If there was one word to describe the scene before him—it was art.
He would have bought a painting of it if it were ever on the market.
'That boy... why does he feel so familiar? And not just him—that katana...'
'Void Eater!?'
It didn't take Ragnar more than a few seconds to recognize the blade.
How could he not?
Void Eater had once belonged to his best friend, his rival, and the man he considered a brother.
The number of times they had sparred—times Ragnar had bled because of that sword...
He knew the weapon intimately.
He also knew it had been passed down to Joaquin's only son—Azriel Crimson.
'...That boy... No. Impossible. It can't be.'
His eyes trembled as he stared at the boy in the footage, realization gnawing its way to the surface.
And it wasn't just him—Thomas, too, stood frozen, horror spreading across his face.
"King Ragnar!"
"Grandmaster Thomas!"
The others in the room finally noticed their presence and immediately bowed their heads in fearful respect.
"This is live footage, correct?" Thomas asked, voice low and tense, his eyes locked on the screen.
The nearest operator nodded, confusion spreading across his face.
"Yes, Grandmaster. This is a live feed from Paris. We haven't confirmed whether the boy is a skinwalker, another void creature, or simply a wanderer."
"Did you run facial recognition?" Ragnar asked suddenly, his voice sharp as ice, his gaze sweeping over the room like a blade. Everyone stiffened at once.
"W-we did, King Ragnar," one operator stammered. "But we haven't found a match—"
"Azriel Crimson," Ragnar interrupted.
Gasps filled the room.
The female operator nearest the console stared at him in disbelief, the name echoing through the silence like a gunshot.
"W-what...?"
The others were equally stunned.
Azriel Crimson.
A name shrouded in mystery. A boy almost never seen by the public, which only fed his legend.
And recently—a name surrounded by tragedy.
Rumors whispered that the heir to the Crimson Clan had been missing or dead for the past two years. The government and the Four Great Clans had worked tirelessly to suppress the speculation.
After all, what would the world think if the only son of one of the Four Great Clans had truly died?
No one could afford that panic.
"Do I need to repeat myself?" Ragnar's voice dropped another octave.
"No, your majesty! Apologies! We're running it now!"
Moments later, one of the male operators called out.
"We got a match!"
No one shared his enthusiasm.
Instead, dread settled over the room.
The atmosphere turned deathly cold as Ragnar's and Thomas's expressions darkened.
"Give me a way to speak to him," Ragnar ordered.
An operator handed him a headset with a built-in mic, connected directly to the drone.
'...It can't be him. No matter how much it looks like him.'
'If it is... then where has he been all this time? How did he survive?'
A child, alone, in a death zone—possibly in the Void Realm?
It defied logic.
"The gods must be playing a cruel joke on us, my king," Thomas murmured, his voice low but heavy. The words echoed through every heart in the room.
Because today was...
Azriel Crimson's birthday.
And no one truly believed that the boy on the screen was actually him.
It didn't make sense. Survival under those conditions was nearly impossible. To come out of it alive, let alone sane...
If it's a skinwalker, I'll go there myself and kill it with my own hands, Ragnar thought bitterly.
But just as he was about to speak, he hesitated.
'...What if it really is him?'
Even the smallest glimmer of hope twisted his gut.
He hadn't interacted with Azriel as much as Joaquin had. But that didn't mean he hadn't cared for the boy.
If anything had ever happened to Joaquin or Aeliana, Ragnar would've taken both children in without hesitation.
And truthfully, he had liked Azriel the most.
Though others failed to see it, Ragnar always had.
The boy had talent—real talent—but never once showed it openly. He always held back, always kept something hidden.
'There's too much I don't know. I need answers.'
Ragnar brought the mic to his lips, his voice steady and cold.
"Can you hear me?"
The boy on the screen blinked in surprise—then smiled in quiet relief.
"Ah! Yes, I can!"
"What a relief. You see, I am, uh... what was it called again?" he said, tilting his head slightly. "Oh right! A wanderer!"
He chuckled lightly, the sound strangely genuine.
"I'd really appreciate being rescued, by the way. I don't think I'll last much longer out here."
Despite the cheerful tone, there was a bitter edge to his smile.
But Ragnar didn't respond.
He simply stared.
The entire control room was silent, all eyes fixed on the boy and the man questioning him.
That voice...
Ragnar had forgotten it.
They say the first thing you forget after losing someone is their voice.
But hearing it again, something inside him stirred.
And yet...
'Something feels wrong.'
'Why is he so unbothered?''
'He's in one of the most dangerous areas in Europe. He should be scared. Exhausted. Desperate. But...'
'He's calm. Too calm.'
'As if the void creatures don't even see him as prey.'
'But we've seen the bodies. He's killed several...'
A cold unease crept into Ragnar's spine.
"Something's off, my lord," Thomas said softly beside him. "It could be a trap."
Ragnar remained silent but agreed internally.
'He's right. This might be bait. Is it really a skinwalker...?'
His thoughts spiraled.
Hope and dread collided inside him like a storm.
'Is today meant to be a gift... or a curse?'
The only way to be certain would be to confront the boy directly—or send Thomas.
But was it safe?
And if it was a skinwalker... how had it obtained Azriel's body?
Was it even his body?
Just as Ragnar tried to piece it together, a terrifying thought struck him.
'What if this explains the jamming of our communications across Europe...?'
'The sudden disappearance of the Leviathan-ranked void creature that had been hibernating in Belgium...'
'Even the Monarch and Titan ranks—they've gone dark too.'
His pupils shrank.
"Be ready to send an emergency signal to all military bases in Europe," Ragnar said sharply. "Prepare for a possible Phase Six... maybe even Phase Seven threat in France."
The words struck the room like lightning.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
A Phase Seven Void Rift had never occurred before.
"There's a possibility," Ragnar continued grimly, "that what we're seeing... is a Defiled Skinwalker. If so, it would explain the disappearance of multiple high-ranked void creatures... and how a Phase Seven rift could have gone unnoticed."
Dread settled like fog.
Was Europe already lost?
What would be next?
How many more nightmares were crawling out of the Void?
The room reeled with silent terror—until Ragnar's voice cut through it again.
"I might be wrong," he said quietly. "Which is why we hold the signal... for now."
"There's still a chance this really is Azriel Crimson."
Thomas nodded solemnly.
"We should keep questioning him."
Ragnar looked back to the screen.
The boy was staring at the drone, his smile strained.
'It really does look like Azriel. More grown up...'
'I hope I'm just being paranoid.'
But the things he had seen in the Void Realm told him one thing:
Always prepare for the worst.
"Let me ask you a simple question," Ragnar said, voice steady again.
"What is your name?"
The boy's smile faded.
A complex expression crossed his face—conflicted, almost pained.
'If it's a skinwalker... it's a damn good one.'
Ragnar's hope burned slightly brighter.
The boy finally spoke.
"I don't know if you already know. Maybe you do... maybe you're just waiting to hear it from me directly."
His voice was low. Measured.
"My name is Azriel Crimson, son of Joaquin and Aeliana Crimson."
Ragnar clenched his jaw.
The voice.
The name.
The expression.
'Should I go myself?'
"We need to keep questioning him," Thomas said urgently.
Ragnar nodded grimly.
"What if this isn't a skinwalker, but an unidentified void creature instead?" someone whispered from the back.
Everyone turned. The operator who had spoken shrank under their gazes.
But the question had been asked.
And it lingered in the air.
Ragnar looked once more at the screen.
Not at the camera this time.
But past it.
He wasn't speaking into the mic anymore—just to the room. And to himself.
"If it isn't a skinwalker..." Ragnar said quietly, "then this world was doomed from the start."