Blood. It covers everything.

Countless bodies litter the ground, all residents of this once peaceful utopia cut down without mercy and with no regard for age or gender. The blazing remnants of awe-inspiring buildings and temples crumble everywhere as streams of red and green blood fill the streets.

That is all that remains after the slaughter that befell this place.

Surrounded by this carnage, a group of people stands in a clearing, but their features are impossible to make out as their forms are shrouded in darkness.

These mysterious figures are gathered around the corpses of several extremely large creatures, all different and yet strangely similar. The remains of a few green-haired people are tangled in with the monstrous bodies as well.

A tall and imposing figure holding a crackling red sword surveys the now silent surroundings before turning back to face the pile of bodies with a twisted grin on his lips.

Soon, a dark purple magic circle begins to form as it encompasses the strange pile of bodies as well as the shadowed individuals near it. The gigantic magic circle flashes on and off, seemingly struggling to activate before it finally stabilizes after being sent more magic at the cost of several sacrificed lives. The strange group, as well as their gathered corpses, then all disappear in a flash of light.

After a few minutes of absolute silence, one of the piles starts to fluctuate as a lone figure begins to crawl out from under it.

Shifting the remains of children and adults alike, the survivor finally manages to break free, collapsing to the ground in a coughing fit. It's a young woman drenched in the dark ichor of her fellow people, though a hint of green on her head manages to shine through the gore covering her form.

For several minutes she merely sits on the ground, gazing at the death and destruction around her while shaking and crying.

Looking up at the hazy red sky with tears streaming down her face, she screams something up at the sky, seemingly pleading. As nothing responds she eventually becomes despondent, bringing her head down to look at the ground.

After a brief moment though she seems to notice something as she slowly raises her head and turns to look in a particular direction, eyes widening at what she sees. Desperately, she tries to say something that's impossible to make out and reaches out her bloodied hand. But before it reaches it's target, the vision fades away.

Opening his eyes with a start, a small boy stares at the wooden ceiling in thought for a moment before covering his ears.

Loud snoring echoes through the house, making a noise that would prevent even the most exhausted of people from being able to sleep.

Shaking his head a little bit, he rolls out of bed and heads to the front door. There, laying just next to it, was the youth’s father, having barely made it inside the door prior to passing out on the ground, a half-empty bottle lying next to him.

Stepping over him without a glance, the kid heads out the door and into the still-dark morning. Stretching and breathing in the fresh air, he goes over to a nearby stream and drinks some of the clear water before starting to remove his clothes.

He takes off his shirt and pants, leaving only his smallclothes so as not to dirty them, and sets them to the side.

Their lodgings being on the outskirts of town, the boy goes into the woods and begins his warmup, starting with a jog. Moving at a light pace through the trees, he thinks back on his strange dream.

For as long as he can remember he has been having weird visions whenever he goes to sleep for the night. Sometimes they show battles, sometimes people, sometimes places, but there are only ever two constants.

One is that he has never seen or experienced any of it, he has never been to those places or met those people.

The other is that they almost always begin or end with the same thing. A girl sleeping on a large throne made of stone.

Although he doesn’t know why, he feels some strange connection to the girl, a longing to reach out to her. It’s strange, he usually never feels much of anything towards anyone but for her, it’s different. Ignoring their strangeness though, he doesn’t mind the dreams, they sometimes even help him.

As the youngster breaks out of his thoughts, he notices the sky starting to brighten as the sun begins its journey upwards for the day. Heading back to their house he picks up the pace in order to push himself.

Coming out of the woods a thin layer of sweat glistens on his skin as his chest heaves up and down. Taking a short break, he once again heads over to the stream to drink before grabbing a small practice sword riddled with scratches and dents.

For the first hour, he swings the sword and practices the forms his father showed him without rest.

During the second hour, he hones his agility and flexibility by going through several different exercises and stretches as well as practicing his archery from all sorts of distances and angles.

Finally, for the third hour, he goes back to the blade.

This time though, he does something special. He practices some of the movements and forms he saw used during his dreams.

This is how his dreams help him. Whether it be combat forms, tactics, language, or more, he has seen it when he sleeps.

One of his most prized abilities is how he can recall something with remarkable clarity even if he's only seen it once before. 

