"These new generations of demons are feeble and powerless compared to their predecessors," the Lich muttered as he stepped out of the shadows of the dense, withered woods.
He had been watching from the darkness, observing the massacre he orchestrated. The demonic guardians of the Lust Lord—once formidable warriors—had fallen by his hand, their lives snuffed out with ruthless precision. And he had done it all using none other than the Lust Lord's own son as the catalyst for their demise.
A single red pupil blazed within the hollow cavity of his skull, its glow resembling a smoldering ember, flickering with malevolent energy. With each step he took, the very land beneath his feet withered and crumbled, succumbing to his overwhelming presence. The once-thriving surroundings were now nothing more than a barren wasteland, swallowed by an encroaching darkness.
His skeletal form, stripped of flesh, muscle, or tissue, stood tall and broad, cloaked in a regal, wine-colored robe embroidered with intricate golden patterns. Around his neck hung an ancient amulet, its crimson rune pulsing faintly, while his bony fingers bore rings, each adorned with runes of various origins. In his right hand, he wielded a staff of twisted, gnarled wood, its crown adorned with a skull, held in place by draconic bones that intertwined like knots.
The Lich's gaze fell upon the infant lying on the cold ground. With an air of detachment, he bent down, lifting the newborn effortlessly into his skeletal grasp. His empty sockets fixated on the child as if peering into the depths of his very soul.
"Is it your fate to survive?" he murmured, his voice carrying weight.
A moment passed before he continued, his tone laced with something resembling curiosity.
"Very well. I shall respect the laws of fate."
Extending a bony hand over the infant's fragile body, he channeled his energy, scanning the newborn with an unreadable expression. However, what he discovered was enough to make even a being like him pause in mild surprise.
"You are a Halfling... a hybrid of demon and human. How very interesting."
A sudden wave of confusion and fear flooded Dylan's mind as consciousness crept back into him. His vision was hazy, unfocused, his mind struggling to process the sensations around him.
'Wh-Who's that...?' The words formed sluggishly in his dazed thoughts.
Blinking rapidly, his sight gradually adjusted, the blurriness fading away. What greeted him, however, was enough to send a jolt of terror through his tiny body.
He was being cradled—not by the warm, comforting embrace of a mother or father—but by something utterly unnatural. A skeleton. A figure of death itself, draped in ominous robes and staring at him with hollow, burning eyes.
"Who—what the fuck is that?! Where are my human parents?!" Dylan's panicked voice rang out in his mind, but to the Lich, it was nothing more than the desperate wailing of an infant.
His words were lost in his own helplessness, reduced to nothing but terrified sobs.
"You have opened your eyes. Congratulations on being born, fated one," the Lich declared, his hollow voice laced with an eerie sense of finality. His gaze fixated on the infant cradled in his bony arms, watching as the child's crimson, demonic eyes fluttered open, revealing slit-like pupils.
Dylan, however, could make no sense of the words. The deep, guttural voice speaking to him sounded like nothing more than an incomprehensible jumble of sounds.
'What is it saying?' he wondered, confusion settling in. None of it made sense to his ears—it was all just meaningless gibberish.
The Lich, on the other hand, seemed lost in thought, his skeletal fingers unconsciously adjusting their grip on the newborn. His expression, though unchanging due to his lack of flesh, carried an almost pensive air.
"It's a truly strange sensation..." he murmured, almost to himself. "I have not felt anything like this in centuries."
An inexplicable, almost parental fondness stirred within him—something he had long forgotten since his transformation into an undead. It was unnatural for a being like him to experience emotions, yet here he was, feeling an odd sense of attachment to the helpless infant in his grasp.
"How curious," the Lich continued. "For an undead to experience emotions once more… Perhaps it is fate. Thank you, child, for making me feel something again."
Meanwhile, Dylan's thoughts were spiraling in confusion.
'What is he even saying? And why the hell am I in the arms of an undead?!'
A ridiculous thought suddenly crossed his mind.
'Wait… Am I an undead too?!'
It was a stupid assumption, but given his current predicament, he couldn't entirely rule it out. After all, when he had first opened his eyes, he had expected to see a warm, familiar setting—something akin to a home, a mother, a father… perhaps even a human face welcoming him into this new life. Instead, the first thing he saw was a robed skeleton looming over him, speaking in an unfamiliar tongue.
The entire situation felt surreal, and unlike in anime or novels where protagonists would miraculously understand foreign languages upon reincarnation, he was left struggling with complete incomprehension. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
The Lich, oblivious to Dylan's inner turmoil, continued speaking in his usual calm tone.
"Though much of my human past is lost to me—torn away when my core was damaged—some traditions still remain embedded in my being." A faint trace of warmth seeped into his otherwise cold voice. "And so, according to custom, I shall give you a name."
There was a brief pause before he spoke again.
"You shall be called… Arth."
His fiery eye sockets flickered with a distant glow, as if searching for a memory that no longer existed.
"I do not know why this name calls to me, but something within me resonates with it. That alone is reason enough."
The infant, his large demonic eyes filled with innocence and confusion, stared up at the Lich, his small face reflecting both curiosity and wariness.
The Lich gave a slow nod, more to himself than to the child.
"I shall raise you, teach you, and train you until you are strong enough to stand on your own."
He looked up at the sky.
"It seems fate has always destined me to be a mentor for the younger generation," he mused, the flickering ember in his eye socket burning just a little brighter.