The monster was born from magic.
Since it lacked any parent or bloodline, it was less a biological creature and more a phenomenon—it had not been "born" so much as it had simply "occurred." The entity itself possessed no sense of birth; it merely recognized one day that it existed.
Deep within the Sea of Trees, in a mansion within a ghost village, the monster awoke without a purpose. It did not know what it needed, what it should do, or even what it was.
Yet, it did possess understanding. It knew the village's history, from its founding to its slow demise at the hands of the encroaching forest. It had not possessed a clear ego back then; instead, it spent its days wandering the manor, clinging to the fleeting, hazy memories that drifted through its mind.
Its body, born of magic, had no need for food or sleep. It was capable of existing indefinitely while doing absolutely nothing, and that was how it had spent its time since awakening.
It spent its days capturing the souls of the villagers who wandered the earth, unable to ascend. It granted them false flesh and recreated their past lives. On the rare occasion a living creature strayed into the manor, it was welcomed as a new resident.
The monster first sensed Ryoma shortly after the boy’s party arrived. It noticed the undead it had released into the village becoming rowdy, but it felt no alarm. If anything, its heart leaped at the prospect of adding a new resident to its collection.
What could it be? Will they come inside?
The next morning, it spotted Glen racing about and grew excited. Humans were a rarity in these depths. Its memories held only a handful of foolhardy adventurers and outlaws who had lacked the strength to return home. Now that it had saturated the area with undead, even the creatures of the Sea of Trees—let alone humans—hardly ever strayed in anymore.
How long has it been? I wonder what kind of person they are.
As Ryoma and his companion began rounding up the undead, the monster watched secretly from a window. It knew humans hunted the undead, but it had never seen anyone purposefully lure a massive horde toward themselves. It realized such behavior was suicidal by human standards, but it also understood that these two were powerful enough to survive it.
Interest curdled into caution as the two drew near the manor. It barred the gates and summoned every resident it could to bolster the defenses. Yet they were utterly useless. More distressing was its inability to retrieve their souls.
They aren't... coming back.
It was common for a resident to be defeated in the dangerous Sea of Trees, but even if a temporary body was destroyed, the monster could simply reabsorb the soul and regenerate it. That was how the residents lived and hunted in the woods—the monster itself had made it so.
So why weren't they coming back?
Perplexed, the monster decided to open the doors. It would lure them in and make them part of the village. It would sift through their memories and discover why the souls had vanished.
But it had miscalculated. Ryoma's memories were harder to read than any creature that had ever strayed inside. What it could see was alien—cities and lifestyles it had never imagined.
Even more shocking was the task the gods had assigned the boy.
The monster, which had observed the lives of its residents through the souls of the dead, possessed a vague knowledge of the gods. They were absolute beings, far beyond its reach. And yet, those very gods had ordered its extermination. This child was their chosen executioner.
The monster resolved to claim him with everything it had. But its plans had failed.
Now, the monster and Ryoma stood facing each other with only a few residents between them. The illusions it had cast had failed to seduce him; instead, they had only fueled his rage. He had cut down the images of those he knew without hesitation, carving a path straight to the monster's feet.
"You’ve shown me a great many unpleasant things."
"Guh... Eliminate the intruder!"
From the back of the great hall, the monster rasped an order through its host—the body of an emaciated, skeletal old man. The residents waiting in the hall surged forward at once. However, Ryoma wove through the attackers with fluid grace, his katana—slick with Light Attribute magic—felling everything in its path.
The monster tried to read his intent, but it was impossible. His movements were pure reflex. In his total immersion in battle, he had discarded all extraneous thought. Even if the monster saw the next move coming, its residents were too slow to react.
Fortunately, unlike the souls sent outside, the souls of the residents cut down here did return. The monster called them forth again and again. It could not leave the mansion; there was no retreat. In a frantic last stand, it summoned more residents, overlaying them with the faces of the boy's acquaintances in a desperate bid to slow him down.
"Stubborn to the end," Ryoma muttered.
The monster’s greatest weakness was its inexperience. Although it knew the history of the village, it had never truly lived. It had only been in this form for a few years. Because its powers were so overwhelming against the unwary, it had never faced an opponent it could not touch. This was its first true encounter with the unexpected.
Something was wrong. A cold, heavy dread settled in its chest. It was more than the fear of death; it was something it could not name.
Then, one of the residents faltered. Its body, though dead and devoid of weariness, began to shake. It was not an act of rebellion—it was primal instinct.
"A-Ah... Aaaah..."
They tried desperately to hold Ryoma back, but the trembling was contagious. As the front line buckled, the fear radiating from the residents began to bleed into the monster.
There was no way out. No hope. And then, the monster finally understood the nature of its terror.
This is no human. What stands before me is a fundamental force.
This is—"Death."
Death in the form of a human was approaching. Just as its artificial skin broke into goosebumps and the urge to flee collided with the despair of being trapped, its final shield fell. Their eyes met.
"Eek!?"
The monster scrambled back in a blind panic. It was a mindless reaction. With nowhere to run, it ducked into the room directly behind it. But a single door would not buy it any time. A beat later, Ryoma leaped into the room.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no—I don't want this!
Driven by hysteria, the monster poured its vast magic into spawning more undead, frantically cloaking them in the forms of the people Ryoma loved.
"Ryoma! Wait a moment!"
"Big brother!"
"Ryoma-kun!"
"Manager!"
"Ryoma! Stop it!"
"Ryoma-san! Please, calm down!"
The people of Gimul. The shop employees. Children from his travels... and most of all, the people of the Ducal House. They appeared all at once, shouting for him to stop.
"Cutter Tornado."
The voices and the forms were instantly swallowed by a whirlwind of blades. The gale shredded everything—illusions and hopes alike.
As the wind tore at its own body, the monster watched Ryoma sprint down the path carved open by the storm. It saw the tip of the blade closing in.
I can't escape, it realized. But I don't want to die.
That was the monster’s final resistance.
Facing its end, it triggered a final, frantic hallucination. It was a chaotic reproduction of every memory of every person who had ever lived and died in the village.
A dense darkness surged from the monster’s body as the very concept of "Death" swallowed the room.