"Death's... Blossom."
Everything that had just happened felt surreal—like he was drifting through a lucid dream.
"First Form, huh? And it doesn't even tell me how many forms there are," Azriel muttered, his gaze fixed on the three headless bodies sprawled before him.
Strangely, he didn't feel nearly as exhausted as he'd expected. Yes, Dance of Death's first form had drained some mana, but far less than he'd anticipated.
"Maybe I judged the God of Death a little too early—"
He couldn't finish.
The Grade 1 wolf lunged from his blind spot.
Caught off guard, Azriel didn't have time to raise Void Eater—or even move fully out of the way.
He twisted his body sideways and, in a flash of instinct, froze his right shoulder blade with ice just as the beast's jaws snapped toward his neck.
Crack!
The sound of shattering ice echoed across the street as fangs tore into his shoulder.
"ARGH!"
"That fucking hurts!"
He screamed, pain lancing through his body like fire. For a second, his vision blurred, and his knees buckled.
Biting his tongue to stay conscious, he clenched his left fist—red lightning crackling between his fingers—and drove it straight into the wolf's skull, plunging deep into its brain.
The sickening crunch of skull fracturing beneath his palm, the hot, slick feeling of flesh splitting around his hand—it made his stomach churn. The void wolf collapsed beside him, its head twitching once before falling still.
Azriel gritted his teeth, trying not to gag. His arm was soaked in black blood, dripping down in thick, clotted trails.
"Shit... this feels so disgusting."
He yanked his hand free with a wet squelch, the body thudding beside him like a discarded sack of meat.
Still panting, he scanned his surroundings.
The last wolf—the Grade 2 beast—was gone.
He turned his head slowly, eyes darting from alley to rooftop, but there was nothing.
It had fled.
"I guess that's why it had two eyes... unlike this idiot," he muttered, glancing at the corpse.
Apparently, the higher-ranked beast had been smart enough to realize it would die too, and decided to live another day.
Azriel spat blood to the side.
"Tch. I always liked cats more anyway."
He gripped his shoulder, freezing the wound again to stop the bleeding.
"Mmpfh—!"
His whole body tensed from the chill, but he held it in.
'Dammit... it really hurts getting bitten by one of those skinless mutts. Shouldn't have zoned out...'
He was lucky. Had he not frozen his shoulder in time, he might've lost the entire arm.
'...I feel cold.'
He looked down.
Tattered clothes, torn sleeves, ragged trousers. No armor. No coat. And now, patches of ice clinging to his skin.
His teeth began to chatter.
"Right... mana cores," he whispered.
He needed to harvest them before more void creatures arrived. His fight had surely drawn attention.
Whether someone like him was worth being hunted by higher-ranked void creatures wasn't something he was eager to find out.
Drawing a breath, Azriel knelt beside the first corpse. With Void Eater, he made a precise incision near the heart. The blade sliced easily through decaying flesh, but the heat and stench of the opened body hit him like a wave.
He gagged.
Hand trembling, he reached inside.
The texture was vile—wet, slimy, sticky. Organs shifted under his fingers. When he finally touched the smooth, hard mana core, he clenched his jaw and pulled it free, covered in black blood and shredded tissue.
"Ugh. That's disgusting," he muttered.
He moved to the next body. It didn't get any easier.
Each time he reached inside a carcass, bile surged up his throat. The warmth. The sick squelch. The smell.
His only thought?
'I want a shower.'
********
"Haa..."
A weary sigh slipped from Ragnar's lips as he walked through the cold, metal corridors of a military base deep within France—one of the few remaining safe zones on the continent.
Ragnar was a man impossible to ignore.
His hair, white as freshly fallen snow, cascaded in smooth waves down to his shoulders. Piercing blue eyes, reminiscent of frozen sapphires, shimmered with an intensity that seemed to see through anything. Though he looked to be in his late twenties, his finely chiseled features and the weight behind his gaze hinted at a life carved by war and hardship.
But it was not his appearance alone that demanded attention.
It was his presence.
A crushing aura of power and unshakable authority followed wherever he went. People instinctively bowed their heads—not out of politeness, but fear. Awe. Respect.
He was a Grade 1 Grandmaster, the leader of the Frost Clan, one of the Four Great Clans that ruled the Asian continent. While the Crimson Clan reigned in the East, it was the Frost Clan that held dominion over the North.
