Prologue told in the previous chapter that how demons came into this world and where did humans get magic from , also main antagonist introduced in prologue.
You may read it but not must. But as a author i advised you to read it.
Otherwise
There is small information about world
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It has been 1,200 years since the disappearance of Goddess Elaria, the last true protector of the world.
In her absence, no one can say how many lives have been lost to the demons. Each day, countless people fall to their claws—mercilessly slaughtered.
Though the centuries have brought change, two great wars between humans and demons have already scarred history.
Powerful clans have since risen, forming organizations to defend both themselves and the common folk. Yet in this world, nothing comes without a price. In exchange for protection, ordinary people must offer food, clothing, and resources—trading survival for safety .
Surviving in this cursed world is a daily struggle. Yet, even amid despair, new lives are born—children who take their first breaths in a world that offers them no mercy. Many are slain by demons moments after birth; others survive only to be enslaved by their own kind.
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Today,
in the Vermilion Clan—the most powerful clan of Shodowfen Village—a child was born. But joy did not accompany his arrival. His mother, weakened and broken, took her final breath moments after bringing him into the world. With her dying strength, she cradled him in her arms, named him Eran, and whispered a wish into his tiny ears: "You will fulfill your father's dream—to bring happiness to humanity by ending the reign of demons."
Eran was adopted by his uncle and aunt, who already had a son named Jagroth—three years older than Eran. The two boys grew up like brothers, surrounded by care and comfort. Their home lacked nothing, and their days were filled with laughter and warmth.
One day, demons attacked Shadowfen. It was a brutal onslaught, but the warrior of organization known as Kshatra swiftly eliminated the threat. Amid the chaos, two children were left orphaned—Leela and Kael. Moved by compassion and praised by the villagers, Eran's aunt adopted them too. To the people of Shadowfen, she and her husband had become heroes.
Eran, Jagroth, Leela, and Kael—bound not by blood but by love—shared an unbreakable bond. They worked together, played together, laughed, and dreamed under the same roof. For a while, it seemed like happiness had found a way to exist, even in a cursed world.
But that illusion shattered when Eran turned ten.
Jagroth, the family's blood son, was sent to the prestigious academy—a matter of pride for the Vermilion clan. He had begged his parents to send Eran, Leela, and Kael with him. But they had made other plans.
The day Jagroth left, everything changed.
Eran, Kael, and Leela were thrown into a dark cell beneath the family's estate. Betrayed by the very people they once called parents, their lives of laughter turned into silence. Their dreams, into chains.
Eran couldn't understand why his aunt was doing this to them. His young mind was numb with confusion and fear. The people he once called family now seemed like strangers wrapped in kindness too deliberate to trust.
Uncle and aunt didn't beat them—they fed them. Day and night, meals were forced upon Eran, Kael, and Leela. Whenever they refused to eat, Uncle's voice would thunder through the walls, followed by harsh scoldings and occasional beatings. The children, once full of life, were reduced to swollen shells of themselves. Their only routine was to wake up, eat whatever was given, and sleep again. Eventually, they grew so bloated they could barely stand, let alone walk.
Then, one night, everything changed.
Eran, half-awake and shivering in the damp silence, heard voices coming from the room above. It was Uncle, his voice low but urgent.
"The kshtra leader won't survive much longer. I'm certain the Origami clan will betray us again. We need to complete the Crimson Ascendance ritual soon and awaken the true power of vermilion clan within Jagroth."
A second voice responded, filled with unease, "You're planning to use these children for the ritual? They'll die."
There was a pause. Eran's heart pounded in his chest.
Uncle spoke again, calmly, almost coldly, "Nothing will happen to them. Why do you think we've fed them so much? Their blood is rich—pure. They're born of the upper line of the Vermilion clan, gifted with the blood-manipulating ability. Their sacrifice will ignite the ancient flame within Jagroth." Also now if our clan want to survive then we have to do this.
Eran lay frozen in the darkness, the weight of betrayal heavier than any chain. They weren't being cared for—they were being prepared.
After overhearing everything, Eran wanted to warn Kael and Leela—but then he paused. If they knew, they'd panic… and panic wouldn't save them. Instead, he kept the burden to himself, pretending to sleep, pretending to eat, while inside, he was desperately trying to awaken something—anything -- some powers—within him.
