Emmet allowed them to lead him, his wrists bound, but his mind remained sharp, observing and calculating. The village was small, nestled by the river's edge, its weathered wooden homes shrouded by thick reeds and the faint scent of damp earth. Yet, it wasn't the setting that unnerved him; it was the people.

  He had braced himself for horrors—beasts, bloodthirsty creatures twisted by hunger. Instead, he found only sadness. The figures who had captured him wore crude, unnatural masks, their faces appearing monstrous under the dim torchlight. But as he walked among them, he glimpsed normal skin beneath the fabric. Their shoulders slumped, and their movements were slow, devoid of youthful bounce. The silence that hung heavy, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps, felt less like reverence and more like quiet despair. They were just people, hiding behind something they wished to conceal.

  Emmet narrowed his gaze. "Where are you taking me?"

  The man beside him stiffened but didn't break stride. "To the Elder," he answered. "He will explain your purpose."

  Emmet inhaled, exhaling quietly through his nose. "My purpose?"

  The man offered no reply. So, Emmet played along, letting them guide him deeper into their village, past worn-out homes and quiet faces peering from behind curtains—faces that refused to meet his gaze. He noted the way their eyes, visible in the slivers beneath their masks, darted away from his own, betraying a deep shame.

  They arrived at the largest hut, built from dark stone and adorned with woven charms. One of the masked men stepped forward and began undoing his bindings. Emmet offered no resistance. When his wrists were finally freed, no one forced him to stay. He half-expected a shove, a binding word, but it never came. Instead, they offered him food and water—a simple offering, a simple kindness.

  Then, the Elder emerged. He was a man hunched with age, his robes soiled not by ceremonial markings but by the wear of long years spent in quiet suffering. His voice was raspy, like dry leaves, and his hands trembled slightly as he raised them. His gaze, when it met Emmet's, was neither cruel nor excited, but genuinely sorrowful.

  "Ah, a young man?" the Elder murmured, shaking his head. "How unfortunate. I am truly sorry for this."

  Emmet stared at him, unmoving. The words—that he was to be sacrificed—should have carried weight, should have unsettled him. But Emmet merely tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

  The Elder's gaze fell to the untouched food and water beside Emmet. "I assure you, it is safe and clean," he said gently, a hint of surprise in his voice. "You came willingly, didn't you?"

  Emmet gave a subtle nod.

  "Yes," the Elder exhaled slowly. "And for that, I will tell you everything."

  The room fell silent. Outside, the masked villagers lingered, listening, waiting. And Emmet prepared to finally understand the truth behind their grim ritual.

  Emmet sat still, his body tense but his mind calm, watching the villagers as they departed from the hut's entrance, leaving him with the Elder. Their crude, deformed masks had unsettled him at first. Now, he understood. They weren't hiding horror or madness, but fear. The people beneath those masks were ordinary humans, terrified.

  He listened to their quiet murmurs fading outside, their barely audible prayers, their expressions heavy with silent grief. None of them wanted this, yet they had convinced themselves it was the only way to survive.

  Inside the hut, a simple meal of food and water sat untouched beside Emmet. He had accepted the offering moments ago when his bindings were freed, noting the quiet kindness in the gesture.

  The Elder, Tanda, a man hunched with age, his robes worn but his presence heavy with knowledge, began his story. His eyes flickered with something deeper than mere exhaustion—regret.

  "My name is Tanda. I am the eldest of this village. As you see, there are few of us left."

  Emmet took in the surroundings—the empty homes, the dwindling numbers. They had been sacrificing their own for far too long.

  "Please," the Elder continued, "listen to my story."

  Emmet nodded. The Elder exhaled slowly, burdened by the memories he was about to share. "Long ago—I'm not sure how long—there was a crack in space that unleashed demons."

  Emmet's eyes narrowed.

  "The demons were killed by Elemental Divinants," the Elder explained. "But there was one... one too strong. Even the Divinant could not kill it." He looked at Emmet then, his gaze searching, as though hesitating. That was when he saw it—the insignia woven into Emmet's cloak. His eyes widened slightly. "You are a pilgrim?"

  Emmet held his gaze. "Yes. But don't let that stop you. Continue."

  The Elder seemed troubled, not by fear, but by something deeper—a connection, a realization. "Then I shall continue." His voice was steadier now, but his mind still lingered on something unspoken. "The Divinant had with him people with abilities to seal the demon using totems. They powered the seals and bound the creature beneath the altar."

