The morning sun cast long, golden rays across the rolling hills, which in the early hours resembled a deep-green, velvety blanket. A gentle breeze, heavy with the scent of damp earth and ripe fruit, rustled through the leaves of the tomato plants. Zack, an eight-year-old boy with bright blue eyes and a face full of freckles, crouched intently between the rows. With his small, dirt-stained hands, he carefully plucked a tomato from the vine. He felt its perfect roundness, the smooth skin, and the firmness that told him it was ready to be harvested. A wide grin spread across his face.

  “Look, Mom! This one’s perfect!” he called out, his voice filled with the pride of a young explorer.

  His mother—a woman with calloused hands and a tired yet gentle face—smiled softly. She knelt beside him and brushed a stray lock of brown hair from his eyes.

  “That’s a beautiful tomato, sweetheart. Place it gently in the basket.”

  A few meters away stood his older sister. At fourteen, she already moved with the ease of an experienced harvester. She hummed quietly as she twisted the tomatoes free with quick, practiced motions, dropping them into her basket.

  “Zack, if you hold them like that, you’ll bruise them,” she teased affectionately. “You have to twist, not squeeze.”

  “But I’m not squeezing!” Zack protested, his cheeks slightly flushed with effort.

  The family’s laughter echoed across the fields. In the distance, beyond the hill, came the low, rhythmic murmuring of the cows and the voices of his father and older brother as they worked at the milking. It was a picture of serene perfection.

  But anyone who looked closely could see more than just an idyllic farm.

  His mother’s and sister’s clothes were worn and patched in several places. Zack’s shoes were too small, a hole in the sole stuffed with a piece of cardboard. The buckets they used to collect the tomatoes were old and dented, and the basket Zack carried—once a sturdy wicker piece—was now held together with rope.

  The farm itself, though functional, bore the scars of years of struggle. The barn leaned crookedly, its paint flaking away, and the roof had been repaired with mismatched planks. The cow shed was built from loose boards, riddled with gaps where the winter cold would cut straight through.

  “This will be a good harvest, right, Mom?” Zack asked, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

  His mother nodded, looking at the baskets filled with ripe red tomatoes.

  “Yes, sweetheart. It’ll be enough for the market and for us to preserve through the winter.”

  Her words sounded hopeful, but her gaze lingered on the peeling paint of the house, the wooden fence that nearly collapsed, and the worn clothes of her children. The harvest would be enough to survive—but there would be nothing left to dream of.

  “Maybe we can buy something nice with the money,” Zack said dreamily. “A soccer ball! One with a cool stripe on it.”

  His sister paused and looked at her little brother.

  “Maybe, little one. Maybe.”

  Her voice was gentle, but tinged with quiet sadness. She knew the truth. The earnings would disappear into repairs, food, and the small amount of fuel they needed. But for Zack—who still believed in the magic of a tomato and the promise of tomorrow—there was only the warm sun and the sweet taste of freshly picked fruit.

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  As the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in deep reds and oranges, the warmth of the day quickly faded. Suddenly, his father’s powerful voice rang out across the fields, shattering the calm.

  “Inside! It’s getting late. The Hellfire Wall will ignite soon—we leave for the market early tomorrow!”

  The cheerful mood vanished instantly, replaced by hurried movement. The baskets were abandoned as everyone rushed toward the house, now a dark silhouette against the fading sky. His father slammed the heavy wooden door shut, sliding the bolts into place with a loud creak. The shutters were closed and secured with wooden pins, armor against the darkness outside.

  Inside, in the warm glow of a small fire in the hearth, his mother prepared a simple, watery soup in an iron pot. The smell of onions and potatoes filled the cramped space as his sister helped chop the last vegetables.

  Zack curled up in a corner, his small body trembling beneath an old woolen blanket too thin to block the cold seeping up from the floor. The sound of the sliding bolts had reignited his childish fear of the approaching night.

  From the shadows, his older brother grinned.

  “Look at the scared little rabbit,” he teased. “If the demons come, cowards like you will be the first they eat.”

  Before Zack could respond, an arm wrapped gently around his shoulders. His sister crouched beside him, her presence a comforting warmth.

  “Don’t worry, Zackie,” she whispered, pulling the blanket tighter around him. “I’ll protect you from the demons. I’m the best defender there is.”