Granted, he can't simply recall things instantaneously, but rather has to think about it for a while. Even so, it was an ability that many would desperately desire.

With his great memory, everything that he’s seen in his dreams is a wealth of information just waiting to be tapped into.

In fact, this is just a fraction of what he can do.

Whether it be his intellect or his physical capabilities, the boy knows that he is way ahead of what kids his age should be capable of, but this is how he’s always been so for him it’s not that strange.

That being said, he’s only started to apply the weapon forms lately, and aside from broadening his horizons, he hasn’t focused deeply on the other aspects he’s seen yet.

But they are there for him when he needs them, and although he doesn’t know why, he knows that they are more than some nonsense he dreamt up. Everything he’s seen has felt real, as if it was actually happening.

Finishing up his morning training, he goes back to the stream to drink and gathers up a bucket of water along with a couple of things from the house. Carrying the bucket a ways into the woods, he strips down and begins to wash himself with a rag and a bar of soap.

If one were to pass by, they may be surprised to see a child of his age doing such things all alone.

He has short dark teal hair and cobalt eyes while his mouth is also constantly in a slight downturn which some mistake for a frown. He is a cute young boy with a persistent and natural serious expression.

He's also fairly tall for his age at around 3’9” and has small muscles all throughout his form. Being a child, his muscles won’t get any bigger, but they can still improve within their limited capacity. Tiny scars decorate the skin all across his body, but most aren’t immediately noticeable.

Finishing up, he puts on the clothes that he set aside earlier and heads back towards his house as his stomach begins to demand food.

Once again stepping over his still sleeping father, the boy grabs the well-preserved remains of a deer he had hunted yesterday and goes outside to cook. Lighting a fire, he puts the meat over it on a stick as he sits down and stares at the flames while slowly turning the spit.

After some time, the smell of roasted meat breaks his trance and he makes sure that it is fully cooked before dividing it into two portions. Bringing it back inside he sets it on a table along with some other food and then proceeds to go up to his sleeping father.

Already beginning to stir after smelling the cooked meat, the youth simply shakes him for a time until he begins to open his eyes.

A small groan escapes the dad’s lips as he grabs his forehead, “Damn, I hate this feeling.”

Slowly getting up off the floor, he stretches which causes a cacophony of cracking and popping noises from his body. “Ahh, that feels better, though the back is going to be a little sore.” Then looking at his son, “Is that breakfast I smell kid?”

Simply nodding, the young child walks back to the table before sitting down and starting to eat. Following his kid, the father similarly sits and begins to eat as well, greedily gulping down the glass of water that had been put out for him.

“Thanks for that. Did you already do your training for the morning?”

Nodding his head, the youth just continues to consume his meal. “Good, I’m going for another job in the afternoon, but it’s a pretty simple one so I’ll probably be back during the night.”

Hearing that, the kid looks up at his father and stares at him for a while.

“No, you can’t come with me, you’re still too small and not ready.”

The son continues his stare with a glance down at his father’s plate.

Sighing at his son's lack of verbal communication, he simply responds, “Hunting a wild animal that would usually run if it spotted you is a lot different than fighting another person.”

Narrowing his eyes a tad, the youth only persists his gaze.

Already knowing what the boy was thinking due to having the same discussion fairly often, the father quickly gives his verdict.

“Look, sparring and fighting to the death are two completely different things. Just because you can beat some of the new and young recruits in a casual spar doesn’t mean you can win in a fight to the death, especially against someone that actually knows what they're doing. Now you’re going to stay here and that’s final Byleth.”

Looking at his dad for a few more seconds, the boy finally averts his gaze and lets out a little grunt of recognition. Lightly chuckling, the father ruffles his son’s hair. “You sure are stubborn, just like your mo… err… just like me.”

Byleth ignores him while proceeding to grab the dirty plates and wash them. Finishing up his task the young child takes some items and heads back to the door but suddenly looks at his father as he leaves.

“Bye.”

With that simple word, he leaves the house, his father only smiling wryly as he’s long gotten used to his son’s behavior.

Heading back into the woods, Byleth walks for a while under the shadows of the leaves before coming to an especially enormous tree that towers over the others.

Quickly scaling the branches like a natural, he reaches a particular branch high up into it with a small mark carved into the bark. Hopping up on it, he sits back and puts his things in front of him as he pulls out a notebook and quill.

