—— Pilot 3 ——

life was this big pool where fish(common fork) swam, and the gods were the fishermen, Unless you're a shark, you won't be able to scare a fisherman away. The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear. The greatest fear, is the fear of the unknown.

The night had been long.

A relentless ride under a sky shrouded in clouds, with the moon occasionally peeking through the gloom, casting fleeting silver light over the endless stretch of wilderness. The air had been thick with damp earth and rotting leaves, the remnants of past rains still clinging to the air.

By the time they stopped, they were two miles from Eroi's border.

Sunny pulled at the reins, bringing the exhausted horse to a halt beneath the twisted limbs of an old tree. The animal let out a tired snort, its breath visible in the cold morning air. Without a word, he swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, landing with practiced ease on the damp soil.

The journey had been brutal.

He moved efficiently, tying the horse to a tree—his movements calculated, as if anticipating the next battle before it even arrived. Then, without care or hesitation, he reached for Aglaea and dragged her off the saddle.

She collapsed onto the grass, too weak to catch herself.

Her small frame was covered in dirt, mud, and bruises, the remnants of her struggles evident in every scrape across her skin. The cold air did little to comfort her. She sat there for a long while, silent, unmoving, her fingers curling into the damp grass.

Sunny, however, was already settling himself down.

He leaned against a thick tree trunk, setting his longsword down beside him with a dull clink. His eyes drifted toward the horizon, taking in the towering silhouettes of Eroi's outer walls in the distance. They were close. Too close for comfort.

A quiet voice broke the silence.

"Who was that demon back there?…" Aglaea's voice lacked the usual tremor, though it still carried the exhaustion of a child long past her limits. Sunny's eyes shifted toward her, but his expression remained unreadable.

"Varkas."

He said the name simply, as if it needed no further explanation. Aglaea nodded absently, though her mind still reeled from the encounter. Her face, stained with dried tears, bore the weight of unspoken terror.

"…Varkas w-who?…"

The hesitation returned. Before she could react, Sunny reached forward, grabbing her arm. She gasped, flinching as he pulled her closer, forcing her to sit beside him.

"Varkas is a member of the ancient race of demonic wolves." His voice was matter-of-fact, his grip unyielding. "The demonic wolves were originally born during the Era of Frenzy."

The Era of Frenzy.

Aglaea blinked, her mind struggling to grasp the weight behind the words. "E—Era of Frenzy?…" Her voice was small, uncertain. Sunny scoffed.

"You're dumb and weak." Aglaea stiffened, swallowing the words of protest that threatened to rise. She had learned to endure. She had no choice. Sunny continued, unmoved by her silence.

"An era is a period of time. Each era lasts about 100,000 years. The current era is known as the Era of Gods. Year 2333, March 7th, of the Era of Gods."

Aglaea's fingers curled into her lap.

'My elders never told me about this…'

"The demonic wolves were created during the Era of Frenzy." Sunny's tone remained clinical, detached. "But during the following era—the Era of Misfortune—they were slaughtered at the beginning, only to be reborn with smarter minds at the end.

His gaze flickered toward the sky, as if contemplating something far beyond her understanding.

"Their creator is the Evernight Goddess." Aglaea only nodded, absorbing the information without question.

Then—Sunny shifted. Without warning, he rose to his feet, dusting off his cloak. His gaze turned toward the walls of Eroi, sharp with purpose. "Oh, looks like the time's here." Before Aglaea could ask what he meant, his hand shot out.

He grabbed her by the collar, effortlessly dragging her forward despite her struggles. She barely had time to react before he tossed her toward the massive gates of Eroi, dropping her there as if she were nothing more than a discarded burden.

Then—he turned and walked away. She stared after him, her breath caught in her throat. The gates groaned. Footsteps echoed from the other side.

"Ayy, boss—it's a child."

A guard emerged from the fog, his armor battle-worn, his spear firm in hand. His sharp gaze swept over her, taking in her dirt-covered form, the bruises, the sheer state of exhaustion painted across her face.