Day after day, he pushed, hoping some dormant power would ignite and break them free from this nightmare. But nothing came. No power stirred. His body, now bloated from months of forced feeding, could barely support his own weight, let alone an escape.
And so, the days crawled on.
Then one early morning when whole village is sleeping, it happened.
Strange men arrived—faces hidden under black scarves, eyes hollow with routine cruelty. Without a word, they dragged Eran, Kael, and Leela from their cell and loaded them onto wooden carts. The road was long, rough, and silent. Eventually, they reached a remote mine nestled in the shadow of forgotten mountains.
The air was thick with coal dust and the sharp scent of something burning. Only dim light glowed from makeshift lamps, each one holding a strange, spicy-smelling paste that flickered like dying embers. The children were led deep into the mine until they reached a cavern. There, in the center, stood a massive jar carved from ancient stone, its rim lined with black sigils. Beneath it was a shallow pit.
Where in the middle of ground,
A large triangle was drawn on the ground with white paint, its lines sharp and precise.
At each corner stood a stone container, weathered and carved with old symbols, sheltered under small wooden sheds with hanging bones swaying in the wind.
In the center of a traingle, a bonfire blazed fiercely. Above it, an iron pot hung from ropes tied to a wooden frame, gently swaying. The pot released a thick, reddish steam that carried the scent of burning herbs and blood.
The three children, weakened and confused, were forced into the stone containers. A fire burned in the center, its flames turning black with bursts of white sparks. Charcoal and powdered lime were tossed into the blaze, sending bitter smoke through the cavern. The air grew hot. Eran felt dizzy, almost calm, like the moment before sinking in deep water.
Then, footsteps echoed from the entrance.
His uncle and aunt entered, followed by an old man in crimson robes—his eyes hollow, his breath shaking. The priest stopped a few feet from the stone jar and looked at the children with pity.
"You will sacrifice these kids?" the priest asked, his voice trembling. "Do you really believe blood will pour from their bodies for eighteen months without stopping? These are children. Have you no mercy?"
Eran's aunt, calm and cold, stepped forward.
"Do the demons show mercy?" she said, her eyes dark. "If the ritual didn't require live blood—directly from the body—I would never have chosen them. But we have no choice."
Her words cut deeper than any wound. In that moment, Eran understood: to them, he was nothing but a vessel—fattened for slaughter, loved only for his blood.
The priest raised a trembling hand, his voice low but firm. "One thing must be remembered—throughout these eighteen months, my chanting must never stop. And nothing must happen to Jagroth. His safety is the anchor of this ritual." If I face any problem during the ritual, I do not know its consequences
He paused, glancing at Eran's aunt. "Have you brought Jagroth's blood?"
"Yes," she replied without emotion.
Uncle gave a small nod, signaling the ritual to begin.
Several men emerged from the shadows, carrying a pot carved from obsidian, its rim etched with glowing red runes. They placed it on a high stone leg above the bonfire. From its base, drops of blood fell slowly, suspended for a moment in the air before sinking into the flame. Jagroth's blood.
As the droplets fed the fire, Kael and Leela's eyes widened.
Then the priest stepped forward, holding a radiant red book that shimmered as if inked with blood and light. He opened it slowly, reverently, and began to chant. The words were foreign, rhythmic, ancient—and wrong. They echoed with power that didn't belong to this world.
Three more figures entered the cavern, each bearing a metallic ring marked with ancient sigils. Their faces were veiled, and their movements were mechanical. Without speaking, they approached the children.
"Why are you doing this....leave us..please" Eran whimpered.
Kael began to scream... Don't.. Don't cut my hand...
Leela cried out for help please help... don't do this ....pleee...
Their voices shook the chamber—but nothing stirred the hearts of the men. The three figures knelt beside the children, placed the glowing rings around their wrists, and began to slice.
They cut deep into the veins—slow, precise incisions meant not to kill, but to bleed. The cries of the children turned into agonized wails. Fatigue and pain crushed their will. Their bloated bodies, swollen from months of unnatural feeding, could offer no resistance. They could do nothing but scream.
Blood spilled freely, flowing into the carved channels inside the stone container. The blood followed ancient paths, lighting up as it ran, and converged at the base of the bonfire, forming a glowing triangular seal. The flames surged higher, fed not just by wood, but by the pain and life of childrren