Opening the pages, several drawings on them with some words jump out at him. The drawings are recognizable, but clearly the work of a young child, looking not quite accurate but adorable, nonetheless.

Turning to a page that seems unfinished, Byleth looks intently to another tree in the distance. From his perfect viewpoint on the branch, it is possible to see a large bird’s nest that has three eager baby chicks being fed by their mother.

Alternating his gaze between the birds and his notebook, he begins to draw the scene before him. Focusing on his work, he slightly sticks out his tongue on the side of his mouth as he draws.

Several minutes later, he finishes the drawing and compares his creation to the sight in front of him. A slight smile appears on the corner of his mouth as he looks at his work, but it disappears almost as soon as it surfaces.

Putting away the items, he lays down on the branch while gazing at the chicks and soon falls asleep.

Waking up after a few hours, the boy spends a little more time watching the birds before climbing back down the tree just as quickly as he came up. 

Feeling a bit hungry, he goes towards the small river in the forest and pulls out a makeshift fishing rod, just a stick with some line tied on and a hook.

Digging around in the dirt he finds a nice plump worm that he sticks on the hook and then casts it into the water. His father sometimes takes him fishing like this, so it’s something that he grew accustomed to doing when he wanted food but didn’t want to hunt.

Taking off his boots he dangles his feet in the water while patiently waiting for a bite. Sometime later, feeling a weak tug, he yanks the rod and pulls the line towards him.

As he pulls the end of the line out of the water Byleth quickly grabs the fish and presses it to the ground while taking out his knife. He deftly guts and bleeds the fish before building a small fire and placing it over it.

Growing up constantly traveling, his dad taught him a bunch of survival skills should he ever need to live in the wilderness, so doing all of this wasn’t much of an issue.

Eating slowly, he savors the taste of his freshly cooked fish and then packs up his belongings, deciding to head back home and practice more. Being by himself all the time, the boy has few things that he likes to do, so most of his time is spent either training or exploring whatever new area his father’s mercenary band takes him to.

There’s not anyone in his life other than his dad and one or two others, and with them constantly being out working the youngster is left to his own devices.

He also usually never feels much of a need or desire to play with other children, rather being content by himself. Perhaps that's due to never properly being around other kids or maybe that's just how he truly is. The outcome is the same either way.

Later that night, it’s already fairly late and Byleth is currently trying to read one of his father’s books on tactics in their temporary housing, having already finished all his training and meals. Deciding to sleep, he puts away the book and snuffs out the candle on his windowsill as he crawls into bed.

Drifting off to sleep, he is suddenly awakened by strange noises coming from the door to the house. Rising to go check it out, he grabs his knife and begins to hear a pair of hushed voices the closer he gets to the door.

“Ya sure this is the place?”

“Yeah, one of the locals told me this is where he was staying at, don’t worry I made sure that he knew lying wouldn’t get him anywhere.”

“Heh, good, that bastard thought he could cross us and get away with it, let’s see how he likes it when we steal all his shit.”

The boy’s eyes widen slightly as he hears the whispers of the two men outside the door. Slowly creeping back to his room, he plans to grab a spare longsword that his father always leaves but before he can get too far, the two men break open the door.

Walking into the house is a pair of dirty and disheveled figures. One is a short and skinny man of around 5’5” carrying twin daggers on his sides while the other is tall and relatively strong, standing at 6’2” with an axe looped on his belt. They're both dressed in dirty rags and practically no armor, the weapons on their hips being the only sign that they are fighting men.

“What the hell is this Rich, you didn’t say nothin’ bout no child,” the larger thief says to the smaller one.

“It doesn’t change anything you oaf, if anything this is an opportunity. We can grab the kid and use ‘em as ransom, and if not, well we can just make this kid our slave or something.”

The rogue’s eyes glitter with greed as he slowly begins to walk toward Byleth. “C’mere little brat, I’m not gonna hurt ya, I’m good friends with your pops. We can take ya to em.”

He crouches down a little as he spreads his arms and walks toward the child in a welcoming manner, but his twisted expression completely betrays his words.

Byleth, snapping out of his daze, suddenly dashes towards the large thief and slashes at his head with his knife. Managing to surprise him with a large burst of speed that shouldn’t be possible from a kid his size, he's able to cut a little bit into his face, right where his left eye was.

