Chapter 3: Nero the Demon Hunter

Year: 32 BCE

Calendar: Quintilis, Day 22

The morning sun filtered through the mist clinging to Solgarde's towers, casting soft golden light over the fortress-city. Marble roads gleamed, birds sang in the nearby woods, and the Starwell Plaza pulsed gently with celestial energy. It was a day of peace.

But Nero's heart was not at peace.

The twenty-year-old orphan moved with quiet purpose through the bustling streets, past merchants opening their stalls and young apprentices sweeping the steps of ancient buildings. Clad in a simple hunter's cloak, his yellow, messy hair stirred with the wind, and his amber eyes — sharp, but tired — stayed fixed ahead.

He was headed for the Hall of the Guardians.

The Hall loomed at the city's heart like a monument to strength — towering, ancient, unyielding. Its stone walls were etched with divine wards, and celestial blades hung from the vaulted ceilings. It was here that legends were born, where raw recruits were shaped into Demon Hunters… where he had once dreamed of belonging.

Nero stepped inside, the doors parting with a resonant hum. The air was cool, touched with the scent of metal, old scrolls, and sacred incense.

And then he saw him.

Leonidas Kyrenaios Aegion.

The Demon Hunter Leon.

The Son of Sparta.

The man who had once saved his life.

Leon stood at the center of the Hall, an imposing figure bathed in divine radiance, flanked by his elite comrades. Towering and fierce, he was a living embodiment of strength and power. His dark brown hair cascaded like a lion's mane, flowing down his back with wild majesty. His golden eyes glowed faintly, a subtle hint of the godly senses already attuned to the unseen world around him.

His divine armor shimmered under the flickering torchlight, reflecting the intensity of his presence. Across his broad shoulders, just visible above the edge of his crimson cloak, the Aegida-Therion Mark blazed faintly — a symbol of unimaginable power, linking him to both Ares and Hades. A mark that was said to make him the strongest hunter to ever walk the earth. ;He alone is the honored One

Nero paused near the entryway, silent.

(Senior Leon...)

The thought came unbidden, filled with reverence, almost like a prayer.

Leon's gaze swept over his comrades. His voice was firm, low—commanding, filled with certainty.

"Let's go. I sense a demon."

No questions. No hesitation. His comrades—equally powerful but in awe of him—nodded in perfect sync. Within moments, the group moved, their footsteps echoing through the marble Hall like drumbeats.

Nero stayed quiet. He couldn't speak.

He watched as Leon disappeared beyond the Hall's archway, heading for the gate that led out into the wilds.

His hands clenched into fists, but not out of anger. Longing.

He remembered it all too well: the day Leon had pulled him from the ruins of a destroyed village. The divine armor. The crackling energy of the gods. The blade that sliced through demons like whispers in the wind. Nero had been no older than six—scared, bleeding, nearly lost.

And in that chaos, it was Leon who had knelt before him, wiped the blood from his cheek, and said only two words:

"You're safe."

From that day forward, Nero had walked the path of a hunter. Not for glory.

But to become worthy of that moment.

Worthy of Leon's legacy.

Worthy of protecting others the way Leon had protected him.

And yet... here he was—still recovering, still watching—while legends like Leon forged their destiny.

His eyes turned to the quest board. His fingers skimmed the parchment listings: low-level demon sightings, escort missions, barrier patrols. Nothing grand. Nothing that would ever stand in Leon's shadow.

But he took one anyway.

"One step at a time," Nero whispered to himself.

His gaze lifted to the archway where Leon had disappeared, his cloak fluttering in the wind.

(I'll get stronger… strong enough to fight beside you. Just wait, Senior Leon…)

With a final glance at the gate, Nero turned and made his way toward the quest wall — the first step of his journey.

His fingers reached for the parchment, scanning the mission listings, when a voice, soft yet firm, broke through his thoughts.

"I told you… you're still recovering."

Nero looked up. There she was.

Althea.

At twenty-five, she was calm, but with a presence that commanded attention. Her raven-black hair flowed like silk, contrasting with the worn edges of her armor, etched with scars that spoke of countless battles. The Demon Hunter Order's crest gleamed proudly on her chestplate, a mark of her experience — she wasn't just a fighter; she was someone who'd seen and survived horrors most recruits only read about.

Her stormy violet eyes locked onto Nero with that familiar, exasperated look, like an older sister scolding him.

"But… it's been two days," Nero said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm fine now. Really."

Althea sighed, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"You never listen…"

She stepped closer, holding out a rolled-up parchment. Nero took it, his eyebrows furrowing as he unrolled it.

"A quest?"

"Class D," Althea said flatly. "There's a small village we've been protecting for a while. It's… full of orphans. Like you once were. No demons there. It's about rebuilding and keeping watch. You'll stay for a week. Help with patrols, guard duties. Teach the kids some basic defense drills if you want. That's it."

Nero blinked, glancing at the scroll again, confused.

"This... is childcare mission?"

"It's a healing mission," Althea corrected softly, her voice gentler now. "You're not ready to swing your fist yet. You still tremble when you clench your fists. I can see it."

Nero didn't say anything. He just stayed silent, his eyes downcast.

