Chapter 130

Loud, heavy footsteps echoed through the dense forest as a 15-foot-tall, grotesquely muscular demon charged ahead, desperation in every thunderous stride. The air whistled through his exposed ribs, and his monstrous form—a mass of bulging muscles and protruding fang-like teeth—seemed more suited to instill fear than evade capture. Despite lacking eyes or other facial features, Draxis's senses guided him, instinctively navigating the terrain.

Behind him, lighter, faster footsteps pursued with unerring precision. His hunter leaped agilely between trees, never losing sight of him, moving as if they were a part of the forest itself. Draxis, in stark contrast, barreled through trees and shrubbery, each impact resounding like a drumbeat, doing little more than angering his relentless pursuer.

Why was Draxis fleeing through the forest of Sylvanoria, the land of the elves? His mission had seemed straightforward: descend upon the elven lands with his cohort of nameless demons. But as they had hovered above the ancient, sprawling forest, a deadly barrage of arrows had met them. In an instant, Draxis's companions were obliterated, leaving him to crash land alone into the perilous greenery below.

Now, the demon's grotesque form was a liability, his brutish strength unable to match the forest's intricacies or the hunter's nimbleness. Draxis could only wonder why his lord had sent him on such a suicidal mission. Had he been deemed expendable?

His pursuer's rage was palpable, a fiery intensity that seemed deeply personal. Draxis had only caught glimpses of his hunter's outline—a figure shrouded in wrath and agility—but the emotions emanating from them suggested an ancient grudge. Elves lived for millennia, and Draxis considered the possibility that his hunter might be a victim of Ercale's invasion. Yet, the logical inconsistency nagged at him. All memories of that invasion had been meticulously erased, the history altered to paint it as mere fiction. No demons had surfaced in this world for over 500 years, so why did this hunter seem to bear a fresh, undying hatred for him?

As Draxis pondered these questions, his massive body crashed through yet another thicket, the forest echoing with the sounds of his futile escape and the relentless pursuit closing in behind him.

Draxis soon realized that fleeing was no longer an option. Despite his fear, he turned around and swung his meaty fist toward his hunter. Draxis was the physically strongest retainer of his lord, capable of causing earthquakes with a single blow. But his illusions of strength were shattered, much like his fist, when the elf did not evade but raised their forearm to block. The impact felt like crashing against a solid, immovable wall of titanium. Draxis's stoppable force had met an immovable object.

His hunter's eyes blazed with even more intense rage at Draxis's futile attempt to fight back. With a swift, brutal motion, the hunter grabbed one of Draxis's exposed ribs and ripped it out effortlessly, as if pulling a dead leaf from a dying tree. The rib came away with a sickening crunch, the surrounding flesh tearing like wet paper. Draxis fell to one knee.

"Bastard," his hunter hissed, his voice revealing the fury of a young male. "How dare you come back?" The pursuer's tone was venomous as he seized Draxis by the head. Draxis's sharp, fang-like teeth couldn't even pierce the elf's skin. Despite lacking traditional sight, Draxis could sense the outline of his hunter, noting the more human-like ears with pointed tips that suggested he was a half-elf. This only deepened Draxis's confusion. Half-elves typically lived half as long as normal elves, yet this young man, who appeared to be in his twenties, spoke and raged as if he had lived through events from 500 years ago.

Then suddenly, the realization struck Draxis just as the half-elf slammed him into the ground. This was no ordinary pursuer. A half-elf with such immense physical power—someone who aged slower than other half-elves and even elves—could only be one person. The half-elf's next words confirmed Draxis's fears.

"I lost my best friend because of you!" the hunter shouted, lifting Draxis so that his legs dragged on the ground. The next moment, the half-elf slammed Draxis's head against a boulder with bone-crushing force. "And now, after 500 years, you come back!? Why can't you just leave us alone!" he exclaimed, his fist beginning to crush Draxis's skull.

In that moment, everything made sense to Draxis. He knew who this was. This was one of the heroes from 500 years ago, a man whose friends and allies were considered fiction, whose deeds and struggles had been forgotten. This was Stroven Van Elnan, formerly one of the companions of Winter, now known as The Star Crusher. He was ready to exact his long-awaited vengeance.

Draxis's skull offered very little resistance as Stroven's fist crushed it with one firm squeeze, the demon's grotesque head exploding in a shower of bloody viscera. The demon's massive body dropped to the ground with a resounding thump. Stroven stood over the corpse, panting—not from physical exertion, but from the emotional weight of his memories.

He clutched his head as a headache began to form, triggered by the flood of memories—of his friends, of Winter, of Violet, of Bram, and most painfully, of his best friend. None of them were remembered by history as real; all had been outlived by Stroven. Tears stung his eyes, but his elven ears twitched as he heard the approaching footsteps of his fellow elves. 

Wiping away the tears, Stroven took a deep breath and glared down at Draxis's corpse. "I will stop you all again," he vowed quietly, his voice filled with steely determination. "Even if I have to do it alone, I won't let you take the world they gave their lives to protect."

Turning towards the direction of the approaching elves, Stroven stood tall, his resolve unwavering. He was ready to fight, to protect his people, and to honor the memory of his fallen friends.