The battlefield was silent, bodies of fallen samurai scattered across the blood-soaked ground. Azrael stood among the carnage, his golden eyes gleaming with cold amusement. The fight had been pitiful—humans were never a match for him.

Then, a sound broke the eerie stillness. A baby’s cry.

He turned, following the fragile wails to a collapsed hut. Beneath the rubble lay an infant, wrapped in torn cloth, tiny fists trembling. Azrael stared, expression unreadable. A human child? Here?

He should have walked away. Left it to its fate. But instead, he crouched, brushing a clawed finger against its cheek. The baby hiccupped, locking teary eyes with his own—then, miraculously, the crying stopped.

Azrael exhaled, lifting the small creature into his arms. “Hmph. Helpless little thing.” Yet, as they nestled against him, he felt something stir—a strange warmth he couldn’t ignore.

With a final glance at the ruins, the Demon Lord turned away, leaving the battlefield behind. Not as a conqueror, but as a guardian.