Then, a second figure appeared beside him.

The boss.

A man taller than most, with a thick black beard, eyes sharp with experience. His presence alone commanded respect, a silent force of leadership that needed no announcement. He studied Aglaea for a long moment. Then—he spoke.

"What'cha doing here, kid?"

His voice was gruff, edged with suspicion. Then, as his gaze truly settled on her—

"…Oh. It's an elf." His expression shifted, though his guard remained high. He turned slightly, his voice dropping as he muttered something to the soldier beside him.

"I heard the village of Viti was attacked by Murmux recently." Aglaea's breath caught.

"The leader… and a major population of the elven race… killed off." Pity laced his words, but it wasn't meant for her. Aglaea stayed quiet. She knew better than to speak. Sunny had made that lesson clear.

Rumors of Murmux attacks had spread quickly—the creatures had been launching assaults on settlements throughout the region. The destruction of Viti had left every nearby village on edge. No one knew if they would be next.

And then, there were the demonic wolves. Though their modern descendants were far more intelligent than their firstborn ancestors, they remained a terrifying force.

Especially the pack under the command of Varkas, the Dreadfang.

His pack had been spotted near Eroi's outskirts. Tension loomed. Fear whispered through the streets. The people knew what was coming. "…Alright, kid." The boss finally straightened, exhaling through his nose.

"You're covered in dirt and injuries. Take her to the leader."

The soldier at his side gave a firm nod, stepping forward. Without hesitation, he lifted Aglaea into his arms. Her exhausted body barely resisted.

Eroi awaited. Its history was etched in war and survival, its foundations built upon the suffering of past generations. Born in the Era of Misfortune, it had once been a refuge for the lost, the abandoned, and the forsaken.

Runaway soldiers. Exiled mages. Children who had no home.

From desperation, Eroi had grown into a fortress. It had endured the horrors of the first demonic wolves. It had battled through famine, war, and nightmares given form. And now, Aglaea was being carried toward its heart—toward the Council of Five, the rulers of Eroi.

The Black Talons, Eroi's elite warriors, patrolled its streets—an elite force trained to hunt the supernatural before it reached their gates.

The guard carried Aglaea through the long, dimly lit corridors of Eroi's heart, his heavy boots echoing against the polished stone.

The weight of the fortress pressed down upon them, the air thick with the scent of burning torches and aged wood.

The Council of Five awaited.

He approached the towering doors of the council chamber, two heavily armored sentries standing watch, their visors gleaming in the firelight.

Without a word, they stepped aside, pushing open the doors with a deep, groaning creak.

Inside, five figures sat in a semi-circle around a long, oaken table, their gazes cold and unreadable as the guard stepped forward, his arms tightening around the frail, dirt-covered elf girl in his grasp.

He bowed his head, lowering to one knee, his voice steady yet firm.

"My lord, an elven child has been found at the main gate."

His words hung in the air like a whisper of something unspoken, something unsaid.

He set Aglaea down on the cold stone floor, her small, trembling form barely moving.

At the head of the table sat Lord Damien, the leader of Eroi's Council of Five, his expression carved from stone, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly as he lifted a hand.

A single motion.

A silent command.

The guard rose without hesitation and stepped back, disappearing beyond the door as swiftly as he had come.

Now, Aglaea was alone.

Five pairs of eyes fell upon her, examining, measuring, weighing her existence.

Lord Damien. The iron-fisted ruler of Eroi, known for his ruthless pragmatism and unyielding discipline.

Doofus Grayrat. A seasoned strategist, his mind sharper than steel, yet his face marred with permanent exhaustion.

Eillie Voildolf. A woman of quiet wisdom, her keen eyes betraying years of knowledge beyond the mortal realm.

John Locaris. A warrior turned diplomat, a man whose hands were once stained in battle but now only held the weight of difficult decisions.

Lisa Lopez. The enforcer, a woman whose strength alone had brought order to Eroi's darker corners, her presence a reminder of authority that did not waver.

They studied Aglaea in silence.

