But that's not important right now," Crimson said, her voice firm. "You need to visit the second race—the Long Ears. They're the closest to where you are."
"Wait—what about the first race?" Demos asked, still dazed and confused.
Voldemort smirked, dripping with sarcasm.
"Ha! I knew it. You really are his son. Muscles, no brain. Only your father's soul essence could produce a descendant this stupid."
He continued, sneering,
"You and your people are barbarians, you imbecile. What did you think you were? A Long Ear? Are a damn dwarf princess? That gorilla-like woman's pampering has you thinking you're something special. But let me make it crystal clear—you are a blood-born barbarian."
Suddenly, Crimson's tone turned cold and deadly, and Voldemort's soul visibly recoiled.
"Hey, old man," Crimson said, her voice like a blade, "I can tolerate your insults, but understand this—I will rip out your spine and shove your soul into a dickless corpse. Then I'll cram God EATER so far up your ass that not even your precious Spartan soul will save you. Got that?"
Demos, still sitting in his mother's lap, froze. Goosebumps covered his skin, and sweat ran down his temple. The full weight of the truth hit him: he was one of the barbarians. His people—the ones outside of his hut—were all part of that same ancient bloodline.
"So... I'm a barbarian," Demos said quietly. "And the people outside my hut… they're barbarians too?"
Crimson nodded gently.
"Well… yes and no."
"We all share the same unique soul. And because of that, we're only different in shape, size, and appearance. But at our core—our soul—we are the same."
"We are Spartans. That's the name of our true race."
"It's the markings that awaken on your sixteenth life journey that set us apart from every other race in this vast universe. That is our identity. Do you understand now, my son?"
Yeah... I think I do," Demos said slowly. "But who decides what the races are even called?"
Crimson shook her head. "That's something I don't know."
Demos frowned. "Then how am I supposed to tell them who they are? What if they don't want to be part of our little tribe?"
Crimson gave him a steady look.
"That's up to you. Do what you feel is right. Just know this—they already have the Spartan Soul. The Long Ears. The Dwarves too. They're like us, even if they don't know it yet."
She paused. Then her tone changed.
Her voice twisted—half hers, half... something else.
A second voice, ancient and echoing, layered over her words:
"The fourth race... they do not possess the Spartan Soul..."
"...but they belong to us through the vow of blood £€¥££¥ and soul £€¥££¥. They are of my Soulbound Markings.
I... AM... A... P--A--R--E--N--T... N--O--W."
The light in the room dimmed. The fire cracked wildly. Demos's breath caught.
He stared at his mother, stunned, both her voice and that alien one still ringing in his ears.
He couldn't understand most of it—but the weight of those words hung in the air like a prophecy.
Voldemort's eyes widened. His usual sarcasm vanished. His jaw clenched like he'd just heard something impossible—yet deeply true.
"What was I saying again?" Crimson asked suddenly, blinking like she had no memory of what just happened.
Voldemort erupted. "What?! After that—you're asking what?!"
He stood—or rather hovered in his ghostly form—visibly shaken.
"You spoke in a language I've never heard before. Ancient. Sacred. Maybe even forbidden. And you're telling me you don't remember?!"
Crimson's eyes narrowed. She turned to him, all traces of softness gone.
"Voldemort… what did I just say?"
He stared at her, still stunned. "You really don't know?"
"No." Her voice was hard now.
There was a long, heavy silence.
Then, from her lap, Demos spoke softly.
He repeated the words as best he could, mimicking the voice he'd just heard:
"Blood £€¥££¥… and soul £€¥££¥..."
The room fell utterly still.
The fire hissed low, like it was holding its breath.
Voldemort whispered, barely audible.
"Oh gods… it's beginning again..."
What's beginning again?" Demos asked, eyes narrowing in confusion.
"What? Nothing's happening!" Voldemort snapped, his voice cracking slightly.
"Don't tell me you actually remembered what that… voice said."
Demos nodded slowly.
"Yes. I remember every word."
Voldemort sighed heavily and turned to Crimson.
"There you have it. The kid just spoke a language I literally can't pronounce. Not even mimic. Not even understand."
Crimson tilted her head. "You can't say it? Why do you think that is?"
Voldemort shrugged. "Maybe it's something only you and him can do. Some bloodline thing. Or maybe... it's because I died before my soul had a chance to fully awaken. I was never reborn into a living Spartan body like he was. When—if—I regain a body again, maybe then I'll be able to try speaking that language."
Crimson look down at Demos and placed her hand on his shoulder.
