The dining hall stood in quiet refinement, untouched by the carnage beyond its doors. Polished wood stretched across the long table, adorned with untouched dishes, their warmth now fading into the cold air. Candlelight flickered gently, casting soft gold across the room—an illusion of peace moments before its ruin.
Rupert's body jerked as the dagger struck.
The force drove him back into his seat, the impact sharp and final.
For a brief moment, silence followed.
His wife froze where she sat, her hand still hovering near her plate. Their child turned slowly, confusion giving way to something far more primal as their eyes landed on the figure standing at the entrance.
Adrian.
He stood there, unmoving.
Blood dripped steadily from his clothes, pattering softly against the polished floor. His posture leaned slightly forward, as though the weight of what he carried had begun to settle—not upon his body, but upon the space around him.
The scent reached them next.
Iron. Thick and suffocating.
The child's breathing faltered. The mother's lips parted, yet no words came. Fear gripped them before understanding ever could.
They did not know who he was.
But they understood what stood before them.
A man—or something far worse—drenched in the remains of countless lives.
His hand wraps, once white, were now stained a deep crimson.
The blood had soaked into the fabric so completely that no trace of their former color remained.
Adrian took a single step forward.
And the illusion of peace shattered completely.
The child's breath caught—then broke.
A scream rose, sharp and desperate.
"Knights—! Someone—please—!"
Adrian's head turned.
Not fully. Not with intent.
Just a slight, absent motion—as though acknowledging a distant sound that held no meaning.
Then he looked away.
The scream continued, but it fell into nothing.
No footsteps answered. No steel rang in response. The storm beyond the walls swallowed everything, leaving only the hollow echo of a plea that would never be heard.
'There is no one coming,' Adrian thought, not unkindly.
He began to walk.
Each step was slow. Deliberate.
Not the stride of a man in haste, nor the caution of one wary of danger. It was something else—something quieter. A stillness wrapped in motion, as though the world had already ended and only he remained to witness it.
Rupert's body had collapsed with the chair, the dagger still lodged in his shoulder. The paralysis held firm, locking his limbs in silent defiance against his will.
Adrian reached him.
Without a word, he grasped the chair.
Wood creaked under the sudden force as he lifted it, raising Rupert along with it. The man's body shifted helplessly, forced upright, forced to face forward.
Forced to see.
His family stood before him.
His wife—frozen, trembling, her hands clenched so tightly they had begun to pale. His child—eyes wide, tears cutting through the fear that had taken root far too quickly.
Rupert could not move.
He could not speak.
But within his mind, everything was breaking.
'Move…'
The thought screamed against the silence of his body.
'Move!'
Nothing answered.
The man before him—this blood-soaked figure—had done what none should have been capable of. The walls. The soldiers. The countless men who stood as the castle's shield… all gone.
And he had done it with ease.
Rupert had nearly forgotten that truth.
Shock had dulled it.
But now it returned.
Not as fear for himself—
—but as something far worse.
His gaze trembled as it fixed upon his family.
'Not them…'
The thought came fractured.
Desperate.
Because whatever this man intended…
He would be forced to watch it unfold.
The dining hall held its silence like something sacred, untouched by the slaughter beyond its walls.
Candles burned low along the length of the table, their flames bending gently in the restless air, casting wavering light across polished wood now stained with creeping trails of red. The scent of cooked meals lingered faintly beneath something heavier—iron, thick and invasive, settling into every corner of the room.
Adrian watched Rupert's eyes.
Not the man himself—but what remained behind them.
Fear had changed shape.
Beneath the shadow of his hood, Adrian's lips curved into a quiet smile as he dragged his blood-soaked hand wraps across the table's surface, leaving a dark smear through plates that had never been finished and cups that would never be touched again.
"Don't worry," he said, his voice calm, almost reassuring. "I'll make it quick."
He stepped forward with slow, deliberate intent, his movements carrying no urgency—only certainty. Each step felt measured, as though he had already walked this path long before arriving here, and nothing within this moment could alter its course.
Rupert's thoughts surged violently against the stillness of his body.
'Move…'
The command came again, sharper this time, tearing through his mind with desperate force.
But the dagger remained.
And his body did not answer.
Adrian's right hand shifted, drawing the second dagger free with unhurried precision. Its edge caught the candlelight briefly, a cold glint that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
He closed the distance.
The wife tried to speak, her lips trembling as sound failed her, while the child clutched at her sleeve, eyes wide with a terror too vast to process. They did not run. Not because they chose not to—but because something deeper had already taken hold of them, rooting them in place.
Adrian moved.
The motion was clean. Controlled.
Almost invisible.
Steel whispered through the air, its passage so precise that it left no immediate mark, no dramatic flourish—only the quiet certainty of completion.
For a moment, the world held.
Then it ended.
Adrian turned his head slightly, his gaze returning to Rupert as though nothing of consequence had occurred.
"You see, Rupert," he said, the same calm tone lingering in his voice, "I told you."
A brief pause followed, settling into the space between them.
"It was quick."
The words did not need weight.
They carried it regardless.
Adrian stepped closer, reaching out to grasp Rupert's face, his fingers pressing just enough to guide his gaze forward—forcing him to look, to understand, to remain present within what he could not stop.
Despair hollowed the man's expression.
It stripped away everything else.
Adrian studied it in silence, his smile deepening just slightly, not from cruelty—but from something far more unsettling.
Satisfaction.
