Rearing Demons
Chapter 36: Distant Memory

Chapter 36: Distant Memory

"Get up, slave boy!"A sharp crack of the whip echoed through the grim courtyard, its braids slicing the humid air. Each strike landed on a frail child sprawled in the dirt—his skin laced with deep gashes that oozed red. He had scarcely more flesh than bones, entirely naked but for the heavy, gray shackles at his ankles. Those shackles linked him to a chain of other emaciated captives in identical misery. "Who said you could rest?!"

Again, the snaking whips rained down, forcing the child to clench his jaw, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Yet he uttered no sound, as if stifling his sobs was the only dignity left to him.

"Master, please... He will die!"

An older man—just as thin but with a hunched posture—dropped to his knees nearby. Despite wanting to shield the child’s back with his own body, he was held in place by two burly guards. Beneath the layers of grime, his face bore a tortured expression, lips trembling as he uttered:

"He’s my son... Please, let him live!"

His voice broke on that final plea, a father’s heartbreak laid bare for all to see.

"Die? Then let him. He’s nothing but a useless spawn!" The head guard’s voice dripped with casual cruelty as he lashed the whip again, unbothered by the possibility of killing the young boy.

"Hit me instead! Take my flesh!" The father’s eyes brimmed with tears. Hands, rough with scabs, clutched each other in abject desperation. He tried crawling closer, scraping bloody knees against the coarse ground, but the guards yanked him back by his collar. "Spare the child..."

At last, the head guard halted. He stood over the fainting boy—flesh torn and battered, consciousness slipping away—and then turned his sneer on the old man.

"You want my whip that badly, old fool?" He stared, taking in the trembling father’s ragged frame. "Fine. Since you’re so eager to suffer, I’ll whip you instead."

A twisted smirk played on his lips as he redirected the lash. But even that small reprieve came too late for the child, lying limply on the blood-smeared dirt. In the father’s eyes, anguish and relief mingled—he would take the beating if it saved his son, even for a moment.

"Thank you..." the father whispered brokenly, heartbreak suffusing each syllable. Yet no one listened to a mere slave’s pleas. The guard raised his whip high, laughter echoing across the courtyard as though it were all some twisted sport.

All the while, the boy hovered on the brink of consciousness, vaguely aware of shouting and the sting in his ravaged back. Through half-lidded eyes, he saw his father’s face—a single image of hopeless devotion in a sea of cruelty—and felt a pang of regret that he could do nothing to spare him.

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"Yur, one day..." In a cramped, damp cell, where the walls dripped foul water and the floor felt colder than ice, an injured old man lay beside a wounded child.

Dark bruises and crusted blood marred both their bodies, but still, the old man spoke gently.

"One day, we will be free!"

His voice trembled from pain, yet his eyes held a fierce resolve as he wrapped a trembling arm around the little boy.

"But... Dad, how?" whispered the child—Yur from the past—huddled close, tears pooling in his eyes. His fragile frame shivered with fear. "They’ll kill us..."

"It will happen," the older man insisted, pressing a shaky hand against Yur’s shoulder. Despite every lash and scar, his words brimmed with unbreakable hope. "If not for me, then for you."

Yur listened intently, his heart hammering at the idea of a life beyond chains. In that frozen, leaking cell, those words became a flicker of warmth—a promise of something more. Freedom. His father’s cherished dream.

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"Yur, stay close," the old man urged, guiding his son up a steep, unyielding hill. Around them trudged dozens of other slaves—men, women, and children alike—each tethered by thick chains clamped to heavy carts heaped with massive stones.

Despite the punishing ascent, none dared collapse. Falling meant death, a reality seared into everyone’s mind. Their cracked, dusty eyes stayed fixed on the crest of the hill. Hope. Freedom. That dim promise was all that drove them forward.

Amid the line of pale, exhausted figures, Yur—still just a child—bore a set of iron links around his waist. He stared at the backs of the laboring slaves, but no real spark glimmered in his gaze... not yet. All he truly saw was his father, the sole person still fighting for his safety, the only one who guarded a flicker of future possibility.

He clutched the old man’s presence like a final anchor, a slender thread of comfort in a life filled with whips and chains. His last and only solace.

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"Don’t forget this song, Yur—no matter what." The old man sat, naked and frail, alongside his equally skinny son. Gently, he patted the boy’s hair. "This song comes from our people. It’s how we fight the pain and suffering we face every second."

He began to hum a soft tune, then recited the lines of a poem—a song that would forever remain in Yur’s memory.

Walk.

Feel the chains, but take a step.

Feel the hurt, but don’t forget.

One day, we will run.

Walk.

Hear the shouts, but don’t turn back.

Hear the cries, but stay on track.

One day, we will run.

Walk.

Let their anger push you through.

Let their fear mean nothing to you.