"Demos, it's time to go back now. Do what you must. But please—don't get yourself hurt. I'm sending you back. Understood?"
"Wait—Mother, hold on," Demos said, urgency in his voice.
"Speak, Demos. I'm listening," she said gently.
"You said you put the Spartan Soul into the people of this world. So… what about their memories? Before and after the soul was reborn in them? And… why did you separate them all from each other?"
Crimson's eyes darkened slightly, but her voice remained calm.
"Don't worry about their memories. That part will sort itself out."
She paused. Then her expression grew more serious.
"The gods of this lower realm would have sensed the anomaly if I had kept the Spartans together. They would have reported it to the gods of the higher realms. That would have drawn attention before the time was right. By separating the three races and placing them in different locations—Long Ears, Dwarves, Barbarians—I ensured that their souls could remain hidden."
"So it was a way to protect them?"
"Yes," she said softly. "A way to protect you as well."
She stepped back and raised her hand. A soft light began to gather around Demos.
"Now go. I've answered all I can
The glow engulfed him, and the void tore open.
WHOOSH.
Demos blinked—he was back inside his hut. The familiar wooden walls surrounded him, but his mind was far from settled.
He sat down slowly, breathing in the earthy scent of the hut.
"I don't understand everything... but I know one thing for sure—she really is my mother."
He pressed a hand over his chest.
"And that blood connection... I can still feel her."
A deep warmth pulsed through him.
"Her strength. Still running through me."
He stood, pacing for a moment as thoughts swirled.
"I'll have to go to the Bloodvine Forests soon. But before that…"
He paused, eyes narrowing as a new idea formed.
"Ryker. Yeah… I'll send Ryker to the Long Ears."
He reached for his axe, more out of habit than need.
"I'll have him speak with their queen. Tell her we cleared out a Perezoso nest near the ridge—and now we've got too much meat for our tribe to eat alone."
A small smirk curled on his lips.
"If the Long Ears join us for a feast, maybe they'll start to see what we are. What we could be—together."
The wind outside picked up, brushing through the trees like whispers from the void.
Demos nodded to himself.
"This is how it starts. Not with war. Not with force. But with something simple... like shared food and a message carried by a warrior I trust."
He stepped outside into the fading light.
Time to call Ryker.
*********
"Hey Crimson… you really don't want to tell him, do you?" Voldemort said suddenly. His voice sliced through the silence like a blade.
"That all those people—the ones you erased to implant your Spartan souls—"
Crimson cut him off coldly.
"I didn't cut them down," she snapped. "I removed the developing souls from their unborn children."
Her tone was steady, but her face betrayed a flicker of guilt—a storm barely contained behind her eyes.
"They were still fetuses. Their souls were new. Forming. I… cleared the vessel. To make room for my people."
Voldemort tilted his head slowly, examining her.
"You don't even flinch when you say it like that. That's cold—even for you."
He scoffed, then crossed his arms.
"So… how many Spartan souls are still inside that reincarnation cycle of yours? Inside that twisted little 'gift' you created?"
Crimson didn't hesitate.
"Roughly 3.4 million from Leonidas' first kingdom. And another 350 currently residing in this lower realm—waiting for the right vessels."
Voldemort let out a low whistle.
"Not bad."
Then his tone shifted—darker, sharper.
"Crimson… that voice from earlier. The one that spoke through you. It called itself 'a parent.'"
Crimson's brow furrowed.
"A parent?"
"You heard it too."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Any idea what it meant?"
She shook her head.
"No. But for now, we need to focus on the real threat in front of us."
"Which one?" Voldemort asked dryly.
Crimson arched an eyebrow, then sighed.
"Now that Demos knows some of what's going on… we need to find out who—or what—erased the Spartan souls from Sparta."
Voldemort's expression darkened.
"It doesn't look like any of the gods got them. Not one Spartan soul has surfaced."
"Exactly," Crimson said grimly.
"It's too clean. Like they vanished… before even the gods could get it."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed.
"The unknown's never good."
He paused.
"But what if… they erased themselves? What if the Spartan souls chose to self-destruct rather than be taken or to stop evolving?"
Crimson's eyes widened slightly.
"You think a soul… would choose extinction?"
"Maybe not extinction," Voldemort replied, his voice distant.
"Maybe they burned themselves away to protect something greater. Something central. Maybe…"
He turned to look her directly in the eye.
"Maybe you."
Crimson looked away, into the vast, silent void.
"Then whatever force can make a soul choose to destroy itself… must be something not even the gods dare to face."