Berchtwald Nachtnebel

Berchtwald had always loathed hunting high-class demons. It wasn’t fear that stirred within him, he was far beyond that, it was contempt. Their cunning, their endless riddles and serpentine games bored him to the point of disgust. For all their reputation, they were predictable in their vanity. He often mused that perhaps he should have gone into politics instead; at least there, he could have traded riddles for lies. The thought drew a dry laugh from his throat, a sound that held no mirth, only mockery directed at himself.

The town lay before him like a quiet stage awaiting its tragedy. Lanterns burned with weak orange light, throwing uneven shadows against the cobblestone streets. Laughter drifted from doorways, but it faltered when Berchtwald passed. Heads turned. Conversations dimmed. In their bright little world, he was an intrusion, a figure carved in sharp, foreign lines. His long black coat swayed like a vulture’s wing, and his boots struck the ground with the rhythm of inevitability.

They didn’t know who he was. Not really. And that suited him well enough. Fame was a nuisance. Recognition, a burden. But the weight of their wary stares pressed on him like invisible hands. He ignored them.

He approached a man leaning by a cart, the smell of hay and damp wood clinging to the air. Without preamble, Berchtwald spoke, his voice low and detached “Where was it last seen?”

The man hesitated, swallowing nervously. “In the forest... near the heart of it,” he finally muttered.

Berchtwald didn’t bother with thanks. He turned and headed toward the treeline, where the town’s light bled away and darkness swallowed everything whole. The forest loomed, an endless, breathing thing. He moved through it like a shadow slipping through a greater shadow, his eyes, pale and unfeeling, swept over the terrain like a hawk that had grown tired of the hunt.

Deep within, he found a pond. Its surface was dark and rippling, reflecting nothing. Strange whispers curled through the air, neither wind nor creature. Life skittered beneath the water, unseen. Berchtwald lowered himself onto a nearby rock, resting his elbows on his knees. The hunt was tedious; the prey was always the same, only the scenery changed.

A sound broke through the stillness. A faint snap. He moved without hesitation, rising like a coiled spring finally unbound. His gun slid into his hand as if it had always been there. His finger brushed the trigger. Calm, unhurried.

But what emerged was not the elusive high-class demon he was sent to destroy. Instead, a low-level female demon stepped cautiously into the clearing, her form catching the dim light.

Berchtwald sighed through his nose, lowering the gun with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Oh. One of you,” he muttered.

He turned away, uninterested. He wasn’t in the business of charity, nor slavery. Her existence simply wasn’t worth his attention.

Yet when he began walking back toward the path, the soft patter of footsteps followed him. He stopped. Rubbed his forehead slowly, as though the forest itself had grown unbearably tedious.

He half-turned, his voice drifting like smoke. “Is this... some sort of tragic attachment thing? Because if it is, I’m really not in the mood.”

He exhaled, tired. “Listen, little one. If you plan to follow me, keep in mind I don’t keep strays. So disappear before I make you. Shoo....”

His words were not shouted, they were spoken with the detached calm of someone who could kill her without ever bothering to stop walking.

The forest waited in silence, as if holding its breath. Berchtwald stared at her for one more indifferent second before turning back toward the dark path, the sound of his boots fading into the whispering woods.