“Ahhh, shit, the damn brat cut me. I’m gonna gut ya for that ya pest!” the bandit roars in pain.

The boy dashes back towards his room right after he cut the man, and barely manages to avoid the hand reaching out to grab him.

“Wait you dolt, think, the whelp might have a crest! How else could he move like that? Haha, we’re going to be rich.”

The large man’s good eye becomes slightly less clouded when he hears about the possible crest, but still vows to deal some damage to the kid.

As the two chase after Byleth into his room, an arrow suddenly comes flying at them from inside the doorway that manages to stick itself into the tall man’s side.

Screaming out in pain he stumbles to the side before glimpsing a sword driving itself up, right into his heart. Time seems to stand still as the large man looks up the length of the blade and at the face of the youth wielding it.

His facial expression is completely neutral, not a hint of fear or horror, anger or worry, relief or pride, there's absolutely nothing. Just an emotionless face covered in a bit of blood that stared up at him as he died.

As the boy pulls out the bloody sword and the rogue falls to the ground dead the smaller thief only stands completely still, not able to process what had happened. His large partner who towers over others, the muscle of their now small group, was just mercilessly cut down by a little child half his size, and what’s worse is he didn’t even bat an eye doing it.

The short man, Rich, manages to shake off his thoughts though when he sees the same blade that claimed his partner’s life heading right for him.

Dodging out of the way, he pulls out his daggers while yelling at the small child in fright, “Damn monster, you’re a freak, a, a, a demon!”

Saying nothing, the youth just rushes at Rich while swinging his father’s longsword, who manages to gather his wits in time to dodge to the side and counter with his own slash.

Receiving the cut to his chest, the boy flinches in pain before once again swinging the blade. Having trouble wielding the longsword that was taller than him, the resulting swing turned out to be rather sloppy.

This time, the thief manages to deflect it using his daggers and delivers a kick to the kid’s chest where he previously cut him, which sends him stumbling away as he almost drops the sword.

Fear lessening due to his unexpected success, the small man’s anger begins to take over. 

“Hah, it’s obvious you’ve never fought someone for real little imp, there’s nothin’ to fear after all,” Rich says as he moves towards the boy and disarms him while kicking him roughly in the same spot again.

Despite trying to stay on his feet, Byleth was unable to resist the older man's kick even with his abnormal strength for his age.

Now slumped against the wall clutching his chest, Byleth struggles to breathe.

“We’re gonna have a lot of fun together later before I put you up for sale brat, you think that you can just kill my man like this and then do the same to me? Well, the world is a lot tougher than you think kid, and now I’m gonna teach you that.”

As Rich goes to deliver another kick to the seemingly defenseless boy’s head, Byleth suddenly grabs his leg and pulls forward, sweeping the other one causing him to fall to the ground.

Before he can react to what’s happening, the youth jumps on top of him while pulling out his knife and starts stabbing him several times in the chest. After about a dozen stabs, he finally stops and simply watches as Rich gurgles up blood while staring at him in disbelief and fear.

The boy’s face is as emotionless as the last time watching him die. The thief, quickly bleeding out, only manages to speak one last word as he dies, “…Demon…”

A couple of hours later, the boy’s father is returning home with some others after a job but pauses his steps when he notices the door to his home busted open.

Pulling out his sword he runs to the door while screaming his child’s name, “Byleth!” Quickly several of the men either follow him inside or spread out around the perimeter.

Going into the house the first thing he notices is a smell he is more than familiar with, the smell of blood.

As his face begins to turn pale, he rushes to his son’s room only to nearly stumble on a large body lying on the floor right at the entrance. Going further in he spots another body in the middle of the room, as well as his son lying against the wall right next to it covered in blood.

Calling his name and rushing over to him, Byleth’s father, Jeralt, kneels down and shakes his shoulders.

Slowly opening his eyes, the two look at each other for a few moments until Byleth opens his mouth to speak, “You’re back. Sorry about the mess.”

Jeralt’s eyes widen in disbelief at his son’s casual tone and words before he begins to laugh as a few tears roll down his cheeks while burying him in his embrace.

Observing the current surroundings as well as the actions of the small and bloodied boy on the ground, some of the mercenaries begin to look at him with complicated gazes.

---