The crimson desert hadn't changed.
But Noir had.
It had been a month since the day he awoke surrounded by death and ruin. Now, his eyes were sharper, his gait steadier, his voice no longer hoarse. The endless dunes no longer felt like a curse—only a challenge. He had learned to walk without stumbling, to find shade before heatstroke, to kill small scavenger beasts with jagged bone-blades he fashioned himself.
His body, once frail, was gaining mass again. His shoulders had broadened, his legs no longer shook beneath him. His skin, though still pale, glowed with a strange resilience—something ancient beneath the surface, as though his very flesh was remembering itself.
And through it all… Rasa.
Her presence remained the only constant.
Every sunset, she would appear like a phantom, bearing food and water, speaking just enough to make the silence comforting. She still wore her dark robes, still hid her face beneath a shadowed hood, but Noir had come to recognize the little things—the way she lingered after handing him a waterskin, the soft way she laughed when he told her about his dreams.
Tonight, as the sun dipped low behind blood-red clouds, Noir stood waiting.
No longer crawling. No longer weak.
When she appeared, he didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward—and hugged her.
Rasa stiffened. He felt it—the way her body locked in his arms. But he held on, gently, not with desperation, but with longing. She smelled of wind and cinder, something untouchable, yet deeply familiar.
"I can't stop thinking about you," Noir said quietly. "Every time I open my eyes, I hope it's close to sunset. Because I know you'll come."
He pulled back just enough to see her face.
That was when it happened.
Her expression shattered.
Not surprise. Not embarrassment.
Horror.
Rasa stepped back, stumbling as if he'd struck her.
Her eyes—wide, glowing faintly beneath the hood—locked onto his.
"...Why aren't you dead yet?" she whispered.
Noir froze.
The wind died.
Rasa's hand moved—subtle, practiced. From beneath her robes, she withdrew a long, narrow dagger. The blade was blackened, etched with runes that seemed to pulse faintly, as though it hungered.
He didn't flinch.
She looked at him as though she'd seen a ghost. A demon.
"I…" Her voice broke. "I need to tell you the truth. Before I lose what little I have left."
Noir's gaze darkened. "Truth?"
She nodded slowly. Her hands trembled, but the dagger stayed low—not striking. Not yet.
"You're not some lost wanderer, Noir," Rasa said. "You're him. You're the Demon King."
The words hit like thunder.
"I was sent here to watch you," she continued. "To make sure you didn't survive."
She looked away, as if ashamed. "A revolution rose in your kingdom. Your own military turned on you. They called you a tyrant. A monster. An immortal who would never die unless cast into the one place nothing survives."
Noir's jaw tightened, his mind racing.
"The Dead Zone," Rasa whispered. "That was their solution."
She clutched the dagger tighter.
"I'm… I was a spy. An observer. Sent to monitor your slow death. I was told you'd wither in days. That your power would rot in this place. That your body would finally decay."
Her eyes met his again—and now they were filled with something else.
Terror.
"But it's been a month."
Her breath hitched. Her legs wavered. "You're not just alive. You're getting stronger. Your wounds are healing. You're adapting. Even the beasts no longer approach you."
She took one trembling step back, dagger rising slightly—not in attack, but instinctual fear.
"You were supposed to die," she whispered again.
Then, her voice broke into raw disbelief.
"…What are you?"
The wind howled suddenly, sweeping across the sand like a scream.
Noir stood silent.
And above them, the red sky seemed to darken.