  Emmet listened carefully. A flicker of recognition passed through him, a memory of fragmented texts he’d studied.

  "The totem held strong for years. Decades, perhaps centuries. But one day, it began to fail." The Elder took a breath. "I was young when I saw it happen. A disturbance in the Northern Veil—something shook the land, an earthquake, a rupture in the balance. That was when the magic disappeared." His gaze sharpened. "You are from the north, aren't you?"

  Emmet stilled slightly. "Yes. And I've never heard of this. Not once."

  The Elder exhaled, nodding. "You had not been born then."

  Emmet frowned but allowed him to continue. "When the totem's magic vanished, the demon began to awaken, breaking through the seal. We tried everything—every ritual, every prayer, every offering we knew." The Elder hesitated. "And the only thing that worked... was human sacrifice."

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Emmet stiffened. A cold anger began to prickle at him. "Sacrificing humans pacifies the demon?"

  "Yes." The Elder sighed deeply. "But it was never meant to be this way. At first, one sacrifice lasted a decade. Then, it became yearly. Then monthly." He lowered his voice. "Now, it is weekly."

  A heavy silence filled the room. "We only sacrificed our own. But we are few now."

  Emmet exhaled slowly, standing up. "So you terrorized the other villages? You wore those masks and demanded their people?"

  The Elder nodded solemnly. "It is a shameful act, I admit. It is wrong."

  "But you are out of options," Emmet concluded.

  The Elder said nothing, only watching him.

  And then—Emmet summoned his Earth Totem.

  The room shifted. The villagers gasped. And the Elder stiffened. "A Divinant...?"

  Emmet watched him carefully, then spoke. "I am a Tool Divinant. The weakest kind. I can't power seals. But I understand totems better than most." His gaze flickered toward the altar. "And this one—" His expression darkened. "—does not require human sacrifice."

  The Elder blinked. "What?"

  Emmet's grip tightened on his Totem. "This seal failed. The demon isn't bound anymore. It isn't contained—it is pretending to be contained." The Elder's breath hitched. "Quick. Tell your people to run. Get as far away from this altar as possible." His Totem pulsed, growing larger, shifting as his strength flowed into it. "This demon is weak," Emmet muttered. "And it has been playing you for fools."

  The ground cracked beneath him. The altar shook. And from deep within, a guttural, ancient laughter began, slipping through the crumbling seal, whispering words in a tongue Emmet didn't understand. But he didn't need to. He could feel the mockery, the amusement, the delight in deception.

  "Laugh while you can," Emmet murmured, his Totem trembling as he prepared to strike. He planted his feet, the sound of ancient stone grinding beneath his boots. "No meals tonight, demon."

  And then, the seal shattered. The demon—twice the size of a man—emerged, crystal shards falling like brittle glass at its feet. It spoke in its twisted, unknowable language. And Emmet prepared to end it.

  The ground trembled beneath Emmet's feet as the demon fully emerged, its body shifting between brittle shards and sinewy flesh. It was monstrous—twice the size of a man, its form corrupted by time, hunger, and desperation. Yet, as Emmet stood before it, he felt no fear. Not the slightest hesitation. No uncertainty. Only one thought echoed in his mind: Is it weak... or am I just stronger?

  The demon snarled, its jagged limbs twitching, its breath a mixture of distorted laughter and guttural speech. It spoke in a tongue Emmet didn't understand, but he could feel its mockery, its amusement.

  "You've spent too long hiding," Emmet muttered, gripping his Earth Totem. "Too long feasting on offerings instead of fighting for your freedom."

  The demon lunged, fast and erratic. Its claws swung toward his head, aiming for a clean, brutal kill—but he moved first. His body responded before his mind had time to catch up: instinct, precision, strength. He sidestepped, the attack grazing the edge of his cloak but missing him entirely. His boots dug into the dirt as he slid back into position.

  "Good," Emmet murmured, rolling his shoulders. "You're fast. That makes this more fun."

  The villagers gasped, scrambling back, some shielding their faces. They had never seen someone fight it before, never seen someone challenge it. But Emmet wasn't here to cower. He was here to win.

  The demon lunged again, faster this time, its limbs twisting unnaturally, closing the space between them in a blink—

  Emmet planted his feet. "Alright," he muttered, gripping his Totem tighter. "I've always wanted to use this technique in an actual battle." Heat surged through his veins—not from fear, but excitement. He wasn't afraid. He was eager.

