Forest of the Four Seasons (Part 5)

Countless races walk the face of the world, but whenever scholars or sellswords debate which species is best tailored for pure combat, they reach the exact same conclusion without hesitation.

The Demon race. Even the demons themselves take immense pride in the title.

Horns crown their brows above vivid indigo skin, framed by black sclera that create a stark, haunting contrast to every other living kind. Their innate physiology lets them command mana as effortlessly as drawing breath, empowering them with destructive magic of overwhelming caliber. Blessed with such terrifying traits, they were branded the devil's kin—and true to their infamous moniker, they were creatures thoroughly governed by raw impulse and instinctual desire.

In ages past, their devotion to raw hedonism and bloodlust earned them a legendary reputation for cruelty. Their depredations ran so rampant that mortal nations were forced to cultivate a chosen Hero in every era specifically to strike down and contain the Demon King. The Demon King ruled over Mephisto, the sovereign empire of the demons, while the Hero was a paragon forged by human hands—blessed with immaculate virtue, preternatural combat talent, pious devotion, and divine Holy Power granted in proportion to their faith.

Clashes between the Demon King and the Hero persisted for centuries, leaving behind mountains of corpses and oceans of blood. Yet eventually, the unending cycle of bloodshed grew stale. Perhaps they simply burned out on slaughter, or perhaps eternal warfare just became dreadfully boring.

The demons craved a new arena of conflict that did not rely solely on swinging weapons. They hungered for something equally electrifying, white-knuckled, and visceral. Simply trading bloodied blows had lost its novelty. Setting aside their eternal feud with the Chosen of Aris, they poured immense research into alternative pursuits until, at long last, they birthed an entirely new continental culture: competitive ball sports—football, baseball, basketball, rugby, and gridiron.

At first, even the demons scoffed at themselves. Why bother chasing an inflated leather bladder when they could just bash each other's heads in? If they wanted violence without outright war, gladitorial arenas were already packed. Yet as eras progressed and continental laws developed, overt violence was increasingly stigmatized by progressive societies. More crucially, the realm suffered from a severe entertainment drought. When mortals and demons finally attained peacetime stability, their minds naturally sought leisure.

Trapped in an era starved of diversions, the demons found their obsession stoked to a fever pitch. Aside from illicit narcotics and gambling, nothing triggered a dopamine rush quite like athletic competition. The demons fell head-over-heels in love with their absurd "ball games."

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Naturally, this strange pastime started out as an insular demon hobby. Other races showed zero interest. Why would mortal kingdoms adopt the traditions of warmongering fiends who had spent millennia trying to butcher them? Yet ironically, the first race to enthusiastically embrace demon athletics was humanity itself.

It seemed counterintuitive. Why would humans, the primary victims who bore the brunt of those catastrophic wars, welcome their mortal enemy's culture? The answer lay in their fleeting lifespans. Generational turnover happened far faster among humans than long-lived species. Over decades, elders who harbored bitter memories of demonic atrocities passed away, leaving behind younger generations who only knew demons as towering horned goofs obsessed with chasing leather balls.

Cultural exchanges flourished in secret, and once humanity adopted the rules, they pulled off an ingenious diplomatic checkmate.

Demons possessed an ego that easily rivaled that of the high elves. They had crushed surrounding kingdoms with innate physical might in the past, but that belonged to a bygone era of savagery. Even as sports softened the continent's perception of them, their towering pride remained untouched. Human diplomats shrewdly baited that arrogance to secure massive concessions, and the demons, trapped by their own words, were forced to bite the bullet and engage in civilized diplomacy.

While such historical summaries were delivered in jest, sports remained sports. The ability to overcome racial differences and contest victory on equal terms caused their popularity to soar across the continent. With magical interference strictly prohibited, matches became duels decided purely by raw physical conditioning, tactical cohesion, and athletic skill. The romantic chivalry of sportsmanship resonated with an era searching for noble ideals.

Though dwarves lacked the physical stature to excel on the pitch, they dominated the booming secondary industry. From enchanted leather balls and reinforced jerseys to protective padding and specialized cleat studs, any manufacturing requiring precision craftsmanship fell into dwarven hands. As commercialization accelerated alongside continental tournaments, Mephisto transformed from a brutal warmongering empire into the glittering cultural capital of the civilized world. Sports allowed spectators to experience thrilling highs and agonizing lows—a legal, highly intoxicating narcotic that drove sane minds mad.

Preferences varied across kingdoms and tribes, but no one questioned that Mephisto was the cradle of the phenomenon. Within the demon realm, athletic competition was woven into the very fabric of daily life—an obsession enjoyed by young and old, pauper and high noble alike.

"How the hell do you miss that open net?! Are you kidding me?!"

Even the loftiest figures of the empire were entirely powerless against the fever.

Sitting in a plush private chamber was a woman of breathtaking beauty, even considering her characteristic indigo skin and dark sclera. Her glossy obsidian hair flowed over her shoulders like liquid silk, beautifully accentuating the curling black ram horns that emerged from her temples. Her alluring, voluptuous silhouette had set countless noble suitors' hearts ablaze across the realm, without a single blemish to detract from her regal presence.