"I know what you're wondering," he continued, his tone almost conversational now, as though they were discussing something trivial. "Who am I… right?"
His hand rose to the edge of his hood, and with slow, deliberate ease, he pulled it back.
Dark hair framed his face, black at its roots and fading into grey at the ends like ash carried on a dying flame. His eyes, crimson and unnaturally clear, held a pale white beneath the iris, giving them a depth that felt wrong—something that did not belong within the natural order of men.
There was no rage in him.
No hatred.
No visible trace of vengeance.
Only a quiet, unsettling contentment, as though this moment—this culmination—had given him something he had long been denied.
Lightning split the sky beyond the castle walls.
For an instant, the entire hall was illuminated in stark brilliance—the blood-streaked table, the lifeless stillness, the expression resting upon Adrian's face—etched into reality with merciless clarity before the light vanished once more.
And the darkness returned, heavier than before.
The dining hall did not recover its silence—it deepened.
Candlelight wavered against the carved pillars and long-spread table, illuminating the aftermath in uneven strokes of gold and shadow. Blood had begun to settle into the grain of the wood, darkening its polished surface, while the air itself felt heavier, thick with the metallic scent that refused to fade.
Adrian moved as though none of it mattered.
He lowered himself onto the table with casual ease, disregarding the ruin beneath him, one leg slightly bent as his weight settled against the stained surface. His posture carried no tension, no lingering trace of exertion—only a quiet composure that did not belong within a room like this.
He looked at Rupert.
Truly looked.
Then he spoke.
"It's just been five days," Adrian said, his tone light, almost conversational. "Don't tell me you've forgotten me already."
The words hung in the air, unchallenged.
Rupert could not answer.
His body remained locked, his breathing uneven, his gaze still forced forward—though now it trembled, caught between what he had lost and what stood before him.
Adrian leaned back slightly, resting one hand against the table as though settling into a discussion rather than standing amidst the remains of one.
"You see, Rupert," he continued, his voice steady, unhurried, "I held no rage toward them. No hatred."
His eyes shifted briefly, not lingering, but acknowledging.
"That's why I made their deaths quicker than anyone else's so far."
A faint pause followed.
"I hope you understand that."
The room gave no response.
Only the distant echo of the storm remained, rolling faintly beyond the walls.
Adrian's gaze returned to Rupert, sharper now—not in aggression, but in clarity.
"And I suppose I should thank you," he added.
There was no sarcasm in it.
No mockery.
Only a statement delivered as fact.
"If it wasn't for you… I would still be naive."
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the weight of his own words.
"Always asking why. Why this… why that… why I was like this."
The question lingered only for a moment before he dismissed it with a subtle shift in expression.
"You made me understand something."
His voice lowered—not in volume, but in depth.
"When you killed me…"
A brief pause.
"In the literal sense—I died."
The words did not carry drama.
They carried certainty.
Adrian's gaze did not waver as he spoke, his crimson eyes fixed upon Rupert with an unsettling steadiness.
"But what you killed…" he continued, "…was the wrong version of me."
He leaned forward slightly now, resting his weight more firmly, closing the space between them without rising from his seat.
"You didn't finish the job."
The statement settled with quiet finality.
"You only destroyed the part of me that hesitated… the part that questioned… the part that could still be called human."
His expression did not change.
But something within it… clarified.
"And when I woke up," Adrian said, "I understood that."
A faint breath left him—not relief, not exhaustion, but something closer to resolution.
"I killed him myself."
The words came without hesitation.
Without regret.
"Figuratively… of course."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Complete.
The storm outside had grown louder, rattling the windowpanes and sending the scent of wet stone and ozone curling into the hall.
Adrian leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the bloodstained table, crimson dripping slowly from the hand wraps. His voice was calm, deliberate, the kind that carried without strain across the room.
"You see, Rupert," he said, each word measured. "Now, as my final mercy… I will give you a name for what stands before you."
He paused, letting the weight of the silence settle, letting the words land without embellishment.
"Not a name," he continued, "per se. More of a title."
Rupert's head barely moved.
His gaze was fixed, unblinking, but his body trembled under the weight of his fury. Veins began to darken, eyes turning bloodshot as he struggled against the paralysis of fear, hatred, and the dagger at his shoulder.
"Refer to me as…" Adrian's voice softened just enough to draw attention. "The Innate Demon."
The words lingered in the air, vibrating against the polished floors and carved pillars.
Rupert's mind barely registered them.
All he could see, all he could feel, was the embodiment of wrath before him.
His hatred radiated outward, a tangible force pressing against Adrian, but his fury was carefully observed, measured, cataloged.
Adrian tilted his head slightly, regarding the man not as a threat, but as a specimen—an element in the performance of something greater.
And still, his expression remained mellow.
As though he were watching beauty take form before him.
The room held its breath.
The storm answered in kind.
As Adrian perched atop the table, a distant memory flickered within his mind, fragile and fleeting, like a dream teetering on the edge of wakefulness. The edges of it were hazy, blurred by the fog of time, slipping easily toward forgetfulness with each conscious thought.
Yet one fragment remained sharp, a shard of clarity piercing the murk: the memory of the first time he had ever been granted this title, a moment he had not yet understood, not yet grasped the weight it carried.The room around him—the polished table, the lingering scent of blood and candle smoke, the storm-light flickering through the shattered windows—faded from his focus as the memory drew him inward.
And in that fleeting clarity, Adrian understood: the story of the Innate Demon had begun long before he had even known his own strength.