章 16: On the way to face death itself
I stood at the edge of the docks, the salty air of the sea mixing with the faint scent of burning wood from the nearby forges. Ships swayed gently against the pier, their masts towering over me like skeletal fingers reaching for the sky. Among the bobbing vessels, I searched for the one Sophie mentioned—a Danish ship named *Nattens Forbannelse*.
It wasn't difficult to spot. The ship was larger than most, its black sails almost invisible against the night sky. Shadows flitted around it—figures draped in dark cloaks, moving quietly and with purpose. My eyes narrowed as I noticed something peculiar: before each person boarded, they paused and whispered something to the man stationed at the base of the boarding ladder. It looked like some kind of passphrase ritual.
I tightened the straps on my armor, feeling the subtle weight of the rune-etched plates on my shoulders and chest. A week ago, this armor would have felt cumbersome and awkward. Now, it was like a second skin, a testament to my growth and the challenges I'd overcome. The rune glowed faintly for a second before the light faded back into the deep purple hue. I drew in a breath, feeling the tension coil within me like a taut string.
Sophie had warned me about this—told me that for the test, even a small mistake could cost me everything. One wrong move, one hesitation, and I'd be seen as a liability. But I wasn't worried about that. No, what intrigued me more was the mystery of this test. Anholt, a demon-infested island. How could a place like that weed out the weak from the strong? The thought sent a rush of excitement through me.
Taking a step forward, I walked purposefully towards the ship, my boots thudding softly against the wooden planks of the dock. I could feel eyes on me—hooded figures murmuring among themselves, no doubt wondering who I was. With every step closer, the pressure built. The man at the base of the ladder glanced up, his face partially obscured by the shadow of his hood. A scar ran down his left cheek, disappearing under the rough fabric.
He crossed his arms, looking me up and down with a bored expression that barely concealed his scrutiny. The other recruits had stopped a few feet away from him, bowed their heads, and muttered something. I was close enough now to catch a few phrases—"By the light of the new moon…" "…the shadows take root…"—but couldn't piece together the entire thing.
"Come on, Zark," I muttered under my breath. "Think back to what Sophie told you."
"When the Blood Moon rises, even the brave fall," I said firmly, locking eyes with the man.
For a moment, there was silence. He didn't move, didn't speak. The others around us stilled as if waiting to see what would happen next. Then, slowly, his gaze slid to the armor I wore. I could see the faintest flicker of recognition there, and his lips twisted into a smirk.
"Rich brat, aren't you?" he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "Can't even bother to put on a cloak like the rest of them." He shook his head, a trace of irritation marring his features, before his eyes settled back on mine. "But you got the passphrase right."
He stepped aside, motioning lazily towards the ladder. "Go on then. Board the ship. Let's see if that fancy armor is just for show, or if you can actually back it up."
Ignoring the murmur of whispers that rose around me, I gave a curt nod and stepped onto the ladder. The wood creaked beneath my weight as I climbed, the cold breeze tugging at my hair. The man's eyes followed me until I was out of his line of sight, but I could still feel his skepticism lingering like a bad stench.
The ship's deck was crowded, figures standing in tight clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Each of them bore a similar air of determination and unease. Cloaked and armed, they looked like a small army ready to march to war. I straightened my back, ignoring the looks thrown my way. The deep purple tint of my armor stood out like a beacon against the sea of dull grays and blacks, but I welcomed the attention. Let them watch. Let them whisper.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" a voice called from behind, dripping with mockery.
I turned sharply, catching sight of the man who spoke. He looked to be about my age—twenty or so—though his full suit of armor gave him a more imposing presence. The polished steel gleamed under the moonlight, catching the faint light that filtered down from above. His blond hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and his face was dotted with a smattering of freckles that gave him a boyish appearance, despite the sneer that twisted his lips.
"Fancy gear you got there," he said, eyeing my rune-etched armor with exaggerated admiration. "Did your daddy buy it for you?"
I tensed, but held back a retort. I wasn't going to rise to his baiting. Instead, I studied him—his stance, the way he carried himself. Confident. Arrogant. And from the way his armor fit perfectly to his form, it was clear this wasn't just for show. This guy knew how to fight.
