Chapter 8: Treasure

Aaron stood there, boots sunk in the lake's muddy edge, the morning sun clawing through the haze like it was mad at the world. The demoness sprawled before him—half-regrown, a pitiful lump of charcoal skin and bent horns, guts still trailing like a busted sack of grain. Her red eyes flickered, dim and wild, locked on him as she whimpered, dragging herself back through the dirt. The Demon Queen's orders—"find him, pull him back"—rang in his head, a sour note that twisted his gut. His fists clenched tight, knuckles popping, ember humming low and hot—ready to hammer her down, finish it, leave her a corpse that wouldn't crawl back this time.

"Please—please, no!" she wailed, voice cracking high and frantic, overlapping itself like a busted wind-up toy. "I'll serve you—be your slave—anything!" She scrabbled at the ground, claws digging ruts, her broken body shivering like a kicked dog.

Aaron froze, fists still balled, breath hitching like he'd swallowed a rock. "What?" he rasped, voice rough as sand scraped over glass. "You—a follower of that hag—want to grovel for ME? Why the hell would you?"

Her eyes darted, wide and wet, blood streaking her face like smeared paint. "If I go back empty-handed, she'll—she'll unmake me," she blurted, words tumbling fast, tripping over each other. "The Demon Queen—she'll shred my soul, burn it to nothin'. With you—at least I can breathe, I can live, I can do something , anything—" Her voice broke, a sob choking it off, and she slumped, horns scraping dirt.

Aaron stared, fists loosening slow, the ember's hum softening like a kettle pulled off the boil. He rubbed his knuckles—still crusted with her blood, a stubborn stain—and a laugh slipped out, dry and jagged. "You're shittin' me," he muttered, half to her, half to the lake stretching dark and still behind them. Serve him? This wreck who'd tried to lure him back to the dark? It was absurd—funny, even, in a twisted way. But her eyes didn't lie—not now, spilling fear and truth like a cracked jar.

He tilted his head, hand twitching, and twirled a spell—fingers tracing symbols he'd scratched into his own grimoire years back, back when he'd ruled the ashes. A spell she'd know ABSOLUTE SLAVERY branded on the lowest scum of the demon realm, a chain tighter than death. Her eyes widened, recognition flashing through the panic. "No—no, not that!" she cried, voice shrill, clawing back another inch, guts dragging like wet rope.

"Too late," Aaron said, voice flat, and slammed the spell down—palm smacking her back, ember flaring bright as it sank in. A sigil burned into her skin, black and jagged, pulsing like a heartbeat she couldn't shake. She screamed, a thin, broken wail, but it was done—official, unbreakable. She was his now, a slave to the kid she'd hunted.

He stepped back, boots crunching reeds, and smirked—crooked, mean, couldn't help it. "Guess you ditched the wrong queen," he said, watching her regeneration slow, her body trembling as the Queen's protection peeled away like old paint. "No more fancy tricks for you." He crouched, close enough to smell the rot, and her spells—those silky whispers she'd dangled—flowed into him, snatched like coins from a beggar's cup. Hers now his.

"Your job," he said, standing slow, "is to earn as much money as you can. Every damn coin—bring it to me." He turned, glancing back one last time, voice dropping low. "Get to it."

She crumpled, a mush of pitiful sobs—horns bent, one eye half-sprouted, body a wreck plastered against the stone. "Please—I—" Her pleas overlapped, a babbling mess, but Aaron was already walking, boots scuffing dirt, the lake's edge reeking of blood and damp. The air hung heavy, thick with dew and a faint whiff of burnt toast—maybe his own head frying under the weight of it all.

The demoness sobbed louder, a thin wail swallowed by the reeds, and Aaron smirked wider, kicking a stone down the path. It skittered, bounced, sank into the mud. "Better start hustlin'," he called over his shoulder, voice carrying on the wind. The lake stretched silent behind him, water catching the bruised sky and her ruin—a painting he'd signed and left to dry.

At his home, Aaron slumped against the kitchen wall, He flexed them, knuckles cracking sharp enough to jolt the silence, and a laugh rasped out—dry as old bones, bitter as yesterday's tea. "Guess I'm not the titan I figured," he muttered, voice scraping like boots on gravel. The demoness's whimpers still rattled in his skull, her broken begs and that jagged spell he'd carved into her back. She was his now, bound to a kid with bruised hands, and it'd be hilarious if it didn't make him want to puke.

He needed money. Piles of it. Not for kicks—he'd scraped by on curses and crusts before—but for Ma, for Amelia, for the muscle they'd need when the Demon Queen's shadow swallowed the sun. That storm was brewing, dark and heavy, and he wasn't fool enough to think he could brawl his way through it solo. Power was the ticket, and power didn't come cheap. "Could chase old treasures," he mused, scratching his stubble, "dig up stashed pearl pre-regression." But the idea sagged like a wet rag. Too slow, too much grunt work, and Ma's coughs were getting meaner—hacking fits that shook the walls at night. No time to play scavenger. He needed a fast hit, something dumb and bold.

