♤ The Mark of the Demon Candidate ♤
The pain never really left.
It settled into my bones like a sickness I couldn't shake. I sat beneath a broken archway, fingers limp, dagger slipping from my grip. My latest kill, a twisted, skinless thing lay beside me, still twitching. Already stinking.
The air always smelled like rust and old fire.
I didn't know how long I'd been here. The sky never changed. No sun. No moon. Just a dead grey stretch overhead, cold and flat. Time didn't work right in this place. It stretched and folded, like it was trying to erase me from it altogether.
My clothes were shredded, skin bruised, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless stretches that might've been hours… or days. I couldn't tell anymore.
Then it hit.
A sting, sharp and sudden ripped through my right arm.
I jerked, barely choking down a scream as heat stabbed under my skin. It felt like someone had shoved molten iron into my veins. My nerves caught fire, and something inside me tore.
When it finally stopped, I looked down.
A symbol was there, burned across my forearm, dark and jagged, like it had clawed its way out of me. It didn't glow. Didn't shine. Just sat there, heavy as a scar.
[You have received the Mark of the Demon King Candidate.]
Candidate?
My stomach turned.
The world shifted.
The quiet got louder. The ruins leaned in. Even the dirt under me seemed to tense. It was subtle, but real, like the air itself was watching. Like it knew something had changed.
Shapes moved in the distance.
Growls rolled low across the ground. Wet. Rough. Not human.
They weren't coming for me. But they noticed me now.
Like wolves catching the scent of another predator.
My breath sped up. I slid back into the shadows, heart hammering like a war drum. The mark on my arm throbbed with every beat, hot, steady, aware.
Then, a flash.
Not a sound. Not a blink. Just there.
I wasn't in the ruins anymore. Not really. It was like my mind had been yanked elsewhere.
I saw a man or maybe something worse, standing over a field of corpses. Crown on his head. Blade dripping. Shadows clung to his face, hiding it, but the blood at his feet was impossible to ignore. It poured like a river.
Thousands dead.
No hesitation.
He raised his sword. Pointed.
Not at an enemy.
At me.
I staggered back, and just like that, I was back in my body.
[You have been acknowledged. The Trials will find you. The Hunt will begin.]
My legs gave out. I hit the ground hard. Dirt in my mouth. The mark burned one last time, then cooled.
Then, darkness.
◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇
I floated.
No body. No breath. Just drifting.
"Rise or rot…"
Voices. Dozens. Hundreds. All around me.
"Become king… or become forgotten…"
Flames circled. They hissed, flickered, moved like they were alive. Not warm. Not comforting. Just watching.
They closed in.
Images tore through the smoke:
Me, on a throne of bones.
Me, buried under rubble, mouth open in a silent scream.
Me, hands soaked in blood, standing alone.
Then more faces.
Fleeting. Men. Women. All scarred like me. All branded. Some laughed. Some cried. Others screamed until their throats ripped open.
Candidates.
All of them lost. All of them forgotten.
"How far will you go?"
I tried to answer.
No voice came.
Tried to run.
My legs didn't seem to react.
Then I felt it, something pulling me. Anchoring me.
A heartbeat.
Real. Heavy.
I snapped awake.
Smoke drifted through the air. My mouth tasted like copper. The sky above was still the same dead stretch.
The mark burned cold now.
I sat up slow. Everything ached, but not like before. Something in me had changed. A weight, a clarity. Like something had cracked open inside my mind.
The silence was thicker now.
Watching.
I checked my arm. The skin around the mark looked scorched, but when I touched it, it felt cold. Like old stone.
I didn't wait.
I walked.
No direction. No goal. Just forward. Movement felt safer than standing still.
The ruins around me shifted. Shadows leaned. Shapes moved when I wasn't looking. I passed bones. Dozens of them. Some small, others massive.
One skull stopped me cold.
Same mark as mine, etched deep across the forehead.
I stared.
How many had worn this curse?
How many had failed?
The walls around here were carved up. Not with runes. Not with prayers. Just raw scratches. Angry marks. Tally lines. Some carved deep with blades. Others with bare fingers.
One line stood out:
"The Crown is a curse."
The letters shook. Scratched in like they were screamed into the stone.
I turned away.
Kept walking.
The world kept whispering. Groans in the wind. Faces in the cracks. Laughter in the dark.
I didn't sleep. Couldn't. Just moved until I collapsed behind a stone altar that stank of dried blood and old death.
The mark didn't speak again.
But I could feel it.
Watching.
Waiting.
Changing me, slowly.