Chen Ming sat by the glowing embers of the campfire, the silence of the Demon King's domain pressing against his ears. The flames crackled softly, their warmth doing little to melt the ice that had settled in his chest. Across the fire, the Demon King's imposing figure leaned casually against a jagged boulder, but Chen Ming paid him no mind. Tonight, his thoughts had strayed elsewhere.
His older sister. Chen Ming's heart twisted painfully as the memories flooded back, unbidden and relentless.
Chen Ling had been so small, so fragile. Orphans cast adrift in a world that had no room for compassion, no place for the weak, it had always been the three of them: Chen Ming, Chen Ning, and Chen Ling. She was the light in their darkest days, her laughter a balm to their battered souls. Chen Ling, with her endless optimism and boundless love, had always tried to shield them both.
"Don't cry, Ning," Chen Ling had whispered once, brushing his hair away from his tear-streaked face after a particularly cruel encounter with the landlord. "Someday, we'll find a place where no one will hurt us. I promise."
But that promise had been a lie.
Chen Ming clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He could still hear the screams. The fire. The cruel laughter of the bandits who had descended on their village.
He'd been too weak to do anything. He'd cowered while his sister fought, while Chen Ling sacrificed everything to give them a chance to escape. Ning had clung to his arm, terrified, as their sister pushed them toward safety.
"Take him and run!" Chen Ling had shouted, her voice raw with desperation. "Go! Now!"
And he had. He'd run and run, dragging Ning along, his heart shattering with every step. His last memory of her was her tearful face as they reached the safety of the woods, his small hand clutching his tightly.
But as time passed, Chen Ning had memory problems due to the trauma and soon forgot his older sister. Though Ming promised to never forget her.
A tear slid down Chen Ming's cheek, and he wiped it away angrily. How could he cry now? After all this time? He'd told himself he was over it, that he'd moved on. But the truth was, he'd never stopped running—not from the bandits, but from his guilt.
"You're thinking too hard," the Demon King's voice broke through his reverie, sharp and sardonic.
Chen Ming looked up, startled. He hadn't even realized the Demon King was watching him.
"I wasn't aware my thoughts were your business," Chen Ming replied, his voice colder than he intended.
The Demon King smirked, his crimson eyes gleaming in the firelight. "You wear your emotions like a second skin, human. It's hard not to notice."
Chen Ming scowled, turning away. The last thing he needed was the Demon King's pity—or his mockery.
"If you're going to sulk, at least do it quietly," the Demon King continued, though there was a strange softness to his tone. "I'm not in the mood to babysit your misery."
Chen Ming's temper flared, but he bit back his retort. Instead, he stood abruptly, his shadow flickering against the jagged rocks.
"I'm going for a walk," he said curtly.
The Demon King said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow as Chen Ming strode into the darkness. The cold night air bit at his skin, but he welcomed it. Anything to distract from the ache in his chest.
"Ling," he whispered into the void, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry."
The words hung in the air, unanswered, as the shadows swallowed him whole.