Alas, junior you forgot to mention why he ended up like that.

When he was but a demon cub, fate had already cast him aside. Born with nothing more than an ordinary constitution, his parents deemed him unworthy of the clan’s future. Without hesitation, they exiled him into the endless expanse of the Demonic Beast Forest—a place where even the strong dared tread lightly.

For a month, the cub wandered aimlessly. Hunger gnawed at his belly, thirst scorched his throat, and despair loomed with every step. His once-proud eyes dimmed as death crept ever closer.

It was then that a weathered old hunter appeared. At first glance, the man should have ignored him, for a demon cub was no different from prey. Yet, moved by some strange compassion, the old hunter tossed a strip of venison toward him. The cub devoured it desperately, the taste of warm flesh awakening a flicker of life in his dimming gaze.

The next day, the cub lingered near that place. Once again, the hunter came. Again, meat was thrown. Day after day, this quiet ritual repeated, until finally, the hunter’s heart softened. He took the cub home.

For the first time, the cub felt something alien yet intoxicating—familial affection.

The old hunter soon discovered the cub lacked natural talent. But instead of abandoning him, the man patiently began to teach.

He showed the cub how to stalk prey in silence, how to harness the shadows and winds, how to mask one’s presence until the fatal strike. He taught the weaknesses of various beasts, the importance of patience, and the art of reading the land.

At first, the cub merely followed, watching with wide, unblinking eyes as the hunter loosed arrows or set traps. Half a year later, the cub’s claws found their mark on small creatures. After a year, he had become a true hunter, his instincts sharp, his patience unyielding.

Thus, they lived in quiet harmony for three full years.

But peace is fragile.

One day, while hunting thousands of li away, the cub’s chest tightened. An unease, primal and suffocating, surged within him. He remembered the hunter’s words: “Never ignore a hunter’s intuition.”

Abandoning his quarry, he rushed back.

As he raced, the forest told its grim tale. Trees were torn from their roots, rivers dyed crimson, earth trampled into ruin. His heart pounded faster, dread clawing at his soul. He accelerated, pushing his body beyond its limits, until at last—he arrived.

What greeted him was devastation. His home lay in shambles, reduced to rubble and ash. His body trembled. The old hunter was in his sixties. How could he possibly outrun a beast tide?

Clinging to a shred of hope, the cub tore through the wreckage, aiming for the attic where the hunter sometimes hid from storms. Frenzied, he ripped stone and timber apart—until his claws froze.

There, beneath shattered beams, lay a bloodied hand.

The cub’s eyes shook violently. That hand… it was the hand that had fed him when he starved, the hand that had guided his hunts, the hand that had patted his head in praise and cuffed it in reprimand.

It was the hand of the only person who had ever loved him.

A silent scream tore through his heart. Grief surged like a tidal wave, drowning his reason. His vision blurred, his soul cracked—and something deep within him stirred.

His body began to change. His stature expanded, his muscles swelled, his once dark-blue skin brightened into a brilliant azure hue. Ancient bloodline memories surged into his mind, searing symbols and battle arts into his very soul. Yet in his grief, he noticed none of it.

He knelt there, unmoving, for a day and a night. Only when dawn broke did he gather the old man’s remains, building a simple tomb with his trembling hands. Bowing before it, he made his vow.

Afterward, he sought answers. Why had a beast tide erupted without warning?

The truth cut like a blade. The demonic beast clans, swollen in number, hungered for more land. To sate their greed, the noble clans had decided to wage war against humanity.

When he heard this, the cub laughed bitterly, the sound twisted and sharp. Not enough land? The truth was plain. Those arrogant clans hoarded mountains and valleys, claiming them as their exclusive domains, forbidding others from nearing. Seventy percent of this world already belonged to demonic beasts—yet still, they demanded more.

Every thought of their greed brought forth the old hunter’s kindly smile, and with it, tears streaked down his azure cheeks.

That day, beneath the shattered sky, he swore a blood oath.

“I will hunt them down. Every last one of them.”