The colossal corpse of the three-headed ogre lay still, its massive form sprawled across the battlefield like a monument to the brutal struggle that had just taken place.
Its thick, matted fur was soaked in dark blood, pooling beneath the severed necks, seeping into the earth as if the ground itself was drinking in the remains of its life.
The air was thick with the scent of iron and sweat, clinging to the exhausted warriors like a second skin.
Asael and his group slumped onto the ground, their limbs heavy, their bodies screaming with exhaustion.
Every breath they took felt like fire in their lungs, raw and ragged from the endless fight.
Their weapons, once wielded with determined fury, now lay loosely in their grips, the weight of battle pressing down on them.
For a moment, silence reigned.
The eerie, fragile stillness that follows a hard-fought victory.
Then—
"Ohoho! You all managed to defeat him? Incredible!"
The voice rang out, deep and booming, carrying an unsettling amusement.
It seemed to come from nowhere, yet somehow from everywhere at once.
Asael’s breath hitched. Every muscle in his body tensed.
The others snapped to attention, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
Something shifted.
The air shimmered, a distortion rippling through space like a reflection on disturbed water.
A shape began to form within that disturbance—at first faint, barely more than a mirage, but then growing more defined, more real.
And then, he was there.
The figure stood before them, his presence as unnatural as the magic that had summoned him.
His body was translucent, flickering at the edges like a dying flame, as if the world itself refused to fully contain him.
Dark tattoos crawled across his arms and chest, pulsating with an eerie, shifting glow—living ink that writhed like snakes beneath his skin.
A mask concealed his face, devoid of emotion, void of humanity.
Yet the weight of his presence was undeniable.
It pressed down on them like an unseen force, something ancient, something that should not be lingering in the world of the living.
Asael’s fingers curled around his sword, knuckles whitening.
His voice was steady, but there was an edge of caution beneath it.
"Who are you?"
The figure chuckled.
The sound was deep, smooth—yet there was something off about it. Something wrong.
"Me?" His arms spread slightly, his flickering form swaying as if caught between existence and nothingness.
"I''m an Abyss devotee. In your orders, an exile. A Voodooist."
The word fell into the air like a curse.
A Voodooist.
The name alone sent a chill down their spines, their blood turning cold at its mere mention.
The Voodooists—once a sect of humans who had dared to tamper with the forbidden.
They had reached beyond the veil of life and death, torn open the fabric of existence, and bargained with the unknown.
Their magic was not of the world—it was a corruption, a twisting of the natural order.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
They had sacrificed flesh and soul alike, wielded power that was never meant for mortal hands.
And for that, they had been hunted, cast out, erased from history.
Yet here, one of them stood again.
Not a whisper of the past. Not a fading memory.
A living shadow from a forgotten horror.
Asael’s heart pounded in his chest.
This was dangerous.
This was not something they could simply walk away from.
The man tilted his head slightly, his voice almost playful.
"Well, you can call me Morris."
The name meant nothing. But his title did.
Before Asael could process it, Lily’s instincts took over.
She moved without hesitation, fingers tightening on her bowstring as she loosed an arrow in a single, fluid motion.
The projectile sliced through the air, aimed directly for Morris’s heart.
But—
It passed through him.
Like he wasn’t even there.
"It won’t work on me."
Morris’s voice was tinged with amusement, as if he had seen this reaction countless times before.
Kenta narrowed his eyes. "A ghost?"
Morris shook his head, his form flickering like a candle caught in the wind.
"Not exactly."
The tattoos along his arms shifted, twisting and writhing with something almost alive, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
"I am a spirit."
Asael’s grip on his sword tightened. "A spirit?"
"Yes, a spirit fixed in this forest. A watcher, an observer."
Something in his tone sent a shiver down Asael’s spine.
There was an ominous weight to those words, a depth of meaning that he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.
Asael’s mind raced.
A Voodooist. A spirit. A being bound to this place.
Someone had put him here.
"Who fixed you here?" Asael asked, voice tight.
Morris let out a slow, knowing chuckle.
"Oh, it was Tores. One of my tribesmen."
The name landed like a hammer.
Asael’s stomach twisted.
Tores.
They all knew that name.
Tores—the Demon King’s general.
The most feared monster of all time.
Asael’s throat was dry.
His fingers trembled slightly before he steadied them.
"You knew him?"
Morris nodded, and for a moment, there was something almost nostalgic in his voice.
"Knew him?" His tone softened. "He was one of us. We were from the same tribe."
His flickering form became momentarily more solid before fading again.
"I was the chief. And Tores... he was meant to be my successor."
His voice dropped lower, reverent, filled with something that was almost admiration.
"A prodigy. A true master of dark magic. No one could match him."
Morris’s glowing eyes flickered as he studied the group, lingering on Asael’s golden irises.
