Thousands of footsteps echoed through the forest as the army approached.
"Kill the demon! For Morta—"
The soldier didn't get to finish his sentence before the boy's sword cut him down. Without hesitation, the boy charged at the army, easily thinning their numbers with every passing second. No matter how many reinforcements arrived, they met the same fate as those before them—joining the ever-growing piles of corpses around.
The soldiers watched in horror as the boy stood atop a mountain of corpses, the lifeless bodies of their fallen comrades piled up beneath him. At the sight of their powerlessness, the boy burst into frantic laughter.
How foolish these weaklings were to think they stood a chance against him. He should have done this sooner, he should've struck back the moment they started hunting him.
All those days of starving, all those nights of sleeping in the dirt alongside insects... He wouldn't have had to endure any of it. He wouldn't have had to leave his home if he had just fought back from the start and ended their pitiful lives.
But now, he didn't have to worry about living like that anymore. He didn't have to hide. The boy was finally free, no longer bound by fear, and could now take pleasure in cutting them down where they stood.
Then, another wave of soldiers started approaching the area.
"End the white-eyed demon!" they shouted as they charged toward him.
That's right, his white eye. The boy had forgotten that all of this happened because he had two different colored eyes. He couldn't comprehend what madness had befallen the soldiers, throwing themselves to their deaths for such a simple thing. But the boy didn't care anymore.
A wicked smile spread across the boy's face. He leaped at them, sword in hand, ready to cut them down like the ones before. Truthfully, this couldn't be any more fun.
Suddenly, the boy fell off his bed hitting his face against the floor.
He groaned, rolling in pain before finally stopping to catch his breath. Sweat poured down his face as he stared at the old ceiling above him, his heart still pounding from the dream. Slowly, he sat up and glanced around the tiny, empty space he called his room. It had little to its name—just a worn-out bed and a small wardrobe filled with plain clothes. The only thing that stood out was the cloak hanging inside.
"Arthur, come down to eat!" a voice called faintly from downstairs.
The boy remained still for a moment, looking up at the ceiling before reaching for the eyepatch over his right eye. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he felt the soft patch of fabric still in place.
"That's right, I'm Arthur," the boy proudly muttered to himself.
He stood back up, grabbed a set of clothes and his cloak, and left his room.
As he stepped into the narrow hallway, he suddenly froze. Visions of the corpses he had slain appeared around him, their blood pooling across the floor, slowly flooding the space.
Arthur struggled to remain standing as the lifeless bodies began crawling toward him, their hoarse voices merging into an eerie chorus of curses. Deep down, he knew what they were saying. They blamed him for the gruesome fates they had suffered at his hands. But that wasn't right. He didn't remember committing such cruelty—yet they didn't care. Why would they care?
His breathing became erratic. A crushing weight pressed down on his chest as his vision blurred. His hands and legs trembled uncontrollably. Then a cold, lifeless hand grabbed his arm.
Arthur's eyes widened in terror. His body refused to move. His mind screamed, but no words escaped his lips. He didn't know what to do—if there was anything he could do. Closing his eyes, he braced himself for the worst.
"Are you okay, Arthur, my dear?"
A gentle touch pulled at the boy's, Arthur's sleeve of his pajama.
Arthur flinched. His eyes shot open, only to find Granny Anna standing beside him, her warm gaze filled with concern.
"You seem uncomfortable. Perhaps the new pajamas I knitted for you aren't to your liking?" she asked softly.
Arthur's breathing steadied as his shaking limbs slowly subsided. He remained silent for a moment before looking back at her.
"Not at all, Granny Anna. They're perfect," he replied with a simple smile.
The old woman smiled back and left him to his own devices.
Arthur took a deep breath, shaking off the lingering fear. Then, he finished getting ready for the day. He stepped into the bathroom across the hall, bathed, and changed into fresh clothes before heading downstairs—to the pharmacy where he now lived.
Four months ago, Granny Anna and Grandpa Albert had saved him. A generous old couple in their sixties, they had found him unconscious near the riverbank and, with some help, dragged him back to the city.
Luckily for Arthur, Granny Anna was a doctor—the only doctor in the city. She had treated his injuries, and afterward, they had let him stay in the guest room on the pharmacy's second floor.
"You're finally here," Granny Anna said cheerfully, handing him a boxed meal that Grandpa Albert had prepared.
"Eat it before it gets cold," Grandpa Albert muttered, his usual stern expression in place as he sat down.
The three shared a hearty meal, chatting here and there—at least until Arthur finished his food in record time. Even now, he was still surprised by how much he could eat.
After they finished, Granny Anna took the empty boxes and headed to the back of the pharmacy, where she and Grandpa Albert had their bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.
The pharmacy itself was small and reeked of medicine. His clothes were plain, the bathing water was always cold, and the small boxed meals weren't truly enough to fill his stomach.
Still, he wasn't alone. And that, more than anything, gave him a comfort he couldn't quite describe.
Yet, even after months of settling into this routine, one part of it still left a bad taste in his mouth. Arthur turned his gaze toward the pharmacy's front door remembering that the worst part of his day was about to begin.