"Oliver Axelsen," he continued with a sweeping bow, still dripping with sarcasm. "Surely you've heard of me?" He straightened, and when I didn't respond, he raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed. "No? Really? Well, I guess the honor of the Axelsen family name doesn't reach everywhere after all." He sighed dramatically, his expression a mix of irritation and amusement.
The Axelsen family… It took a moment, but then it clicked. They were one of the more prominent families affiliated with the Demon Slayer Corp. Known for their long line of skilled warriors and slayers, each generation producing at least one or two individuals who were inducted into the higher ranks of the Corp. From what I recalled, the Axelsens were well-respected, if not feared, in the slayer community.
But I wasn't about to let him know that. I kept my face neutral, giving nothing away.
Oliver's smirk widened when I didn't respond. "Guess that means you're new around here. Let me guess… some rich noble's son looking to play hero for a while?" He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to gauge my reaction. "Or… maybe you're here because you have to be. Sent away for disgracing your family name, perhaps?"
"Neither," I replied coolly, finally meeting his gaze with a steely one of my own. "I'm here because I choose to be."
Oliver tilted his head, seemingly amused by my answer. "Bold words. But if you're here on your own volition, then you must have something to prove. Which makes me wonder… who are you exactly? What family are you from?"
The challenge in his voice was clear, and I knew this was more than just idle curiosity. He was testing me, trying to see if I'd falter under his scrutiny.
Because soon, I'd show them all exactly what I was capable of.
"Mikkelsen," I said firmly, staring straight into Oliver's eyes as I said the name.
His brows shot up in surprise, the mocking expression on his face momentarily giving way to genuine shock. He blinked, then let out a low whistle, the sound mingling with the creaking of the wooden deck as the ship shifted gently in the harbor.
"Mikkelsen, huh?" he repeated, his voice quieter, almost contemplative. He looked me up and down as if seeing me for the first time. "Now, that's a name I haven't heard in a long time." Oliver paused, his lips curling back into that familiar, arrogant smile. "I thought the Mikkelsen line ended years ago. No sons, no daughters left to carry on the name… or so I heard."
"Guess your sources were wrong," I said dryly, but his words made something twist deep in my gut. The shadow of my father's name had always loomed over me, and hearing it from someone else's mouth made it feel… real. Tangible. It was a ghost I'd never been able to outrun.
Oliver let out a low chuckle, his laughter like the purr of a predator that had just found something interesting. "So, you're the son of *that* Demon Slayer, then?" His voice dropped, growing softer but losing none of its edge. "The one who went mad?"
I clenched my jaw, holding back the immediate urge to snap back. But Oliver was relentless, stepping closer and lowering his voice so only I could hear him. "Is it true, then? That your old man lost his mind on a mission? They say he started raving like a lunatic, muttering about 'Veil-touched' and other nonsense before turning his blade on his own men." His eyes glinted with morbid curiosity. "Quite the legacy to live up to, don't you think?"
Every muscle in my body tightened. It was like a punch to the gut, hearing the rumors I'd grown up with thrown in my face by a stranger. I swallowed hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react. He didn't know anything—just the stories, the whispers. The truth was something far more complicated than I could explain in a few words.
"Believe whatever you want," I ground out, keeping my voice steady. "But I'm not here to prove anything to you or anyone else."
Oliver's smile turned colder. "Touchy, aren't we?" He leaned back, still watching me with that unsettling grin. "Well, whatever happened back then… I suppose it doesn't matter now. After all, your father's gone, isn't he?" He tilted his head, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Dead, if I remember correctly. Just like the rest of the Mikkelsen line."
I took a slow, measured breath, keeping my expression neutral. He was pushing for a reaction, digging into old wounds just to see what kind of pain he could stir up. I wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. Not here, not now.
"I'm here," I said quietly, my voice calm but edged with steel. "That's all that matters."
Oliver's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before he shrugged, stepping back with a faint, mocking smile. "Fair enough," he said lightly, as if we'd just been discussing the weather. "But let me give you a little piece of advice, Mikkelsen—no one cares about your name. Or your family's history. Out here, all that matters is what you can do. If you can't live up to the reputation… you'll be crushed."
He turned away, his posture relaxed, almost careless. But there was a dangerous edge to his movements, like a coiled snake waiting to strike. "See you on the island, Mikkelsen," he called over his shoulder, his voice filled with an infuriating mix of amusement and indifference. "Try not to get yourself killed too quickly."
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