The ride back to the military base was deeply humiliating for Azriel—one of those memories he'd rather bury forever.
But, all things considered, he couldn't complain. There was likely no safer ride than one under the protection of Saint Solomon, a man who, despite his chaotic nature, was still a living legend.
No void creature dared approach them. Not a single one.
Azriel understood why. The moment a saint made their presence known, most creatures fled in instinctive terror. And yet… something about it still felt off. There were always some void creatures who didn't care, even when faced with overwhelming power—especially with how well Solomon suppressed his own presence.
Only after receiving a vague summary of the strange incidents unfolding across Europe did Azriel begin to understand.
'Still… to think a Leviathan-ranked creature went missing. I'd probably be dead if not for whatever's going on. Could the God of Death be involved somehow?'
He pondered this while sitting on a bed in a small, windowless room.
It was modest: a single bed, a desk with a chair, and a door leading to a bathroom.
After arriving, the first thing Azriel did was request a private room—to get rest, a much-needed shower, and clean clothes. Thanks to Solomon's influence, everything was arranged quickly.
Azriel had taken a long shower, changed into a simple black T-shirt and pajama pants, and passed out for four uninterrupted hours.
"Haa... He must've told Uncle Ragnar I'm here already. I'm grateful they let me rest first."
Running a hand through his long hair, Azriel sighed.
"I should probably cut this before I go back... home."
He stood and stretched. On the desk lay a neatly folded black uniform with matching gloves. A sleek, black fur-lined coat hung from the back of the chair, and beside the uniform was a holster for Void Eater.
"Guess they want me looking presentable before I step outside."
He murmured to himself as he began changing to finally meet Ragnar Frost.
******
The residential building was empty.
Most of the soldiers were out training, and Azriel took the opportunity to take a slight detour before heading to the main complex where Ragnar and Solomon waited.
Solomon had told him earlier where to meet them after his rest, but Azriel felt like exploring a bit first.
The moon hung high in the night sky—round, full, and bright.
'The clothes fit well... and they're actually comfortable.'
It wasn't every day that a sixteen-year-old found himself wandering around a military base in Europe. He might as well enjoy the moment before duty called again.
'Well... with my status, maybe it won't be that hard to visit again. Then again... maybe it will now.'
After all, the whole reason he was presumed dead was because of a visit to a military base near Europe with his father.
'Dammit... they're probably going to get overprotective.'
The thought of his parents trying to limit his freedom made his stomach churn.
'I'll just have to convince them. I survived the void realm, didn't I? That's proof enough I can handle myself.'
Of course, the truth was more complicated. He'd need to train—seriously and consistently—to avoid relying on luck ever again.
'I should focus on mastering my swordsmanship...'
Lost in thought, he arrived at the training grounds.
Soldiers were scaling obstacle courses that looked like something out of a death trap. In his old world, no sane person would attempt these challenges without a safety harness.
And yet, here they were. No pads. No wires. Just grit and muscle.
'Parkour, huh...'
Every soldier was agile, moving swiftly from one platform to the next. Watching them reminded Azriel of how terrain could become a weapon when fighting smaller void creatures.
Though he kept a neutral expression, inwardly, he was impressed.
The obstacle towers were tall, the courses brutal—and yet most of the trainees made it look easy.
'Experts and masters... figures. This is one of the most dangerous military bases in Europe.'
"Alright! That's enough!"
A loud voice cut through the air. The instructor, who had been watching intently, finally called the end of the session.
Immediately, soldiers began descending.
"Haha, good work out there!"
"Yeah! Beat my personal record!"
"Tch... I've gotten slower."
"It's those donuts you keep eating."
Laughter and easy banter filled the space. The soldiers, all dressed in sleeveless white shirts and black combat pants, looked completely at ease.
One soldier noticed him.
Their eyes met.
The man's body went rigid, his gaze sharpening instantly.
The uniform had no ranks, no insignias. Just clean black with a fur-lined coat—dramatic, mysterious, and contextless.
"Who are you?" the soldier called out, voice cold and authoritative. His words echoed across the field, halting every conversation.
Heads turned. First to the speaker, then to Azriel.
The base wasn't large. Most soldiers knew each other, at least by face.
Azriel? He didn't belong. And everyone could see it.
'Great. Probably should've stayed in the room.'
Just as he was about to respond—
"I greet Prince Azriel of the Crimson Clan!"
The instructor's voice rang out with military precision.
He slammed his right fist to his chest and bowed his head.
Silence followed. Then:
"I greet Prince Azriel of the Crimson Clan!"
The entire field echoed with their voices as soldiers mirrored the instructor's salute.
Azriel stood frozen.
His expression unreadable.
One by one, the soldiers slowly raised their heads, stealing glances at his reaction.
'Prince...? Oh. Right.'
'To them... I am royalty.'
The Four Great Clans ruled over Asia. They were revered, respected, and feared. In most people's eyes, their children were no different than princes and princesses.
'I forgot... I thought Solomon was just joking earlier.'
He wasn't.
Azriel looked at all of them—warriors who had no idea who he truly was—and felt the weight of their gazes.
He gave them an awkward smile.
And said, simply,
"...Thanks."