Althea stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You're strong, Nero. But strength isn't just about fighting. It's knowing when to rest. When to breathe. Those people in the village need someone like you. And maybe, just maybe, you need them, too."

Nero met her steady gaze, nodded slowly.

"Alright. I'll go."

Althea smiled faintly. "Good. I've already told them to expect you."

She turned to leave but paused.

"And Nero… if you even think about searching demon then picking a fight with them on the way there…"

He gave her a small, guilty grin. "I'll behave. Promise."

As Althea walked away, her footsteps echoing down the polished corridor, Nero looked down at the parchment in his hand.

A village of orphans. A quiet, peaceful place. It wasn't the grand mission he'd dreamed of — no demons, no battles.

But it was still a mission.

He turned toward the city gates, not heading into battle, but toward something different.

….

The wind blew slowly through the empty ruins. Ashes drifted in the air like snow, covering everything in a gray blanket. The once-proud city around them had been destroyed — broken buildings, burned homes, and streets filled with rubble. Everything was quiet now, as if the world itself had stopped breathing.

Two figures walked alone through the ruins.

One was a tall man, walking confidently with his hands behind his back. His name was Sparda, a powerful demon who chose to take on a human appearance. He looked like a nobleman in his late twenties — handsome, calm, and mysterious. His white hair was slicked back neatly, and a silver monocle rested over his left eye, giving him the appearance of a scholar or a lord. He wore a long, dark purple coat with red embroidery, and white gloves that stayed clean no matter how dirty the world around him was. On his back, a long sword — Yamato — was secured, its presence sharp and cold like its master.

Next to him was a young girl named Trish, only 10 years old. Her blonde hair was messy from travel, and she wore a worn-out cloak too big for her small frame. But her eyes were alert, filled with curiosity and caution. She had met Sparda only four days ago. At first, she was scared of him — after all, he was not like other people. The way he fought monsters… it was terrifying.

But over those four days, she had started to feel safe with him. He never raised his voice. He always walked with quiet confidence. And no matter how strong the demons were, they never laid a finger on her — because Sparda was always ahead of them.

Now, they walked through a destroyed part of the city. The sun was blocked by clouds, casting a gloomy light over everything.

Sparda looked around at the destruction and asked, in his smooth, relaxed voice:

"Are you sure humans live here?"

His tone was calm, but there was a hint of amusement in it — like he didn't really believe it, but was curious enough to ask.

Trish nodded seriously.

"Yes. I heard survivors came here. They said this place was safe… or at least safer than the demon-infested villages."

Sparda said nothing. He continued walking forward, his boots tapping lightly on broken stones. He was not worried. He never seemed worried.

Trish glanced up at him, her heart filled with questions. She remembered the way he fought days ago — not like a human at all. One moment he was standing still, the next moment, the demon was cut cleanly in half. He hadn't even fully drawn his sword.

(Why is he talking as if he doesn't know this world? Is Mr. Sparda really a demon hunter? Or something else?)

Just then, Sparda turned his golden eye toward her.

"Am I that charming, even for a lass like you?"

He smirked, clearly teasing her.

Trish's face turned red, and she looked away quickly.

"N-no... I was just thinking…"

Sparda chuckled softly.

"Hmm. That's dangerous, you know. Thinking too hard."

(Especially for humans…)

He didn't say the last part out loud. He just sighed, his expression softening slightly as he looked ahead.

(It's been four days. At first, I thought being around this girl would annoy me. She talks like a squirrel, afraid too easily. But after days of being together…. this girl… she's persistent. Brave, even. Reminds me of the little cursed pets I kept back in the underworld. Loyal. Curious. Harmless… Something about her makes me feel like weird things I can't explain.)

They kept walking. Eventually, they came to a strange place — a wide clearing in the middle of the destroyed city. And there, standing tall and untouched, was a church.

The building was old, with stone walls and a crooked bell tower. It looked fragile, like it could fall at any moment. But strangely, everything else around it was completely destroyed — only this church remained standing.

The stained-glass windows were still whole. The wooden door was closed. And the vines crawling up the stone looked like fingers trying to pull it down — but couldn't.

Sparda stopped walking. His eyes focused on the church.

Trish suddenly grabbed his coat. Her small hand was trembling.

"Don't go there." she said softly.

Sparda raised an eyebrow.

"Why not?"

Trish swallowed nervously.

"This… church—I think this is what they meant. something inside it move at night. And that sound… it hums, like it's alive."

Sparda looked at the building again. The air around it seemed strange — like it shimmered slightly, even though there was no heat. A quiet vibration, barely audible, tickled at the edge of his senses.

(Interesting…)

He placed a hand gently on Trish's head — not kindly, but firmly.

"Stay here. I'll handle it."

He began walking toward the church.

Trish stared at his back, unsure what to do.

"Wait! What if it's true what if… something's inside?"

Sparda turned his head, just a little, and gave her one of his signature half-smirks.

"Then I'll have a little fun. Try not to scream too loudly — it ruins the acoustics."

And with that, he pushed open the door and stepped into the church.

The moment the door closed behind him, the air grew heavier — colder. Trish stared at the building with wide eyes.

(Mr. Sparda?)

Inside the church, Sparda's footsteps echoed.

The shadows along the walls began to move.

To be continue