"She's covered in injuries…"

Doofus whispered, his voice barely above the flickering of the torches.

"Indeed… how sad."

Eillie murmured, her voice laced with something that almost resembled pity.

"Name, child?"

Lord Damien's voice broke the silence like a hammer against glass.

Aglaea's throat was dry, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Aglaea…"

The name lingered in the cold air, fragile, fleeting.

Lord Damien watched her for a long moment, his fingers interlaced before him.

Then, with a slow nod, he spoke.

"Take her to one of the guest houses. I'll decide what to do with her tomorrow."

A guard stepped forward without hesitation, his strong hands reaching down to lift Aglaea from the ground.

Then—

A blade.

A wet, sickening thunk.

The guard froze, his body going rigid, a deep, gargled breath escaping his lips.

A dagger had been driven straight through his skull.

Aglaea gasped.

Blood dripped from the hilt, staining the floor in slow, pulsing streams.

Lord Damien's gaze lifted, unshaken.

"As expected…"

Standing atop the council table, bathed in the dim torchlight, was a figure wrapped in shadow and menace.

Varkas, the Dreadfang.

A half-blood of the Evernight Goddess.

His towering wolf-like form was wreathed in a long, tattered cloak, his fur streaked with the scent of old battlefields, his golden eyes burning with amusement.

"Greetings, Lord Damien." His voice was smooth and firm. "I see you have been fooled successfully."

Before another word could be spoken, Varkas moved. His sickle spun through the air, a blur of curved steel, aimed with perfect precision. A whisper of death. The blade found its mark.

Eillie Voildolf's skull.

The impact was instant, final. A sickening crack echoed through the chamber. Blood. Everywhere. A spray of crimson painted the council walls, the scent thick, suffocating. Her body remained still for only a second—then collapsed, lifeless, her head twisted at an unnatural angle, the curved blade buried deep in her skull.

Aglaea couldn't breathe. The sight was too familiar. Her mind fractured. Memories—sudden, violent, all-consuming. The screams of her mother. The gurgled death cries of her father.

The Murmux, their twisted forms lurking in the shadows, their claws burrowing into the backs of her parents, tearing through flesh as if it were nothing more than parchment.

'Mother…'

'Father…'

A choked sob threatened to rise in her throat, but her body refused to move. The sickle in Eillie's skull pulsed faintly, its surface dripping with blood. But it was no ordinary weapon.

The blade, tainted with forbidden magic, had the power to dominate the minds of the weak willed. Eillie never had a chance. The moment the curse seeped into her dying mind, she was lost.

Her body twitched once. Then—nothing. The Black Talons stormed into the room. But they were too late.

Two more demonic wolves stepped through the broken doorway, their massive forms radiating controlled violence. Their war-sickles gleamed, long polearms designed for controlling space and battle momentum.

They moved as executioners. And then—carnage. One swing. Doofus Grayrat's head rolled. A second strike. John Locaris fell, his chest torn open.

A final blow. Lisa Lopez collapsed, blood pooling at her feet. Only Lord Damien remained. The last of the Council of Five. The last line of Eroi's ruling power.

His Black Talons stood behind him, blades drawn, armor stained with the blood of their comrades. But as Varkas loomed before them, sickle in hand, drenched in the aftermath of slaughter…

It was clear.

This was only the beginning.

Varkas's golden eyes burned through the dim chamber like twin suns, their eerie glow illuminating the carnage left in his wake. His mere gaze alone induced a primal fear into the remaining Black Talons, but to their credit, none of them turned to flee. Their hands gripped their weapons tightly, knuckles white, muscles tensed with the knowledge that they would not leave this room alive. They still had pride. They still had duty. And if this was where they died, they would die fighting.

Varkas tilted his head slightly, observing them with an almost lazy interest, as if they were insects crawling at his feet. "Impressive group," he mused, his tone devoid of mockery—merely a statement of fact. A moment later, the two demonic wolves at his side moved.

They were too fast.

Blades flashed.

Blood sprayed.

Bodies fell.

