It was the loveliest silhouette of his boyhood, soft as mist trailing a river at dawn.

Shame hit first, a needle of ice under the ribs. Hercules had buried that figure like a stone in silt; yet on death’s ledge it rose, a pale moon from black water. Maybe that was the one memory that etched him deepest, the last ember that refused to go dark.

His mind dropped like a pebble into his inner sea, and the ripples carried him back to a small town—barren yet bustling, a thornbush heavy with red berries. In those days he was a boy, chest swelling with the family’s legend, blood hot as summer wind. Every tale lit a torch inside him. He wanted to lift a spear-blade, sling a Demon-Sealing Lantern, and step into the unknown to hunt the things that gnawed at the dark.

Every world keeps its own legends, like constellations that outlive empires. Some survive for millennia, veins of gold running through family bloodlines. Most are washed smooth by the river of time, their footprints scoured from the shore.

At the continent’s frayed edge lay a small kingdom, a hill with its temples toppled. Its ancient heritage was lost; the names of its great ones faded like ink in rain. People called it a curse, a husk-bound fate. Only those who live under moonless roofs know the truth: that’s a hunter clan’s lot.

Grace Town sat there like a chipped bowl on a windowsill. “Grace” felt more like a hex. Wheat withered in that soil, straw turning to ash; yet plant a potion herb, and the earth sang—every stalk a green flame. Hercules’ family drew lots and rooted there, like pines clutching rock. The name came from a forgotten age, before the founding year; back when men and beasts clashed like thunderheads, nobody now could trace its stroke.

Even so, two demon-hunting families coiled within that small town. One was the Heller Clan, flourishing like a bonfire at midnight. The other was the Elizabeth Clan, a candle burned down to a single, stubborn wick—the clan head alone.

Hercules realized it was a lantern-reel of his life, a carousel of images lit by Angel’s Dust. Under that silver drift, he could walk the past as if through beaded curtains. He thought of that silhouette, and the scene shifted like a page caught by wind.

In a cracked little house, a girl with the poise of a Western beauty paged through ancient tomes, brows knitting like willow leaves. “Hercules, you’re absolutely messing with me. These old books have been rotting here a hundred years. The dust alone could plaster that damned fatso’s face. Who even remembers this script?!” She took one breath of the air and—Achoo!—sneezed like a startled kitten. “I… I’m fine—Achoo!” She missed her grip and toppled from the shelf like a peach knocked by a sparrow. “Ahhh—Hercules, you heartless rogue, save me!”

“I hear you, my Lady Angela.” A strange light flared under the young man’s feet, a whoosh like a firefly swarm. He leaped, caught her midair, and tossed her safely aside; then he rolled himself, face-first, like a loose gourd down steps. “Ow, ow… Hercules, you idiot, don’t throw secret arts around. That thing isn’t even properly recorded… Hey, Hercules, you okay?” She cut her scolding and scampered over, worry like rain in her eyes. “I’m Hercules, aren’t I? How could I not be okay!”

“How many ribs did you break the first time you tried a secret art?” Angela’s pout hung like a tiny crescent moon, her tease sweet and barbed.

“I… I just misjudged my force,” the young Hercules said, patting dust off like dandelion fluff, cheeks warming.

Side by side, they weren’t picture-perfect, yet they fit like two notes in the same chord. The girl shone warm as noon sun; her big watery eyes and little pout stirred a reckless urge to spoil her. The boy, young face still soft, carried an old steadiness in his gaze; with his clean-cut hair, he looked like a serious kid stuck in a sulk. “Angela, I told you—there have to be books that record secret arts. You just didn’t search right.” “Yeah, right. Show me one that matches the script in our family’s ancient scrolls.” She pushed back without blinking; her pouted lips could have hung a tiny oil jar. Hercules watched his childhood friend bristle adorably and felt his temper go like smoke in wind. He was always like this—too soft where she was concerned. He nodded, almost despite himself.