One day, we will run.

One day, the ground won’t hold us.

One day, the sky will call our names.

Run.

Run.

RUN.

————————————————————————

"Take him out!"

Yur watched, heart pounding, as the old man was dragged from the mud hut, legs forced apart in a degrading display. His father’s face twisted in pain, yet there was still defiance in his eyes.

"One day the ground won’t hold us!" the old man suddenly screamed. "Yur! One day the sky will call our names!"

Despite his agony, he recited snatches of the song he’d shared with Yur since childhood.

Tears slipped down Yur’s cheeks, but he couldn’t do a thing to stop this horror. "Run," the old man whispered, voice ragged.

"Run!" echoed the crowd of slaves, desperate and solemn, their eyes all turning to Yur.

"RUN!" his father shouted, giving one final command. Those words—his last words—lashed at Yur’s heart, and he realized with an ache that he would never see his father again.

————————————————————————

"Run." Staring at the chained moon, Yur whispered quietly, "Father, you’re someone I never meant to forget...but I sacrifice this memory of you."

The moon reminded him so strongly of someone else—someone far more important than anyone else in the world. His father.

A memory he yearned to banish, to free himself from the pain of remembering.

"I sacrifice my most precious memory: you, Father."

Closing his eyes, he felt the chains binding the moon begin to loosen. One by one they rattled and swiveled downward, aiming toward the giant sigil and Yur himself. Yet they could do nothing to him now.

A faint light flickered from Yur’s head and flowed into the sigil, making its lines brighten. Flames whirled like a storm, and the chains around the moon tumbled faster and faster. The entire Cyralim lurched with chaotic power before the ritual circle erupted in a fury of fire—consuming all the chains that once held the moon in place. At last...

...the moon was free.

[Devouring Gate Complete!]

[Moon of the Freed Slaves!]

Yur observed the moon, now blazing with black flames as though reveling in its release. Despite his dulled emotions—despite surrendering the last memory of his father—he found himself smiling at the sight. It shone brilliantly within his Cyralim, a new source of power.

[Host must complete the next step quickly!]

Jarred out of his reverie, Yur recalled what remained of the process. Step Two involved using the moon’s chains to create the Ashen Veil. With the flames having devoured them, those chains were now under his command. He was their master.

With them, he would form the Ashen Veil.

He raised his hands; in the depths of his Cyralim, a colossal hole tore open in the space—an abyss whose bottom he couldn’t see.

A swift motion of his arms brought down the half-burned chains, letting them tumble into the void. Next came the moon’s black flames, spitting down into that meteoric pit.

"The Ritual of Burning Chains!" he declared, initiating the next stage with the existing rune as its foundation.

Meanwhile, in the physical realm, Yur’s body ignited with seething black fire. His flesh melted under the intensity, as if the flames dismantled and rebuilt him—much like the Ritual of the Successor, yet profoundly different.

Ris stared in alarm, unsure what to make of it. Isn’t refining essence supposed to be simpler? Why is his process so extreme?

When she’d refined demonic essence, she created a simple funnel in her Cyralim and absorbed it in minutes. But Yur was doing something shockingly unorthodox, something that twisted essence refinement into a full-blown metamorphosis.

Within the Cyralim, Yur watched the chains and flames cascade into the hole.

The rune, now etched with symbols for this second ritual, seemed to wait—awaiting his final gesture.

A droplet of blood materialized in front of him, not normal blood but something from his deepest core: his life-blood.

Now, with this, I’ll create the Ashen Veil. he thought. The Veil was a special "lake" to hold origin essence—but controlling that raw power required a precise mechanism.

The Devouring Gate would siphon origin essence, the Ashen Veil would contain it, and the Word of Command would keep it docile.

"Unchain," he said, uttering a single syllable. A black symbol flared across the blood droplet.

That single drop fell into the pit below. Silence closed in—a hushed stillness overtook the lake as only echoing drips resounded in its depths. All flames vanished from the Cyralim; the chaos abruptly ended.

The Ashen Veil was formed, and the first two major steps were complete.

Yur landed on the ashen ground, standing before the Ashen Veil. Above him, a white fog—an aura—trickled from the liberated moon, channeling into that subterranean pool. The transition was smooth and perfectly contained, guided by his will.

————————————————————————

"Yur, never forget this." The old man spoke under the pale moonlight, his broken smile revealing missing teeth. Next to him sat a child—barely four years old, limbs trembling in the chill. "Your freedom is the greatest gift you’ll ever own. Don’t give it away...to anyone."

They huddled close against the cold, bony arms wrapped around each other, desperately seeking warmth in their frail bodies. Despite the darkness and the endless misery that chained them, the old man’s voice held a steadfast hope.

"Be free," he whispered, pressing his forehead to the boy’s. "Always...be free."

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