The entire group of Black Talons were sliced in half within the blink of an eye. Their torsos separated from their legs, dropping heavily onto the blood-slicked stone floor, their weapons clattering uselessly beside them. The scent of iron filled the air, thick and suffocating, the torches flickering as if recoiling from the massacre. A sea of lifeless bodies now surrounded Lord Damien, yet he did not move, did not flinch.

He remained calm.

Varkas watched him carefully, intrigued.

"You might be strong," Damien finally said, his voice steady, unshaken. "But predictable."

A glint of amusement flickered in Varkas's gaze. "Clever move," he admitted, rolling his shoulders slightly. He understood. He had seen the patterns before—how humans acted, how they planned, how their fragile emotions dictated their choices. And Lord Damien, for all his composure, was no different. With a single glance, Varkas had already read him.

"You want to get under my skin," Varkas murmured, his voice almost thoughtful. "Make me mad, so I act impulsively. Then you would look for an opening… and self-destruct."

Damien's eyes widened.

He had been seen through completely.

Then—he moved.o

The air cracked.

In less than a fraction of a second, Damien launched himself forward, his speed surpassing all human limitations. Faster than the eye. His body became a blur, a shockwave erupting behind him as he closed the distance between himself and the demonic wolves.

Then—another presence.

From the shattered entrance, a figure burst into the room, moving just as fast, but in the opposite direction. 

Sunny.

 He moved like a streak of darkness, weaving through the bloodied floor, reaching for something small—Aglaea. She hadn't moved. She couldn't move.

She was frozen in place, trapped between shock and horror, her violet eyes locked onto the carnage around her, her hands trembling, unable to even lift herself from the ground. Sunny grabbed her without hesitation.

His arm wrapped around her small form, yanking her up as he pivoted on his heel and ran.The moment he did—

Boom.

The explosion consumed the room. A deafening roar filled the chamber, fire and force swallowing everything in its path. The walls buckled from the impact, sending cracks spider-webbing across the stone as chunks of the ceiling began to collapse under the sheer magnitude of the blast.

Sunny did not stop.

His feet pounded against the ground, his body twisting mid-air, pulling Aglaea tightly against him as he leapt through the collapsing doorway. The world behind him erupted in flames, heat licking at his cloak as he barely managed to evade the full force of the explosion.

They hit the ground hard, rolling down the bloodstained steps, the force sending them tumbling into the open night air. When Sunny finally came to a stop, his breathing was controlled, sharp, measured—but his expression darkened.

Through the smoke and fire, Varkas stepped forward. He was still standing. Not only that—one of the demonic wolves beside him barely looked injured, its massive frame illuminated in the glow of the dying explosion.

But the third… The third demonic wolf was nearly dead. Its body twitched, its chest barely rising, its entire form limp, struggling to push itself up. Sunny's eyes narrowed.

Lord Damien had done enough damage to cripple one of them, but it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Time to run." He did not waste another second. His feet dug into the dirt, his muscles coiled, and he bolted toward his horse at full speed. The moment he reached it, he swung himself onto the saddle, securing Aglaea beside him with a single fluid motion.

Then—he rode. He rode hard and fast, his body leaning forward, his grip on the reins unforgiving as the horse tore through the open field. Behind them, the demonic wolves moved.

The third one—dying, broken— somehow rose to its feet. Its body began to regenerate. The blackened, burned flesh slowly reformed, sinew knitting itself back together, bones resetting.

Lord Damien had been smart. But he had not been smart enough. For all his power, for all his planning—he had underestimated the regeneration of demonic wolves. 

They had survived two entire eras of war.

Greed, lust, betrayal, they survived almost everything. Even if these isolated individuals were to form together in unity, the demonic wolfs would still survive.

They had survived total annihilation.

And they were still standing.

The third wolf's leg reformed.

Its hand regrew. Its spine straightened, the cracks along its ribs sealing themselves, the horrific wounds knitting closed like they had never existed. Demonic wolves did not need eyes to see. But even so—its eyes regenerated.

The rest of its body followed. It was whole again.

And it was ready to hunt.