  "I've tested it before," he thought. "I've trained with it. I almost used it against Ember once, but I was afraid I'd hurt him. But this..." His grip tightened. A raw hum resonated through the Totem, vibrating up his arm. "This demon will be the first prey to my ultimate technique."

  Emmet grinned. "Demon, it is your great honor to experience my Tremor Strike."

  He slammed the Totem into the ground. The moment it connected, the earth screamed. A violent shockwave erupted beneath them, sending debris flying, splitting the ground with raw force. The air shook, filled with the scent of pulverized earth and something acrid, burning. The very foundation of the altar cracked, and the demon—

  The demon convulsed. Its body trembled violently, its limbs writhing, its form splitting as the sheer magnitude of the attack ripped through its being. It couldn't stabilize itself, couldn't fight against the sheer power pressing against it. Cracks ran through its flesh, shattering like glass, its screeches twisting into something less mocking, more desperate.

  But Emmet wasn't done. "You were never unstoppable," he muttered. "You were just old."

  The demon tried to rise, tried to speak, tried to do anything. But Emmet was already raising his Totem again.

  "No more sacrifices." This time—the strongest strike yet. He slammed his Totem forward, channeling every ounce of strength into his next move.

  The force didn't just strike; it collapsed the ground itself. A sinkhole opened beneath them, the shockwave pulsing, pulling, pushing—tearing through the demon's form like an unstoppable current. The creature twisted, its body shredding, its essence dissipating like dust caught in the wind. It screamed—not in rage, not in power, but in defeat.

  And then—it vanished. Gone. For good.

  The village stood still. The Elder, breathless, stared at the crumbling remains—the monster they had feared for generations now lying in broken fragments before them.

  Emmet exhaled. The battle was over. And for the first time, he understood—demons weren't gods. They weren't unkillable. They were just enemies that could be fought. And Emmet was strong enough to defeat them.

  The air was thick with emotion—not fear, not despair, but relief. For the first time in decades, the village stood free.

  The Elder, Tanda, collapsed to his knees, his trembling hands pressed against the broken ground where the demon had once stood. Around him, villagers sobbed, gripping each other's arms, whispering prayers—not of sacrifice, but of gratitude. Some screamed with joy, voices cracking, finally unchained from the cycle of suffering. One man ripped his mask from his face, tossing it aside with a choked sob of relief. A mother clutched her child, burying her face in its hair, tears streaming. Others simply held onto their loved ones, mourning the years stolen from them, the people lost to the altar.

  And at the heart of it all, stood Emmet. His breath was steady, his Totem still pulsing with residual energy. He was unshaken. The subtle hum in his hand was the only sound in his mind, drowning out the joyous cacophony around him.

  The Elder rose, wiping his face, then turned to the remaining villagers. "Gather. Let us honor him."

  The people obeyed, forming a circle around the shattered remains of the altar, their movements fluid, their steps practiced—a dance. It was a raw, primal expression of freedom, a desperate celebration that mingled grief with burgeoning hope. Their tradition, one lost beneath years of forced sacrifice, was now reborn as a celebration.

  Tanda stepped forward, hands outstretched, bowing his head. "Please accept our greatest thanks, Totemwalker the Demoncrusher."

  The words hit Emmet with an odd, almost physical, sensation. Totemwalker, yes, that resonated. But Demoncrusher? He barely heard the Elder, still caught in the aftershocks of his own power. "That was strong," he murmured to himself, gripping his Totem. "I almost destroyed the entire village." Excitement pulsed through him, but a realization settled in his chest. "I shouldn't use it recklessly next time. I was too eager to try it. I need to control the force."

  His thoughts consumed him, ignoring the dance, ignoring the cheers, ignoring the celebration. Until—he glanced up. The bright, unmasked faces of the villagers, etched with wonder and profound thankfulness, finally broke through his analytical focus. And saw them—dancing for him. Not for gods. Not for fear. Not for survival. For him. For the warrior who freed them.

  A faint flush rose to Emmet's cheeks beneath the unwavering gazes of the villagers. "Demoncrusher," he thought again, the sound both alien and surprisingly, uncomfortably fitting. He, who preferred ancient texts to battlefields, now carried such a name. A strange thrill mingled with a profound uncertainty. Was this his path now, chosen for him by a shattered seal and a hungry creature? Was this what he was meant to become?

  Emmet exhaled, allowing himself a small smile. "Alright," he murmured, finally taking a seat, watching, accepting, respecting. He would think about improvement later. For now—this was enough.

  He had won. And the people would remember.

  The Totemwalker. The Demoncrusher.