"Unbelievable. Even I could've tapped that in blindfolded!"

This was Keirin Rondel Archive, the Imperial Princess of Mephisto and sole heir to the Demon King's throne. Right now, she was spewing venom at the magical scrying orb floating before her, watching a live football broadcast.

Following the commercialization of sports, Mephisto's arcane scholars had developed revolutionary communication enchantments. The Relay Magic Keirin watched was a prime example, capable of beaming crisp visual feeds across immense continental distances.

"A thousand million euras for that useless sack of meat?! Did the board members at Chae-yu gouge their own eyes out?!"

Keirin's elegant brow furrowed in furious disgust. As the crown princess, she commanded the absolute awe and terror of millions. Her innate destructive might and imperial heritage insulated her from virtually all political threats. If an imperial minister crossed her, she could crush them beneath her heel with a snap of her fingers. But applying that raw authority to the pitch was strictly out of the question.

It's infuriating, but my hands are completely tied.

Nobles might hold ownership of clubs, but weaponizing political power over match results carried instant expulsion. Though unwritten in statute, it stood as a sacred taboo. Sports belonged to the populace, not to the aristocratic elite. Barring genuine military crises, even royalty could not dictate the pitch without sparking continent-wide civil unrest.

"Ugh, shut up!"

Snap!

Keirin flicked her wrist, irritably cutting the scrying feed. A game they had virtually locked down had been blown in stoppage time due to a brain-dead red card. She buried her face in her hands, stewing in silence before opening her user interface with a dazed expression to log into the Gallery.

The moment the whistle blew, the forum flooded with trolls dancing on Chae-yu's grave. A routine spectacle. Letting out a hollow chuckle, Keirin tapped out a post of her own.

Posting her vent, Keirin rose from her seat. Her blood was boiling so fiercely she needed to cool off.

I have to clean up the room first.

She cast a glance across her surroundings. From framed jerseys of Chaemes United to miniature replicas of continental trophies, the chamber was completely smothered in Chae-yu paraphernalia. It was the private sanctuary of an utter football maniac—which, in truth, she was.

Snap!

With a light flick of her fingers, the sports memorabilia vanished into pocket dimensions, leaving behind a stark, cavernous hall. This was her private training facility, fortified specifically to endure her titanic power. Glancing down at her attire, she looked at the plain athletic jersey she wore, bearing the name of a legendary former Chae-yu striker.

Snap!

With another flick, the jersey transformed into a breathtaking, obsidian imperial gown. Lesser mages would have required complex incantations and geometric circles, but Keirin commanded the laws of magic with casual gestures. Ensuring not a speck of fan gear remained in sight, she strode toward the exit.

Clank!

Disengaging layered arcane wards and physical deadbolts, she pushed open the heavy blast doors. Waiting patiently outside was an elderly butler flanked by an honor guard of imperial knights.

"You have worked hard, Princess. Have you concluded your daily training?"

"Indeed. You have toiled as well."

"Not in the least, Your Highness. Serving you is my greatest duty," the butler responded with a profound bow. Keirin offered a gentle pat on his shoulder as she walked past.

The gesture warmed the old servant's heart. A warmth completely absent in the reigning Demon King softened her actions, drawing absolute loyalty from her retainers. As the imperial heir and one of the five strongest combatants on the entire continent, she had every reason to be arrogant. Yet she remained considerate and polite. Her tone could be formal and austere, but she treated palace staff with genuine grace.

Though Her Highness seems particularly displeased today... Did her closed-door meditation bear no fruit? the butler wondered, following closely behind. Decades of service allowed him to read the subtle nuances in her posture. She was in a foul mood. An exceptionally foul mood. In times like these, keeping one's mouth firmly shut was the only survival strategy. Gentle as she was compared to other demons, she was still a terrifying sovereign who could incinerate a city block if provoked.

Emotional discipline training must be exhausting, even if she only undergoes it once or twice a week.

Demons were every bit as bellicose as beastfolk, wired to relish bloody contests. In eras past, that impulse had unleashed widespread devastation. But in modern society, mastering one's temper was paramount for high nobility, where a single outburst could trigger catastrophic diplomatic fallout. Mastering one's volatile passions was an excruciating ordeal.

Fucking hell... it's driving me crazy. How do you concede two goals in stoppage time?!

Keirin had indeed been doing mental conditioning—just not the kind her butler imagined. As a fanatical supporter of Chaemes United, watching their matches subjected her sanity to violent roller-coaster rides. In her younger days, she had leveled her training hall whenever they lost. Nowadays, she simply muttered, "Useless idiots, what else did I expect?" and walked away. Her emotional fortitude was slowly reaching the enlightened tranquility of a holy saintess.

Why did I ever become a Chae-yu fan in the first place?

Retiring to her bedchambers, Keirin collapsed onto the sheets and stared at the ceiling. High nobility generally shunned football, viewing it as a vulgar sport that originated among common laborers. Yet culture possessed an economic momentum that even entrenched aristocracy could not halt.

