Since the dawn of time, this world held only one intelligent species: humanity.

Then one day, a new life emerged—equally intelligent, yet utterly unlike humans.

They wielded power far beyond mankind. Like an invasive tide, they stormed human lands.

Instantly, these "demons" unleashed burning, slaughter, and plunder, mercilessly crushing the world’s original inhabitants.

Human life and civilization suffered near-irreversible ruin. These demons commanded magic—forces far beyond human comprehension.

As if blessed by fortune, a millennium ago, humanity accidentally discovered how to harness magic.

They learned to forge weapons channeling that power: Arcane Weapons.

Suddenly, humanity gained the means to fight back. A new profession was born—the Arcanist Warrior.

Courageous Arcanist Warriors rallied, reclaiming fragments of stolen homeland.

As progress deepened, magic mastery and weaponcraft soared to new heights.

Initially, Arcanist Warriors branched into four classes: Knight, Mage, Archer, Priest.

These founders united to establish the Daystar Alliance, which guided the creation of academies across the land.

More people could now gain strength to confront demons and protect their communities.

This marked humanity’s true rise—a unified front capable of standing against the "demons."

***

A frigid midnight. Light barefoot steps shattered the corridor’s silence.

A small figure darted through the dim hallway.

"Ahhh! Don’t catch me!"

Panicked, the little girl fled. Unfamiliar with her long dress, her bare foot snagged the hem.

Face-first, she tumbled down.

Tears shimmered with eerie purple-gold light in her heterochromatic eyes. Scrambling up, she clutched her reddened forehead and wailed, "Wah~ It hurts!"

Beneath a lone lamp, she stared at her shadow on the floor.

Anger flared. The silhouette showed a child of eight or nine.

Messy hair spilled downward. Curved antennae—unique to the Belanite Clan—rose from her temples.

Clatter, clatter, clatter~

Iron-clad boots stomped behind her. She snapped out of her rage.

"Damn you, Succubus Empress! This isn’t over! I… I *will* escape!" she muttered, hitching her dress and sprinting.

Days of infiltration had taught her the palace layout. She fled toward the entrance.

Spotting the corridor turn, her face brightened.

She knew—past this corner, down the spiral stairs, freedom awaited!

But fate played cruelly.

The moment she reached the stairs, a violet blur shot overhead.

The familiar woman descended, blocking her path.

Four bat-like purple wings fluttered just above her spine.

Her lavender hair flowed like silk. Her landing was ethereal.

Toes touching the step, the Succubus Empress stood before her. Slowly, her purple-gold eyes opened. A gentle smile—never shown to humans—curved her lips.

"Zila, my dear granddaughter… Where are you rushing so late? Your wounds just healed. Don’t run."

Staring at the woman who twisted her into this frail form, who doomed her human kin, who dared call her "granddaughter"…

Zila felt no rage.

Only fear. Trembling, she stepped back.

As she turned to flee, Succubus Curse soldiers closed in from behind.

Trapped. She shrank against the wall, shaking violently.

*Why no anger?* she wondered.

Only instinct remained: cower before overwhelming power.

Curled tight against the stone, tears traced warm paths down her cheeks.

"Wahhh! Don’t come closer! Go away, waaah!"

"There, there~ Grandma won’t hurt you. Come back to bed, okay?" The Succubus Empress cooed, stepping nearer.

"I’m not your granddaughter, you old hag! Stay away!" Zila sobbed, but their advance continued.

A hand seized her wrist.

"Nooo! Don’t!"

Like prey thrashing before slaughter, she flailed wildly.

*Thud~*

"Hss! Aaah! It hurts~"

A childish cry echoed inside the carriage.

Her left hand had struck something sharp. Jolted awake by pain, Zila blinked.

Rough wooden planks formed the ceiling above.

In the cramped cargo space, surrounded by crates, the light-purple-haired girl gasped for breath.

Clutching her stinging hand, she trembled from the dream’s echo.

Each heave of her chest tightened against an unfamiliar fullness—deeply unsettling.

As panic eased, she sighed. The carriage jolted to a stop.

The curtain parted. A bearded man peered in, eyes hollow, smile empty.

Like a soulless puppet.

"Little miss, we’ve arrived. Need anything else?"

"Eh? Already?" Relief lit Zila’s face. She grabbed the tattered brown cloak, draped it calmly over her shoulders.

Hood pulled low, hiding every feature, she leaped down.

Seeing the familiar town, joy surged. She nearly shouted, "Yes! I’m back! Yay, yay!"

But she bit her lip. Drawing attention now—while wearing this Succubus Curse form—would be disastrous.