Angela saw him nodding instead of arguing and felt her temper spark like flint. She snatched a book and thumped it on his head. “Ow! Angela, keep this up and you’ll never get married.” He clutched his head. She raised the book again, a thundercloud gathering. He surrendered at once. “Alright, alright, auntie, my fault. Please, spare me.” She set the book down, clapped her hands, and grinned. “Sister Xiaoya was right. You only learn if someone smacks you.” Hercules started to retort, then remembered how some people held grudges, and swallowed it like a bitter pill.

“Honestly, you haven’t dug into the family scrolls.” His tone turned earnest, a still lake mirroring sky. “The twelve scrolls mirror books in here. Some words look strange, but… they feel familiar. Like they’re inked in my blood. I learned this body-strengthening secret art from the last book. That book calls it the lowest movement art, a walking step. A higher one can even cross worlds. I don’t know what the Void is, but it sounds fierce. So think—other books might hold similar arts, or ones even stronger.” He drew a volume from the shelf, and the whole case shuddered like a turned key. It flipped, and the wall swallowed them with a grinding sigh.

“Angela, hold—” He didn’t finish. His fingers locked around her hand, warm as a promise, and the world spun like a storm lantern.

Grace Town, Heller Estate.

“Menesis, everything’s unfolded just as the ancestors foretold. Should we move to the next step?” In an ancestral hall steeped in Eastern incense, a broad-shouldered man slid the paper door shut; the paper breathed like rice fields in wind.

The woman knelt before the spirit tablets, plain homespun falling like quiet water. Beauty clung to her, fox-spirit allure tempered by lotus-clean grace, a green stem rising from mud unstained. “Jack, it’s time,” she said, voice soft as ash on incense. “We who cultivate only the soul can’t step into that region. We’ll have to trouble your Heller clansmen to shield the two children. Our family will veil their scent, so the Gospel Church doesn’t notice. If Hercules truly passes the Twelve Trials, even the scion of the Elizabeth Clan will fall short…”

She changed the incense stick with careful fingers, smoke curling like a snake to the rafters. Jack scratched his head and laughed. “We don’t have the old ancestors’ strength to rip dark creatures apart with bare hands, but in that place I can still cover two kids. Trust me. We’ve been an old married pair forever.”

“Spare me. If Hercules has an accident, I’ll settle it with you. And if the little girl from House Mercury gets hurt, their patriarch will tear your soul apart.” Menesis smiled lightly, a petal fell and a thorn showed. Then she bowed again, prayer beads rolling like small moons.

“Heh, you pray. I’ll keep them safe. After all, I was once—”

“Don’t.” She rose quickly and pressed a finger to his lips, hush sharp as a knife. “Jack, don’t say it. That’s over.” “Alright. If my wife says ‘no,’ it’s no.” He grinned, slid the door, and slipped out like a shadow in sunlight. Menesis chuckled under her breath, closed the door, and knelt once more before the tablets.

“Hercules, your parents can only carry you this far. The rest is up to your fate,” she whispered, words falling like dew on stone.

On a stone slab smooth as jade, Hercules lay unconscious, cold soaking into him like winter water into bone. With the chill came a flood of memory, a river bursting its banks. It was the ancient legacy called the Twelve Trials, a mystery passed down from an age beyond counting, when human years were dust on a scale.

A boy doesn’t hesitate; he reaches for the flame. Hercules accepted at once. The first and second trials were whetstones for the will; he was young, but a hunter clan tempers endurance like steel, and he held. Then came the third—go to the marked place and hunt a dark creature, alone, with no hand to catch you.

Back then, he was a boy reaching for thunder. He tried to hunt and fell into a ring of fangs, dark creatures closing like wolves around a lamb. Only then did he learn how breakable he was before true darkness. The tricks he cherished were reeds in a flood, nothing at all.

The target named by the Twelve Trials wasn’t a lone foe. It was a pack of death banshees—no common wailers. They struck with soul-talons and could seize flesh like hijacked horses. They had taken the bodies of powerful dark beasts and curled for years under the earth, coals hiding under ash—until Hercules, poor moth, brushed the ash and woke the fire.