The only sound in the room was the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall.
Joaquin sat in the chair behind his desk, eyes closed, his expression unreadable. A gentle breeze drifted through the open window, making his obsidian hair, which fell to his shoulders, flutter softly.
As the clock ticked again, his phone buzzed.
Opening his eyes, he revealed deep, pitch-black irises—void-like, consuming all light. He glanced at the phone on the desk and checked the time:
00:00.
"Another year gone by just like that..." he murmured.
Azriel Crimson—his son. His birthday had officially passed.
It was the only day of the year when his daughter, now distant and cold, would return home from the academy. On this day, she refrained from training until collapse. It was the only day she ever stopped. The atmosphere in the Crimson Estate always turned somber—each member retreating into silence, even his wife.
The ache in Joaquin's heart deepened as he recalled the final moments he had shared with his son.
Azriel's aloof expression as he watched the void rifts appear, showing no fear while Joaquin battled the monstrosities that poured from them. His son's trust had been absolute—as though his father was undefeatable. Joaquin had never truly understood him.
Azriel never put in his full effort, yet never slacked off. He always appeared indifferent, lazy, even rebellious—skipping lessons just to sleep. And yet, Joaquin remembered.
He remembered the nights.
How Azriel would train alone in the shadows, under the stars, when everyone else was asleep. His crimson eyes burned with an untamable fire as he swung his sword over and over again, possessed by something Joaquin couldn't name.
"I failed you as a father, my son..." Joaquin whispered.
He didn't understand why Azriel hadn't run. He had always watched over his son, protecting him from the sidelines.
Almost always.
If not for that one second—
That fleeting second when multiple Abyssal-ranked void creatures appeared, forcing Joaquin to divert every ounce of focus.
And in that moment—
Azriel vanished.
Gone.
Nowhere to be found.
Panic became rage. Joaquin bellowed Azriel's name across the battlefield until his throat bled. He tore apart void creatures with his bare hands, ripping open their stomachs, clawing through blood and gore in a desperate, deranged search for even the smallest trace.
He found nothing.
And he had never forgiven himself.
His daughter shut herself off, burying her grief beneath relentless training. His wife did the same, clinging to strength just to stay sane. And Joaquin? He buried himself in work. He never even made Azriel's death public.
He couldn't.
Not out of fear. Not out of shame.
But because—
"He is not dead."
Joaquin refused to accept it. His son—his blood—was not someone who would die so easily.
He stood and walked slowly to the window, gazing at the full moon.
"...Beautiful."
The moon shimmered, a white jewel in the sky.
If only it weren't marred by the presence of those dreadful creatures that lived upon its surface.
"You have Crimson blood running through your veins, Azriel," he said softly.
"...Dying was never an option."
The wind howled. Joaquin's hair whipped around his face as he clenched his fist so tightly that blood dripped onto the wooden floor.
"So where the hell are you?"
*****
'Thanks? Who the hell says just thanks? Argh, I want to die... Wait, no, I'll just come back! Dammit, I want to die twice! No—thrice! I've already died twice! What the hell am I even saying!?'
Inwardly, Azriel was a storm of embarrassment as he stared blankly at the soldiers. Outwardly, he remained composed, but inside he was spiraling. He wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.
Strangely, his simple smile and brief thanks had been enough to make their eyes sparkle.
'Ugh, how simple. Now I feel bad for just saying thanks...'
"Prince Azriel, I apologize for not recognizing you earlier," the instructor said, bowing his head. The rest quickly followed.
'They sure respect me more than I expected… even though any one of them could wipe the floor with me.'
Still, their discipline was something he admired.
"No need to bow. Honestly, I'm impressed by your dedication—training this late, in a country this dangerous, without fear."
Their gazes softened. The suspicion faded. Eyes shone with pride.
'Glad I still remember how to butter people up...'
"It's only natural to stay battle-ready. Danger could strike at any moment," the instructor replied.
Azriel nodded with a small smile.
"True enough."
He was about to take his leave when a hesitant voice called out.
"Prince Azriel... If it's not rude to ask, may I pose a question? Ah—but you don't have to answer! Not if it's uncomfortable!"
Azriel almost smiled again.
"Sure. As long as I can answer it."
"T-thank you..."
The soldier inhaled sharply.
"There's been a rumor for two years now... that you were... well, dead. And seeing you now, with your..."
The man gestured awkwardly toward Azriel's long hair.
'So I'm not officially declared dead. Just a rumor... they've been suppressing information.'
Azriel smiled faintly.
"My hair? Doesn't suit me, huh? Well, it's not like there were barbers in the void realm."
Gasps. Widened eyes.
The instructor stepped forward.
"So the rumors were true. You've been in the void realm all this time."
'Guess the higher ranks have known...'
Before Azriel could reply—
"Here I thought I'd have to wake you up, only to find your bed empty. I almost believed you went back to the void realm, like two years wasn't enough. Homesick for the pretty creatures already?"
Azriel turned.
Solomon.
And beside him—
'Ragnar...'