A ghost of something unreadable passed across his face before he spoke, his voice carrying an unsettling ease.
"By the way... are you a Hero, by chance?"
The words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.
The gentle rustling of the trees seemed to fade, swallowed by the weight of the question.
Asael met the spirit’s gaze without hesitation. There was no point in lying.
"Yes."
Morris’s lips curled into a slow, eerie smile beneath his mask.
It was not a smirk of amusement, nor was it one of malice.
It was something else entirely—something deeper, like a man unraveling a mystery long kept from him.
"Oh, how interesting..." His voice dropped, taking on a thoughtful cadence. "Then that must mean..."
He let the words trail off, but there was no need to finish them. The truth was already sinking into place.
"The Demon King has risen."
Asael nodded.
"Yes. That’s why we’re here—to find clues about him."
Morris let out a low chuckle, the sound barely above a whisper, yet it seemed to echo through the trees.
The tattoos spiraling across his translucent body pulsed, shifting like ink in water, forming and reforming patterns beyond comprehension.
"Is that so? Well then..."
He took a step closer.
Though his body was that of a spirit, his presence felt unnervingly tangible, as though he stood at the edge of a great abyss, staring into something only he could see.
"How about I help you?"
A ripple of tension passed through the group.
"You?" Asael asked, his voice edged with caution.
"Of course," Morris chuckled. "I know everything about this forest. Every creature that lurks here, every secret buried beneath its roots."
His words sank into their minds, heavy with unspoken implications.
An ally with such knowledge would be invaluable. And yet, something about him made Asael’s stomach twist.
"But," Morris continued, tilting his head slightly, "I cannot leave this place. I am bound here, forever cursed to wander these trees."
His glowing eyes gleamed beneath his mask, flickering like embers in the dark.
"So, in exchange for my knowledge... I want you to answer some questions of mine."
Asael’s expression hardened.
"That depends on your questions."
Morris let out another amused chuckle.
"Of course, of course. You’re free to refuse, but I think you’ll find my questions... quite relevant."
A pause.
Then, as though savoring the moment, he finally asked, "You all seem to know Tores. Can you tell me what happened to him?"
His voice had changed—just slightly.
A faint shift in his tone, subtle enough that the others might not have noticed.
But Asael did.
It carried something deeper, something personal.
Asael hesitated for only a moment before answering.
"Tores is now one of the Demon King’s generals."
Silence.
It was not the kind of silence that came from surprise.
It was the kind that stretched, that settled in the bones, that felt as if the very forest itself had stopped breathing.
Morris exhaled slowly, a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.
"Ah... I see. That boy always did have a dangerous talent for the dark arts."
His fingers twitched at his side, as if recalling something long buried.
Then, his gaze sharpened.
"And what about Grion?"
Asael frowned.
"Grion?" The name was unfamiliar on his tongue. "I’ve never heard that name before."
The others exchanged confused glances. None of them knew.
Morris tilted his head ever so slightly, unreadable. Then, without another word, he moved on.
"Tell me, then," he murmured, "what does the Demon King look like? What are his powers?"
Asael hesitated only for a moment.
"His appearance isn’t fixed," he said carefully. "He can transform into any monster at will."
The moment the words left his lips—
Morris’s eyes burned with a strange, eerie light.
A deep chuckle rumbled from within him, something between understanding and bitter amusement.
"Ahaha... of course. As expected. So he is Demon king now."
There was no shock in his voice. No hesitation. Only certainty.
A cold unease curled in Asael’s chest.
He clenched his fists.
"How can you be so sure?" His voice was sharper than before, demanding.
Morris slowly tilted his head.
The forest darkened.
The gentle golden light filtering through the trees dimmed as though the very air had thickened, choking the sun.
"Because," Morris whispered, "that power belongs to Grion."
A tense silence fell over them.
A dreadful realization began to take root.
Asael’s breath hitched.
His pulse pounded in his ears.
"What do you mean?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
Morris’s translucent form flickered like a dying flame.
"The ability to change oneself at will," he said, his voice quiet but weighted with finality. "Grion is a doppelganger."
The words crashed into them like a thunderclap.
The air grew heavy, suffocating.
No one moved.
Asael could hear his own heartbeat hammering against his ribs.
A doppelganger.
A race that had been wiped out long ago.
A race that could become anyone. Take any form. Wear any face.
And the Demon King... was one of them.
"That’s impossible," Lily whispered, shaking her head. "The doppelganger race was wiped out ages ago!"
Morris merely smiled.
"So you thought."
There was something almost pitying in his tone.
"But some things never truly vanish."
The world Asael thought he knew was shifting beneath his feet.
The Demon King wasn’t just a monster.
He was something worse.
A creature that could have been lurking in the shadows of history, waiting, preparing.
His mind raced.
How long had the Demon King existed?