A single step behind him walked his right hand and closest confidant, Thomas. Though not as overwhelmingly formidable as his lord, Thomas's beauty was striking in its own right. With soft blond hair that shimmered under the lights and deep emerald eyes that glowed like starlight, he looked more celestial than human.
He, too, was no ordinary man—a Grade 3 Grandmaster.
"The government agent said you'll need to stay in France for a few more days, my lord, instead of leaving today," Thomas said with quiet respect as they made their way toward the control room.
Ragnar scoffed. "And who the hell do they think they are?"
He didn't stop walking.
"Remind them that the Frost Clan does not answer to the government. They have no authority over us."
To the public, Ragnar was here as a gesture of unity. The Four Great Clans of Asia, particularly the Frost Clan, were supposedly cooperating with the world government in an effort to reclaim Europe.
But that was only part of the truth.
In reality, his presence was a strategic one.
There had been increasing reports of possible Phase 4 Voidrifts emerging across France and Spain. Nothing concrete yet—no rift sightings, no footage. But the mere possibility had brought Ragnar to the frontline.
Humanity had clawed tooth and nail to retake fragments of Western Europe. They could not afford to lose ground again.
And so, Ragnar had remained in France for over a week.
Yet during all that time, nothing had happened. No rift appearances. No unusual energy signatures. Not even a sighting of a Monarch-ranked void creature.
Not a single trace.
"We leave today," Ragnar said at last. "After one final sweep."
"I'll leave a few of our men here to assist the military if necessary."
Thomas hesitated, then added, "Actually, my lord… there's been an issue. Communication signals are being jammed. It's currently impossible to contact anyone outside of Europe, though intercontinental travel seems unaffected."
Ragnar stopped.
His eyes narrowed as he turned to face Thomas.
"How long has this been happening?"
"Since the last hour," Thomas replied, calm but not without strain. A bead of cold sweat glistened at his temple.
Ragnar stared for a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose and resumed walking.
"It doesn't matter. We're leaving today regardless. Inform the government that the Frost Clan will send a representative only after communications are restored."
He had no intention of remaining in this half-functional country.
His priority lay eastward.
Tomorrow was an important day—for Joaquin Crimson, head of the Crimson Clan and Ragnar's closest friend.
Contrary to popular belief, there was no real animosity between the Four Great Clans—at least, not between the Frost and Crimson Clans. Their alliance was the strongest of all.
Perhaps that was why Asia had remained the only continent not torn apart from within.
It was the reason the Hero Academy had been founded there.
In a world consumed by war and monsters, the fall of even one Great Clan could spell chaos. Unity was no longer a choice—it was a necessity.
Ragnar and Joaquin had known each other since they were children. Brothers in all but blood. They had trained together. Bled together.
And tomorrow would be the day after Joaquin's only son's birthday.
Azriel Crimson.
Presumed dead.
Vanished two years ago without a trace.
No body.
No answers.
'They still haven't accepted it,' Ragnar thought grimly. 'And honestly… I don't blame them. How can you grieve a death that's never been proven?'
He clenched his jaw as he and Thomas finally arrived at the control room.
But even before they entered, both men paused.
Something wasn't right.
Voices filtered through the door, hushed but excited. Ragnar raised a hand, signaling Thomas to stay silent. They listened.
"Do you think he actually killed those four Void Wolves by himself?"
"Well, do you see anyone else with him?"
"He looks so young..."
"And ridiculously handsome."
"Quick—save the footage before it's deleted."
"What if he's not even human? A skinwalker maybe?"
"Skinwalker or not, this could make us rich."
"Maybe he's just a wanderer?"
In this world, the term wanderer referred to humans who had been swallowed by a Void Rift and somehow survived—usually alone, often changed.
Ragnar stepped forward with Thomas, both of them masking their presence.
They entered.
Inside the control room, a large holographic screen dominated the far wall.
The footage was raw, unedited. A live drone feed.
A teenage boy sat casually atop the corpse of a headless Voidwolf.
He twirled an empty mana core in his left hand—black blood staining his arm to the elbow. Beside him, a katana was embedded into the cracked concrete, its blade pitch-black and silent.
The boy's long, messy black hair blew gently in the wind. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dusk. His right shoulder was encased in a sheen of ice. His clothes were torn, bloodied, and worn—but he sat there, completely at ease.
Then—
He looked directly into the camera.
And smiled.
Calm. Almost amused.
Raising his right hand, he gently tapped the lens, causing the feed to jostle.
"Hello? Does this thing have a mic?"