The air changed the moment Ruok stepped into the demon camp.
It wasn't obvious at first.
The ground was still dirt, though less trampled than the orc camp. The tents stood in uneven rows—cleaner than the orcs', but lacking the sharp order of the elves. Torches burned with steady flames, their light tinted faintly violet, like something was mixed into the fire itself.
But there were no wounded.
No groaning. No limping soldiers. No smell of rot or infection.
That alone was wrong.
Ruok slowed his steps, his eyes scanning quietly beneath the shadow of his hood.
"…Okay," he muttered. "That's already creepy."
Then he noticed the feeling.
It crept in slowly, like warmth spreading under his skin.
Light and comfortable.
Too comfortable.
His shoulders relaxed without him meaning to. His breath came easier. The tension he carried—always there, always tight—began to loosen like someone had quietly untied it.
Ruok blinked.
"…Cannabis?"
He sniffed the air.
Nothing.
No smoke. No scent.
His frown deepened.
"What the hell," he whispered.
He pulled part of his cloak up, covering his mouth and nose.
"I need to find Mephyst fast… before my brain decides to go on vacation on forgot what I came for."
He took a step forward.
Then another.
Each step felt… easier than it should.
That wasn't good.
His eyes moved across the camp.
Demons passed by him—almost human except for the wings and horns. None paid him any attention. Their movements were calm, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world.
No urgency nor fear, just relax.
Ruok swallowed.
"…Yeah. Definitely not normal."
Then—
He saw it.
At the center of the camp stood a tent.
No—
A structure pretending to be a tent.
Black fabric lined with gold threads, embroidered with patterns that shimmered under the torchlight. Tall poles held it high, and the entrance was wide, like it wanted to be seen.
Ruok stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
"…Subtle," he muttered. "Real subtle."
He crossed his arms under his cloak, tilting his head slightly.
"This man… humble isn't in his vocabulary, I think."
There was no doubt.
That had to be Mephyst's.
No one else would make their home look like a king's throne room wrapped in cloth.
Ruok stayed in the shadows, watching.
His mind felt… slow.
Not dull.
Just… drifting.
Like thoughts were harder to hold.
"…Focus," he whispered, tapping his temple lightly. "Come on. Stay with me."
Minutes passed.
Then—
Movement.
An elf approached the tent.
Ruok stiffened.
The entrance parted.
Mephyst stepped out.
Even from a distance, Ruok could see that same relaxed posture. Hands behind his back. That faint, knowing smile, like he was always a step ahead of everyone else. But also his massive body, which no one except him has.
Behind him, four demons followed.
High rank demons. Strong ones.
Ruok lowered his head slightly.
"…There you are."
He watched as Mephyst walked away from the tent, speaking casually with one of his underlings, as if they weren't standing in the middle of a battlefield.
Like this was all just a stroll.
Ruok waited.
Counted in his head.
One minute.
Two.
No one returned.
No one watched the tent.
"…Alright," he whispered. "That's my cue."
He moved.
Quiet and careful, like a thief in the night.
Each step placed with more intention than skill.
The inside of the tent—
Ruok froze.
"…Okay," he breathed.
"Yeah. This is outrageous."
The interior was larger than it should be.
Way larger.
Gold-lined drapes hung from the ceiling. Artifacts—strange, ancient-looking items—were arranged neatly along the walls. Some glowed faintly. Others hummed so quietly he could feel it more than hear it.
At the center stood a long rectangular table.
And on it—
Food.
Real food.
Fresh. Clean. Properly cooked.
Meat. Bread. Fruits.
Ruok stared.
His stomach betrayed him immediately.
It growled.
Loud.
He covered it with both hands.
"…Traitor."
He glanced around quickly.
No one.
Still.
Slowly—
He stepped closer.
"…This abomination really knows how to live well," he muttered.
For a moment, he considered it.
Just one bite.
Just to check.
For… safety.
He shook his head hard.
"No. Focus. Mission first. Steal food later."
He moved past the table.
Toward the back.
A large bed sat there, draped in dark fabric. Too clean. Too soft-looking for someone like Mephyst.
Ruok frowned.
"…He definitely sleeps well."
He checked it anyway.
Nothing.
Then the desk.
Stacks of papers. Files. Notes.
He flipped through them quickly.
Too fast.
Too many.
Nothing made sense.
Or maybe his mind just couldn't keep up.
"…Come on," he muttered. "There has to be something."
His fingers moved faster.
Messier.
Frustration creeping in.
"Where do you hide your secrets, you smug—"
"Are you searching for this?"
Ruok froze.
Slowly—
Very slowly—
He turned.
An old man stood a few steps behind him.
Calm and still.
Like he had always been there.
His hand was extended forward, holding a book.
Plain purple book with no text on the cover. Nothing.
Ruok stared at it.
Then, at the man.
"…Who are you? I didn't hear you come in," he said carefully.
The old man's lips curved into a faint, almost amused smile.
"A great many things occur beyond the awareness of those who are… preoccupied."
His voice was soft, steady—too steady. Each word landed cleanly, like it had been chosen long before this moment.
Ruok didn't answer right away.
He studied him.
At first glance, the man looked ordinary. A worn brown cloak hung loosely over his frame, the fabric faded at the edges. He leaned slightly on a staff—old wood, darkened by time. At its head rested a small crimson crystal shaped like a skull, polished smooth, catching the dim light in a way that made it seem… wet.
Ruok's eyes lingered on that crystal a second longer than he wanted.
Something about it made his chest feel tight.
"…You didn't answer my question," Ruok said finally, his tone flat, but his body stayed tense. One hand hovered near his dagger, not quite gripping it, not quite relaxed either.
The old man did not react to the edge in his voice.
If anything, his smile deepened—just a little.
"Names," he said gently, "are curious things. They give comfort, the illusion of understanding… even when nothing has truly been revealed."
He straightened slightly, the staff tapping once against the ground with a soft, hollow sound.
"Still," he continued, as if indulging a child's request, "you may call me Edgard."
Ruok didn't believe it for a second.
'He made a long monologue just to lie about his name. What a weird old man.'