his ribs, chest, spine, up into his brain. His vision swam, and the world blurred around him as he rolled across the ground. He felt his body begin to shut down.

But he refused to black out.

Gritting his teeth, clinging to consciousness, he forced his mind to hold on—only for his back to crash into solid stone.

The impact was brutal.

It stopped his momentum instantly, and the rock behind him cracked and shattered from the collision. Shards burst in every direction. Even through his armor, the blow rattled his insides. It crushed the last of his resistance.

As he slid down from the fractured stone, so did his awareness.

His fading vision caught one last image: the small white-haired girl glaring down at him with the same fury in her eyes as the first time they met.

“You damned idiot,” he muttered, the words meant for himself.

Then everything went dark.