  His parents exchanged a glance and smiled softly. They knew danger and darkness lurked beyond the walls of their home, but here—in warmth and safety—they could cling to the illusion of a perfect family. For now, that was enough.

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  Zack’s deep, restless sleep was violently interrupted.

  An icy chill crept along his spine—a foreboding sense of impending doom. In the small, dark room, where the warmth of the fire had long since faded, the family lay together beneath a thin blanket on the cold earthen floor. Zack jolted awake, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  From outside, piercing through the thick walls, came a shrill, cutting bell—the alarm.

  He shook his parents awake, their faces instantly twisted with worry. His brother and sister scrambled up as panic thickened the air. Screams, pounding footsteps, and a collective cry of terror echoed outside—the sound of a community collapsing into chaos.

  His father, adrenaline tightening his features, peered through a narrow crack in the shutter. What he saw froze his blood. He turned around, eyes wide with raw, unfiltered fear.

  “DEMONS!” he screamed. “They’ve breached the walls! We have to ru—”

  He never finished.

  A violent, splintering crash shattered the silence. The wooden wall burst open as a monstrous figure surged inside—a demon with dull, glowing eyes and claws of sharpened bone. It slammed its talons into Zack’s father’s neck. His scream ripped through the room as his eyes rolled back, his body collapsing inward like a balloon slowly losing air. With a shrill, tearing sound, his soul was ripped from him and devoured by the demon.

  The screams of Zack’s mother, brother, and sister filled the room. They tried to flee, their bodies stiff with terror—but before they could take a single step, more creatures flooded in. They seemed to appear from nowhere, hurling themselves at the family with ravenous claws.

  Hidden beneath his blanket, Zack felt the floor shake. He heard the sounds of flesh tearing, bodies collapsing, and the piercing shriek of souls being torn away—one by one. He squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath, and prayed that he would be next. He had no choice but to wait.

  ?

  Then the sounds changed.

  The screaming faded, replaced by the brutal chaos of combat. Heavy blows rattled the walls. Something sharp sliced through the air. Bodies hit the floor with dull thuds. Zack remained frozen beneath his blanket, waiting for a claw to find him—but these were not the sounds of slaughter.

  They were the sounds of a fight.

  Curiosity, stronger than fear, took hold. With trembling fingers, he lifted the blanket just enough to peek through.

  What he saw defied everything he had ever been taught.

  Three demons—the same creatures that had just murdered his family—lay lifeless on the cold earthen floor, their bodies cracked and torn apart.

  Standing among them was a boy.

  He was slightly older than Zack, perhaps ten years old. His face was smeared with dust and dried blood. In each hand, he held a knife—gleaming, deadly steel reflecting the dying firelight. His sharp, unreadable eyes scanned the room… and found Zack.

  The boy stared straight at him, utterly devoid of emotion.

  “If you want to live,” he said, his voice as cold and sharp as the blades he held, “run.”

  Without another word, he turned and sprinted through the shattered wall into the night.

  Zack’s mouth fell open in shock—but he didn’t hesitate. He glanced once more at the pale, empty bodies of his family. Then, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, he leapt up and ran into the darkness after the boy. The fear was still there, but the pain of loss had become a burning engine driving him forward.

  “Don’t follow me!” the boy shouted over his shoulder without slowing down.

  “Then where am I supposed to go?” Zack screamed back, his lungs burning.

  “I don’t care!” came the harsh reply.

  Tears of grief and rage streamed down Zack’s face.

  “Then why did you save me?!”

  The boy ignored him and kept running, a shadow swallowed by the night. Zack pushed on, his small, exhausted body begging him to stop—but he knew stopping meant death.

  “At least tell me your name!”

  The boy stopped abruptly and turned around. The glow of a burning house illuminated his face.

  “Eli,” he said. One word. Cold. Final.

  A wave of hope and gratitude washed over Zack.

  “Thank you, Eli! I’ll be grateful forever!”

  His gaze fell to the knives in Eli’s hands, and a new purpose ignited inside him.

  “Please… teach me how to kill demons like you did.”

  It wasn’t a question—it was a plea.

  And in the eyes of a boy who had just lost everything, a new hope was born.

  Thus began an unexpected journey into the hellish night.