The parade of 100 demons Prologue

A crow is created with one job, deliver 100 invitations for 100 demons. The parade starts

He stood still, surrounded by the endless field of golden flowers he knew as “his domain.” His gaze unfocused, fixed on the limits of that world.

The corvine looking demon walked patiently toward the edge of his domain, where a vertical line in the air—thin as a thread—trembled just a few steps from where he stood. Beyond that, there was no light, no shadow, no time: only the void. The sole path to reach the domains of his kin. A space that offered no guarantee of return or destination, leading only to those vast and twisted worlds, each bounded to a demon like invisible chains to their existence.

The corvine looking demon turned his head until he could see behind him, in the direction everything leaned toward—just as the flowers did, stretching beyond the horizon, blooming even within the cracks of the parched earth. The breeze, barely enough to exist, crossed the field dragging with it a sour and unpleasant scent. All of it flowing toward the same place.

The domain’s tree.

Ancient, gnarled, with bark as dark as a damp night. Its branches reached the uppermost limit, and its center was wounded: embedded within, like a mechanical heart, was a clock. Its hands marked the hours with unwavering precision, unaltered by the passing days. But below them, a red moon—about the size of a human eye, carved in dark crystal—remained motionless. Suspended, unmoving. As if waiting for a signal that had yet to come.

The corvine looking demon approached without the slightest rush. The cloak that covered him didn’t flutter—it followed. As if breathing through the black wings that melted into his sides. His skull was scorched, cracked where once it had been whole. His exposed spine emerged from the fabric like an inevitable thorn. And his hands, metallic and sharp, rested with the stillness of the dead who know how to wait, until they traced the outline of the craftsman's bench he had placed by the tree.

There, perfectly arranged, the tools awaited him: gouges of blackened metal, curved needles, a cracked ceramic bowl filled with thick ink, and a small unfinished wooden idol that vaguely resembled a crow.

With care, he passed his hands over the tools, his fingers transforming into the very instruments. And he began.

Each stroke carved into the wood was an act of repeating gestures learned before he had a body—perhaps even before he had a name. The shape emerged not from design, but from evocation. And so, the crow figure was born. The wood, rough at first, began to creak as if in protest. Not from the carving, but from what it held. Something inside it stirred, as if the figure had always known it must exist, and now, at last, it was allowed to rise. The wings looked like opened ribs. The legs, like spiny segments. The beak, long and curved like a stinger. The eyes were hollow sockets—soon filled with a pair of dull gems.

He placed the tools aside. Extended one of his wings and, from within the plumage, pulled a single feather. He dipped it into the ceramic bowl, which instantly turned a soft pinkish hue, like the blood of something that should not bleed. The crow figure looked at him, though it was not yet alive.

The corvine looking demon spoke, the words escaping ritualistically from his burned skull, in a dry, lifeless voice:

You shall always be within my sight. As prey.
You shall feed on pain, and you shall taste it.
Live as you will, but do not feed on me.
If you doubt my words, may your flesh tremble.
Hollow are the words of those who die chasing stolen dreams.

As the final phrase etched itself into the air, he drove the feather into the idol’s heart.

And the change was immediate.

A cracking sound came from deep within the wood, like bones forming from the point of contact. The body arched. The skeletal crow’s legs took shape and clutched the tabletop in desperation to stabilize. Its wings flared in a spasmodic gesture, now tinged in the soft pink hue that stained the few feathers that covered them.

The two dull gems gleamed, as if answering the false sun of the domain—and the crow drew breath.

Not because it needed air, but because it had just been born.

The corvine looking demon did not react. He simply watched as the idol—now a living creature—turned its head toward him.

And then it knew.

Without voice, without command. It had to deliver the invitations.

The skeletal crow, still unsteady, looked up at its creator. Its feet tapped against the table with an uneven rhythm. Seeing that the corvine looking demon remained silent, it jerked its head to the side, as if growing impatient.

That’s when the voice finally echoed.

—Is your objective clear, little scavenger of souls? —inquired the corvine looking demon, with a hollow, elegant tone—devoid of emotion, devoid of urgency.

The scavenger of souls puffed out the emptiness where a chest might have been and answered in a sharp, shrill, thoroughly unpleasant voice:

—Of course it is! I must deliver the invitations for this year’s parade! How could you even think I’d forget? The parade is a grand occasion for all of us!

The corvine looking demon remained silent for a moment. Then, after briefly glancing toward the red moon set in the clock, he tilted his scorched skull slightly.

—For this occasion… I was thinking of something more ambitious than usual —he said, clasping his metallic hands together in front of him—. Perhaps… a hundred guests. Can you manage?

—A-a hundred guests!? —shrieked the scavenger of souls—. Have you lost your mind!?

—Madness is not something we can suffer, if you ask in earnest —he replied, raising his gaze—. I want one hundred guests because tonight is special. Not one more… not one less. If you wish to understand why… try to answer it yourself. As you fly from domain to domain, carrying words no one wants to receive. You will have a long journey ahead… and it will be full of experience, little scavenger.

—...Forget it —he huffed—. I don’t want to get distracted thinking about nonsense, crash into a mountain, or get impaled on some pompous demon’s ego tower. I’m going to deliver the invitations!

The corvine looking demon guided the scavenger of souls to the breach at the edge of the domain, the one that connected to the void. Holding him in his hands for a moment, he cast him forward—so he would take flight toward his destination—as a wooden box materialized, clinging to the crow’s legs.

The scavenger of souls left behind a faint trail of pink ink that dissolved in the wind. The corvine looking demon watched him in silence, unmoving.

The clock embedded in the tree emitted a soft click.