Rearing Demons

Time passed in a blur that Yur himself could not perceive. When at last he stirred, the harsh, boiling pool that had once enveloped him was gone, leaving only a shallow depression in the ground. 

A dense, crimson fog hovered over the place where the Bahirath had once been, twisting lazily as if drawn by an unseen wind.

|——————|

Name: Yur

Age: 10

Title: —

|——————|

He blinked at the strange display floating in the back of his vision. Three years had slipped by, though his own sense of passing days felt nonexistent. He only knew something profound had happened—a melding of flesh and essence that saved his life.

Slowly, he flexed his limbs. Where rotted holes and missing bones had once been, he now had a patchwork of red and black flesh. An eerie mosaic marred his arms, legs, even parts of his torso. It was unmistakably his body—just altered. Renewed. But not quite whole.

[Host's blood is replenished!]

[Host has absorbed a Bahirath!]

Text shimmered across his vision in silent announcements. Naked as the day he was born, Yur rose from the dark basin that once brimmed with the Bahirath's steaming liquid. 

The scorching earth below felt strangely comfortable now—no longer the torturous heat from before.

"This place…" he murmured, gazing upwards. The sky overhead looked oddly reminiscent of night, yet there was something off about the color, as if painted in faint red undertones. 

Vague memories came flooding back: stumbling through that glowing tear in the tree; savage creatures gnawing at him; the system urging him to survive at all costs.

"Zulmasharr," he recalled aloud. That was the name of this alien world. He didn't know how or why, but something deep within him insisted that was correct.

As he turned in a slow circle, he took note of the sheer walls encasing him in what looked like a sinkhole or crater. 

A hazy, crimson mist drifted around him, swirling like living smoke. Above, the sky seemed impossibly far away. He had no idea how large this realm was, or if it even had an end.

His memories churned. I was free…  Freed from the human world's torment, only to nearly die again at the claws of monstrous vermin. A distant spark of anger flickered in his chest—anger at the world, at fate, at everything that sought to chain him. Yet the horrors he'd endured, culminating in that final sacrifice of body and blood, had numbed some part of his soul. 

Instead of rage, he felt a peculiar calm. Survival was all that mattered.

He ran his hands over his body, noticing the mismatch of skin tones. "What is this…?" he muttered, pressing at the pinkish-black patches. They felt real enough—solid, if unnervingly inhuman.

[Due to absorbing the Bahirath, changes have occurred!]

[Host's body has adapted to the world of Zulmasharr!]

He nodded absently as more words flashed across his vision. "Adapted… So that's why I'm not dead."

He pinched various sections of flesh, prodding bruised spots and newly healed scars. A faint twinge of pain accompanied each poke, but it was bearable—certainly preferable to the agony of dismemberment he remembered all too well.

"What's really going on here…?" he asked the empty air. The quiet pressed in on him, broken only by the occasional hiss of steam from residual pockets of heat in the ground.

[Host has absorbed system created by Zulmasharr]

[Providing Host with information…]

A pressure built behind his eyes. Yur stiffened, expecting another jolt of pain—but it never came. Instead, an orderly stream of knowledge settled into his mind, as if poured gently into an empty cup. He closed his eyes, breathing in the acrid scent of the crimson fog.

When at last he opened them, the swirl of half-formed memories and cryptic facts began to take shape in his thoughts.

"So… the creator of Zulmasharr died?" he muttered, repeating what now seemed obvious in his head. Mal. The name flickered in his mind. This "Mal" had crafted the system, had shaped this dimension, and had left behind only vestiges of an unfinished creation.

Mysteriously, it had chosen him as a host—someone with "high compatibility." He remembered the final bits of data, how Mal's demise meant the system lay dormant until it found the right candidate.

"Could that be me?" he said quietly, voice echoing in the still air. The logic felt surreal. He was just a boy who had once been a slave—beaten, broken, bound.

[Host has limited access to memories!]

He blinked. "Why won't it tell me more…?"

Frustration tugged at him, though it was tempered by lingering caution. "Are you… evil?" he asked the empty space, voice wavering with residual paranoia.

[The Host and I are bound!]

Bound. The meaning was clear enough—there would be no discarding this strange power without discarding himself. His heart pounded as he considered the possibility of being shackled yet again.

"Are you going to enslave me…?" His words were nearly a whisper. Despite all his bravado, the notion of being enslaved again terrified him.

[Host and I are bound. We are the same!]

[I am part of the Host's being and will remain until death!]

It didn't exactly say no, but it was also not forcing him to do anything against his will—yet. He took a moment to steady himself. A sigh escaped his lips. He was alive, unchained, at least in the physical sense. Perhaps that was enough for now.

"Well… what do I do next?" he murmured.

[Calculating…]

[Complete! Host is advised to quickly gain power!]

[Zulmasharr is more dangerous than the Human world!]

"Gain power…" Yur repeated, arching a brow. At ten years old, with no education save for lashings and forced labor, the concept felt foreign. He understood survival—killing or being killed. But how to grow stronger in a place like this?

The system seemed to sense his confusion.

[Calculating Host's current knowledge…]

[Collecting Zulmasharr and Human World information…]

[Complete!]

A new screen materialized before him, more elaborate than any he'd seen:

|—————————————|

Name: Yur

Age: 10

Title: —

Demon Cultivation: —

Human Cultivation: —

Bloodline: Locked 

Demons: 0

Demon Points: 0

Human Points: 0

Sanity: 4/100 (>50 = Insanity!)

Map

Shop

Memories

Demons

Quests

|—————————————|

He stared, perplexed. There were so many lines of information, so many options. "System," he said slowly, "what… what does all of this mean?"

[The System will provide support to Host!]

[Quest: Familiarize Yourself with the System!]

[Reward: N/A]

He frowned. It was telling him to learn, but not offering much direct help. Nonetheless, he plopped down onto the warm ground with an air of forced patience. At least some part of him remained the inquisitive child, the one who could pick apart details despite the trauma that once smothered him.

As his fingertips trailed across the stony earth, the swirling red mist brushed against his shoulders like a silent spectator. He had no grand illusions of heroism or dreams of a new life, only a vague sense of necessity. 

His gaze flicked to the words on the screen—Sanity: 4/100. That line alone made his stomach twist. Was I… insane? 

Perhaps the system believed so. After all, biting and clawing those vermin to death, devouring their flesh just to survive… it hadn't exactly been the act of a calm, rational mind.

Still, he set his jaw. If that's what it takes to live, I'll do it again.

Bending closer to the screen, he began to painstakingly explore each category, focusing on the notes the system whispered into his consciousness. Even if it felt beyond him, he had time—he'd already slept for three years in the boiling depths of a crimson pool, and come back to tell the tale.

He concentrated on the interface, determined to scrape out any sliver of knowledge it offered. Step by step, he would learn. And then, somehow, he would become something more than a beaten child, something greater than a slave to either humans or beasts.

But deep in his chest, a quiet, creeping sense of dread persisted. More dangerous than the Human world, the system had warned. And it was all around him now, pressing in like an ocean of darkness, waiting to see if this new occupant would rise—or be devoured.