If it weren't for the Gallery, I wouldn't be suffering like this.

She had been raised like a delicate flower in an imperial greenhouse, shielded from common vulgarity. But stumbling upon the Gallery changed everything. Unfiltered knowledge and the addictive adrenaline of competitive football hooked her immediately. For a demon by birth, football was a potent new drug. She naturally began supporting her local club, Chaemes United, and adopted the screen name Princess Chaeng-gu on the boards.

Ugh, it pisses me off that I can't even attend home games in person.

Generational friction tied her hands. Demons enjoyed long lifespans, meaning older generations who romanticized past conquests still controlled the levers of political power. The old guard who treated savage warfare as true glory stood in bitter opposition to the modern youth infatuated with athletic entertainment. As football took center stage, it inevitably became a political battleground.

Why did I intervene back then...? I just couldn't stand seeing Chae-City grow...

Publicly, Keirin maintained the facade of an austere royal aloof from peasant games, largely due to her economic legislation restricting foreign investment from Setan. The influx of dark elven "gold money" buying up prestige clubs had grated on her, but the real thorn in her side was Chaemes City. Formerly a bottom-tier third-division joke, Chae-City had been purchased by Setan oil moguls and suddenly vaulted to continental powerhouse status, even lifting the Master Cup last year. Meanwhile, Chaemes United languished in humiliation. Keirin's petty jealousy had led her to block Setan's buyout of Chae-yu, inadvertently setting off a fan feud.

Keirin tossed her pillow across the bed in frustration. Her love for the club ran deeper than anyone knew. If she were an ordinary citizen, she would be singing in the stands every weekend, probably smashing streetlamps as a hooligan. Instead, she had to secretly horde bootleg merchandise in her private sanctum.

Just you wait until I ascend the throne. I'm attending every home match in full kit.

Even a Demon King could not ban sports without inciting open rebellion. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Mephisto was inexorably drifting toward a cultural victory rather than a military conquest.

If only they would stop botching transfer signings...

Sighing despondently, she turned back to the Gallery to numb the sting of defeat. A particular user caught her eye: Wild Grylls, the bizarre survivor claiming to be stranded in the lethal depths of the Forest of the Four Seasons.

Initially, she had written him off as an eccentric troll. Yet his posts garnered staggering upvote counts, and his earnest accounts of survival piqued her curiosity. With days to kill before the next fixture, she had traded him an arcane compass as a playful act of charity.

"Wait, what?!"

Keirin's jaw dropped. How could any sentient being be unaware of the illustrious Chaemes United? Perhaps some isolated hermit might be ignorant, but Grylls was an active forum user. Nearly all sports fans on the platform were thoroughly unhinged fanatics. In fact, some had stared so deeply into the abyss of athletic despair that they had attained transcendental zen enlightenment.

"He doesn't know Chae-yu? I have to educate him immediately."

She had promptly penned an essay heralding the glory of her club, shipping him an authentic athletic kit along with it. When Grylls accepted the uniform with polite bewilderment, Keirin doubled down, utilizing the Gallery's archival function to upload a match compilation highlight reel.

Not long after, Grylls posted an update.

Immense satisfaction flooded Keirin's chest. Today, Chae-yu had gained a new disciple. Even if he was trapped in a mythical death zone, a supporter was a supporter. She resolved to supply him with whatever he needed to keep breathing.

If a supporter dies, the team's luck will wither. I have to keep him alive at all costs.

It was simple-minded fan superstition, but sports fandom stripped even imperial princesses of their intellect. Just as she moved to log off with a contented smirk, an infuriating comment popped into the thread.

"..."

Keirin's brows pinched together. She knew this fixed-handle user all too well. A rabid supporter of Leor—Chae-yu's bitterest arch-nemesis—and her most despised antagonist on the entire forum. The prick seized every opportunity to mock Chae-yu as "Chaeng-gu," constantly rubbing salt in fresh wounds.

"You son of a bitch..." Keirin hissed.

Chae-yu had recently suffered a humiliating 3-0 thrashing at the hands of Leor. It had been an absolute masterclass in tactical dissection, leaving her completely defenseless against his taunts.

Ten years ago, you bastards were the laughingstock of the continent!

A decade ago, Leor had been a decayed dynasty drowning in irrelevance. But a brilliant managerial appointment had revived their fortunes, while Chae-yu went through managers like cheap parchment, sinking deeper into dysfunction.

"..."

Keirin's fists clenched so tightly her knuckles popped. Blue demonic mana leaked from her fingertips, crackling with ozone as the bed frame creaked under the sheer pressure of her murderous intent. Forcing her breathing to steady, she reined in her aura.

An unhinged, all-out derby flame war erupted across the board.

"Hmm... I should probably keep my mouth shut and stay completely still."

Sitting inside his humble shelter in the Forest of the Four Seasons, Grylls watched the comments refresh at blinding speed, deciding that absolute silence was the best survival strategy.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the wisest choice he had made all day.