Demon Being System

Kaden's legs pounded against the uneven forest floor, the woods stretching endlessly before him like a labyrinth of salvation. Every stride sent jolts of pain shooting up his legs, his torn boot offering little protection against the sharp rocks and gnarled roots hidden beneath the soil. The soles of his feet screamed in agony, but he couldn't stop—not with the soldiers' voices echoing behind him. 

"Stop! You can't run forever!" one shouted, his tone laced with authority. 

But Kaden didn't listen. He couldn't. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest burning with every intake of the cool night air. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision as he dodged low-hanging branches and leapt over fallen logs. The forest felt alive, its shadows shifting and twisting as if mocking his desperate flight. 

"Just a little further," he told himself, though he had no destination in mind. Every step was fueled by raw survival. 

A sharp snap came from behind—a branch breaking under heavy boots. They were gaining on him. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the distant sounds of the city he had left behind. 

Suddenly, a root caught his foot, sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain exploded in his knees and palms as they scraped against the rough dirt. Before he could scramble to his feet, the soldiers were upon him. 

"Got him!" one barked, triumph gleaming in his voice. 

Kaden found himself surrounded, their torches casting flickering shadows that danced menacingly around him. Their armor clinked as they moved closer, weapons drawn, their expressions a mix of smug satisfaction and cruel intent. 

"Should we arrest him?" one soldier asked, his voice hesitant. 

Another scoffed. "Arrest him? For what? Wasting our time? No, let's deal with him here." 

Kaden's stomach twisted as the words sank in. He tried to push himself up, but a boot slammed into his back, driving him back into the dirt. 

"I say we kill him," another soldier said, his voice cold, detached. "Make an example of him for the rest of those rats in the outskirts." 

The first blow came without warning, a sharp kick to his side that knocked the breath from his lungs. Then another. And another. 

The sound of boots meeting flesh echoed through the forest, dull thuds mixing with the crackle of leaves underfoot. Pain exploded in every part of Kaden's body, each strike sending shockwaves of agony that left him gasping. 

"Is this how it ends?" he thought, his vision blurring with tears and blood. He tried to curl into himself, to shield his vital organs, but it was futile. They weren't stopping. 

"Filthy murderer," one of them spat. 

"Did you think you could get away with it?" another sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. 

Kaden's thoughts swirled in a chaotic mess. Regret, anger, fear—they all fought for dominance in his mind. But amid the pain, something else stirred. A dark, seething force that seemed to crawl through his veins. 

His hand twitched against the dirt, and he noticed it—the veins on his arm, black as ink, pulsing with a strange energy. 

"What… is this?" 

A deep, guttural growl resonated in his chest, unlike anything he had ever heard from himself before. His heart raced, not with fear but with something primal, something consuming. 

The soldiers paused, their laughter dying in their throats as they noticed the change in him. 

"What's happening to him?" one whispered, his voice tinged with unease. 

Kaden's head snapped up, his eyes wild, glowing faintly with a crimson hue. His thoughts slipped away, replaced by an overwhelming void. 

Then everything went black. 

He didn't feel the next blow. He didn't hear the shouts of the soldiers. All that remained was the darkness—and the power it brought.

__________________________

Kaden's eyes fluttered open, the weight of exhaustion and something far darker pressing down on him. His head throbbed, each heartbeat echoing like a drum in his skull. He tried to take a step but realized he was leaning against a tree, its bark rough against his back. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, so thick it made him gag. 

His vision cleared, and the sight before him froze him in place. The forest floor was painted in crimson, dark pools glistening under the faint moonlight. Scattered around him were bodies—or what was left of them. Severed limbs, mangled torsos, and disfigured faces lay strewn like discarded toys. The ground bore scorch marks, the trees around him charred and splintered from what he could only assume were the soldiers' failed attempts to defend themselves. 

Kaden's breath quickened, his chest heaving as he scanned the carnage. Then his gaze landed on a single soldier's hand. It clutched something tightly—a photograph. His trembling fingers reached out hesitantly, but even before he pried it loose, he could see the picture clearly. 

A smiling girl. Young, innocent. Her face untainted by the blood that coated everything else. 

Kaden staggered backward, his stomach twisting violently. "What happened here?" he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his ears. 

His eyes darted to his hands, and the world seemed to spin. His fingers were drenched in blood, sticky and warm, dripping onto the soil below. His palms, smeared with bits of flesh, told a story he couldn't remember but couldn't deny. His entire body bore the evidence—splashes of red, streaks of something darker, like the remnants of whatever power had overtaken him. 

"No… no, no, no!" he stammered, his voice cracking as his knees buckled. He fell to the ground, his trembling hands clutching his head as if he could squeeze the memories out. 

His chest tightened, and his vision blurred with tears. "What happened to them?!" he cried, his voice raw and filled with anguish. He wanted to believe it wasn't him. That it couldn't have been him. But the silence of the forest, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves, gave no answer. 

The faces of the soldiers flashed in his mind—their shouts, their laughter, the weight of their boots against his ribs. Now, they were silent. They would never shout or laugh again. 

A strangled scream tore from his throat, echoing through the trees. It wasn't just a scream of horror; it was a scream of guilt, of fear, of something primal and unrelenting. He turned, stumbling away from the scene, his legs barely able to carry him. 

Branches whipped against his face as he ran, but he didn't feel them. He couldn't feel anything except the cold, gnawing terror in his chest. His breaths came in ragged gasps, the taste of bile rising in his throat. 

"Run. Just run." 

He didn't look back—not at the bodies, not at the soldier with the photograph, not at the destruction he knew he had caused. His mind screamed at him to keep moving, to escape the nightmare that had become his reality. 

The forest swallowed him, its shadows deep and unyielding. But no matter how far he ran, the blood on his hands seemed to follow, a haunting reminder of the monster he couldn't understand or control.