October 28, 2148.
Which meant yesterday was October 27, 2148...
The day of Azriel's birth.
"You haven't checked your status in a while, have you?" Ragnar asked, noticing the distant confusion clouding Azriel's face.
Azriel shook his head.
"No... not really."
"Well, congrats. You're sixteen now. Sixteen sounds a hell of a lot better than fifteen, right?"
Solomon said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair and propping his boots on the table—earning a sharp glare from Ragnar, which he promptly ignored.
"Ha! Imagine if you'd returned to the Crimson Estate on your birthday. Would've been the ultimate gift!"
Ignoring Solomon, Ragnar continued, "We were already planning to visit today, together with the heads of the Nebula and Dusk Clans."
Just like the Frost and Crimson clans, Nebula and Dusk were among the four great clans that ruled over Asia.
The Dusk clan reigned in the west, while the Nebula held dominion over the south.
"But now, it's best we postpone our visit to East Asia. We can't risk drawing too much attention—not just with the great clans gathering. Your death isn't even public knowledge. Only the four great clans and a few high-ranking government officials are aware of it."
Azriel nodded. He understood Ragnar's reasoning, though a sigh escaped him at the thought of lingering in this country any longer.
'Can't be helped, I guess...'
"Huh? Why the subtlety?" Solomon raised his voice, suddenly annoyed.
"If he's going to draw attention, then why does it matter? You know what they used to call you, right, Azriel?"
Azriel blinked, confused.
"…I don't. Why? What did they call me?"
He had no memory of any such thing.
'Probably nothing good, judging by that look on his face.'
"He doesn't need to know," Ragnar said, trying to deflect, but Solomon exhaled sharply.
"The Unworthy Prince," he said, eyes locked on Azriel, his usual smile wiped away, replaced by something cold and serious.
"That's what they called you. Not fit to be the Crimson Clan's heir. A disgrace. A stain on the four great clans. Not just the public—I bet even many within the clans felt relief at your death. Isn't that right, Ragnar?"
Ragnar's eyes closed. He said nothing.
But that silence spoke volumes.
"The prince who never trained. No talent. No ambition. No fire. No dreams. Unworthy."
His words echoed through the room like the ringing of a slow, heavy bell.
'Why is he so angry...?'
Azriel's chest felt tight.
He glanced at Ragnar and saw the same shock reflected in his eyes. Neither had expected Solomon's sudden shift in tone. Solomon exhaled again, calmer this time.
"…Even now, I still don't understand why you hid your talent from everyone—"
"That's because there was no reason to reveal it," Azriel interrupted.
"I mean, why should I? Jasmine was already in the spotlight. Mom and Dad were proud of her. She enjoyed it—she thrived in it. Why would I want to compete with her? Or anyone else?"
The words came out before he could stop them.
"Just because I don't dream big doesn't mean I don't dream at all. Unworthy? That's what I'm called for what—because I don't want to be a hero? Since when did that become a crime?"
"What if all I want is to live a quiet life? Surrounded by people I care about?"
"Maybe open a small coffee shop. Fall in love with a simple woman. Start a small family."
Maybe—just maybe—he'd always known what people said behind his back.
But the words kept flowing from his mouth like a dam had broken.
"It was you who expected me to dream big. To show determination, to train, to be powerful, to be worthy. Not me."
"And look where those expectations brought you," Ragnar finally said, breaking his silence.
"This peaceful life you talk about? It's just that—a dream. You're the son of Joaquin and Aeliana. You carry Crimson blood. Your fate was decided the moment that name became yours. Those grand dreams you scoff at… they're the only path you can walk."
"Just look at what happened. You tried, didn't you? Tried to live quietly. And what did that earn you? You were ambushed by multiple void rifts, dragged into one, and spent two years trapped in the void realm—surviving alone. When you finally clawed your way out of that hell, you landed in another: Europe."
Azriel wanted to protest. He hadn't spent two years in the void realm.
But...
Would denying it even change what Ragnar had just said?
"A coffee shop?" Ragnar continued. "Do you really think that was ever an option? You barely received training your whole life—only some personal lessons from Joaquin when he had time—and even so, you survived on your own."
"Tell me, do you still believe in that dream? You already possess a level 2 mana core—probably the strongest of your age. Imagine what you could've become if you had trained like the others."
"It's not just that. This world simply won't allow you to live a peaceful life. We protect the weak simply because they are destined to be crushed. All we are doing is preventing the inevitable. Being weak is a sin in this world, and for those who try to stay weak, they might as well be slowly killing themselves."
Ragnar's cold blue eyes locked onto Azriel's red ones.
"You were meant to be a king, Azriel. Not a coffee shop owner."
"For once," Solomon said, his usual smirk returning, "I agree with this old man."
"For the last time, I am not old."
"Sure, sure…"
Ignoring Ragnar's irritation, Solomon leaned forward, fire burning in his eyes.
"Show them, Azriel. Show everyone who ever called you the unworthy prince what you really are. Show those bastards who truly deserves that title."
"Show them that you're Azriel fucking Crimson. The one who challenged the void realm—and survived. Who faced Europe as a kid and made it out alive."