"Capitalism," he snorted, "or whatever this world calls it." But he wasn't about to grind for it—hustle like some wide-eyed beggar? Nah, he was past that. He'd steal it, clean and sharp, from someone who had it coming. Not humans with their pinched faces, not demons with their clawing greed, not even those gold-obsessed goblins. A dragon. A fat, scaly vault of wealth—scales like iron gates, breath that'd turn your sword to slag. He knew one, knew its cave, its hoard glinting like a taunt. Alone, though? Even with his ember and spells, he'd be ash before he touched a coin. He needed Amelia—her fire, her grit, that reckless swing she had.

"Oi, 'Melia!" he yelled, shoving out back where she was thwacking a stump with her stick, pigtails whipping like they were mad at the world. "Time to step it up."

She whirled, eyes flashing like fresh-minted pennies. "'Bout time! Sick of you sulkin'."

"Sulkin'?" He smirked, all teeth and mischief. "Nah, just cookin' our next score." He crouched, voice dropping to a conspirator's hiss. "We're gonna rob….tackle a dragon soon."

Her stick hit the dirt with a thunk, jaw dangling like he'd just sprouted horns. "A dragon? You for real?"

"Dead real," he said, and a laugh burst out—bright, unhinged, like he'd cracked the universe's best punchline. "Gotta get you sharp, though. Sharper than that twig."

She grinned, fierce and wide, and grabbed his hand—nails biting in, claiming him like a prize. "Let's do it, Aron. Let's make it loud."

The air hummed, thick with burnt toast and Ma's wobbly hum trickling from the kitchen—a tune that wove through his ribs and squeezed. He'd haul Amelia into this chaos, into flames and fangs, but he'd forge her tough—tough enough to outlast him. The dragon was step one, a cash grab to stack their odds, and he'd bleed rivers for it if it came to that.

He mussed her hair, too hard, and she smacked him—solid, like she meant it. "Cut it, you oaf," she snapped, but her eyes danced, primed for the havoc he'd unleash.

After that, Days didn't just pass—they dragged, heavy and stubborn, piling into weeks, then months. Three of them. Training swallowed everything. Dawn cracked open with Amelia's fists slicing fog, dusk bled out with Aaron's grunts echoing off the barn's warped walls. The backyard wasn't a yard anymore—it was a war zone, the old barn their coliseum, hay bales splintered, dirt churned to mud under their boots. Sweat hung tight, a second skin, dripping into eyes, stinging, sticking hair to necks. They didn't stop. Couldn't.

Aaron pushed her—relentless, maybe cruel. "Again," he'd rasp, voice like gravel chewed up and spit out, and she'd charge, fists flashing, breath a jagged rhythm. She wasn't the kid with the stick anymore. Muscles flexed under freckled skin, her braid a whip snapping the air. She'd grown—God, had she grown—and he felt it, every dodge, every block, her ember sparking hotter, wilder. He'd catch her at sunrise, shadowboxing alone, her silhouette sharp against the pink sky, and his chest would tighten—pride, sure, but something else too, something that gnawed.

He wasn't soft about it. "Too slow, 'Melia," he'd jab, smirking, dodging her swing like it was nothing. She'd glare, wipe her face with a sleeve, and come back swinging—fierce, reckless, like her anger was a tea kettle left too long, whistling and spitting. He'd laugh, duck, tap her ribs just hard enough to make her growl. "Wet cat," he'd say, and she'd elbow him—quick, sharp, a bruise he'd press later, grinning.

The barn pulsed with them. Sunlight sliced through cracks, dust swirling like it was alive, the air thick with hay and sweat and the faint drift of Ma's bread from the house—warm, yeasty, a tether to something softer they'd forgotten. Breaks were sprawls against the wall, flask passed between them, water splashing chins. "You're a bastard," she'd pant, laughing, and he'd shrug, "Takes one," and the silence would settle, heavy but good.

Three months in, it shifted. The air buzzed, tight, like a storm rolling in. They circled—boots scuffing, eyes locked. Her braid was unraveling, strands plastered to her neck; his shirt clung, damp, itching. He waited, fists up, watching her tells—the twitch in her jaw, the spark in her stare. She lunged—fast, fist aimed at his chest. Routine. He slid left, easy, but she twisted, her other arm swinging wide, a haymaker with her whole damn soul behind it.

Time cracked. Her fist slammed his ribs—a slick, sickening smack—and Aaron flew. Back, back, arms flapping like a drunk bird, boots skidding uselessly. The barn wall caught him—thud—wood creaking, dust avalanching down. He slid, ass hitting dirt, breath gone, ribs screaming. The world held still, just the hum of his pulse and her gasp.

"Aron—shit, I—" Amelia's fist hung there, trembling, her eyes saucers, wide and wild.

He coughed, then laughed—raw, loud, bouncing off the rafters. "Holy hell, 'Melia," he wheezed, hand on his side, "you hit like a damn ox." Pain throbbed, bright and alive, and he loved it.

She blinked, snorted, grin breaking loose. "You deserved it, smug ass."

"Fair," he said, hauling up, wincing, still chuckling. He looked at her—really looked. She stood tall, steady, sweat gleaming like war paint, her ember a flame now, licking the air. Three months had carved her into something—someone—who could knock a former Demon King flat. His ribs ached, his pride swelled, and something clicked, solid as stone.

"It's time," he said, voice low, sure, cutting through the dust. "Time for the heist."

Her grin sharpened, feral, and she punched the air—once, twice—like she could already taste the fight ahead. "About damn time," she said, and the barn seemed to lean in, walls humming with it, ready, thinking, it was all part of their training.