Babel.
Oh, Babel.
Your hottest Slayer missed you.
I stopped at the edge of the marketplace and took in a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs completely. The air was rich with the aroma of spicy foods—grilled meats glazed in oils, crushed peppers sizzling on hot iron plates, sweet-smelling herbs burned for flavor rather than prayer. It was the kind of smell that reminded you why cities existed in the first place.
Life.
I could hear lovely music playing somewhere in the central square, a blend of drums and strings that rose and fell like a heartbeat. Laughter echoed between buildings. Merchants shouted prices. Children ran between stalls without a care in the world.
Above us, air balloons drifted lazily through the sky, their massive forms painted with the colors and sigils of old houses and victorious campaigns. In the distance, cutting through it all, came the loud metallic roar of trains racing along elevated tracks, iron beasts dragging progress behind them.
Babel hadn't changed.
If anything, it had grown louder.
"Hunter! Quit standing there and let's go. Zefar is getting impatient!"
I sighed.
The voice belonged to another Slayer, one of the Summoned, already several steps ahead of me. He didn't bother turning back this time. He knew I'd follow. We always did.
Such was the life of Babel's greatest soldiers.
Saving the world one minute.
Fighting wars the next second.
Then answering Zefar's every call like our lives depended on it.
News flash.
They actually did.
Call me crazy, but I chose that over dying.
I finally turned away from the market and followed the Slayer toward base, my boots striking the stone road with practiced ease. The noise of the city slowly shifted as we moved deeper into the inner districts. Music faded. Commerce softened. Guards became more frequent, their armor polished and their eyes sharp.
Zefar had ordered us out of Victor's Castle.
All because of that annoying True Slayer.
The kid.
Oma.
Zefar wanted him to "mingle" with the other children. Wanted him to experience Babel beyond blood and beasts. Said it would be "good for him."
I hated the idea the moment it left his mouth.
I hated it even more when Naya started getting close to that savage.
Every time I saw them together, something twisted uncomfortably in my chest. Naya smiled too easily around him. She asked him questions. She treated him like he was normal, like he wasn't a walking threat wrapped in the body of a child who hated us all.
That kid didn't need friends.
He needed a beating.
A proper one.
But it wasn't my call to make.
Zefar, in his infinite wisdom—or insanity—found Oma entertaining. Normally, I wouldn't care who amused him. Zefar was Zefar. He enjoyed chaos. He enjoyed pressure. He enjoyed watching people challenge him,
knowing full well they would lose.
But this time was different.
This boy wanted Zefar dead.
And a dead Zefar meant a dying me.
That wasn't fear talking. That was reality.
There was no way all the Summoned—numbering close to nine thousand—would let one kid walk into Babel and kill our king. Zefar wasn't just a ruler. He was the foundation. The reason we all existed in the first place.
After walking for a while, we finally reached base.
The structure loomed over the surrounding district, a massive building planted at the very center of Andreya, the capital of Babel. Its stone walls were reinforced with dark steel, runes etched into every surface like scars that glowed faintly with power. Towers rose high above the rooftops, watching every street, every gate.
This wasn't just a barracks.
It was a luxurious security post for Slayers.
Especially those lucky enough to be left behind to guard the city whenever Zefar and the rest of us marched off to fight a battle, wage a war, or "bring peace" to some distant land.
Inside, the air was cooler and carefully controlled. The halls were wide and spotless, designed for both ceremony and combat. Weapons lined the walls in perfect order. Training rooms echoed with the clash of steel and the occasional shout of frustration or triumph.
Slayers moved through the corridors with purpose, armor clanking softly, voices low but tense. No one was relaxed.
Because inside these walls, a dilemma was brewing.
The True Slayer had found us.
And he had challenged Zefar to a death duel.
Even thinking about it made my jaw tighten.
I was genuinely sick of all this True Slayer nonsense.
Why were True Slayers always so dramatic?
Every single one of them acted like destiny personally owed them something. Like the world existed solely to test them, to shape them, to break them and crown them kings afterward.
They challenged death.
They challenged kings.
They challenged fate itself.
Then they acted surprised when the consequences came crashing down harder than expected.
I leaned against a stone pillar near the entrance hall, crossing my arms as a few Summoned passed by me. Some whispered. Some argued. Some sharpened their blades like they expected blood to spill inside Babel itself.
No one said it out loud.
But everyone was thinking it.
If Oma made a move…
If Zefar underestimated him…
If this duel actually happened…
There would be no clean ending.
I exhaled slowly and stared up at the vaulted ceiling.
Babel was alive outside these walls. Laughing. Singing. Growing. Families walking the streets, unaware of the drama unfolding.
This was because, a boy who hated us was being shown kindness.
True Slayers never did know how to make anything simple.
I walked to the exact place Zefar and Oma stood. I let my eyes sweep over the scene like a predator sizing up prey.
Zefar was there, as always, calm and unshakable, the kind of presence that made the air itself seem to pause. And Oma… well, the kid had balls, I'll give him that. Standing there like he owned the place, trying to look as fearless as his father probably taught him to be.
I didn't move. Didn't need to. I wasn't summoned. I wasn't here to impress. I was just… observing. Letting them do their little dance of words and posturing while I stayed on the sidelines, a silent witness.
And a very annoyed one at that.
Trueslayers were always so intense. Every single one of them came to Babel with a goal but none were as stupid as Oma's,
"I will end the Victor Zefar!" Blah, blah, blah.
He really needed to give it a rest. Someone needed to remind him of how much danger he was in.
He was deep in enemy territory attempting to kill the King. Righteous fury wouldn't save him from inevitable defeat.
I shifted my weight, resting my hands casually on the hilts of the sword strapped to my back.
I was hear to watch them spar with words. Observe their posture and hopefully witness Oma get the beating of his life.
I'd watch it all unfold, make a mental note of every tick, every twitch, every tiny tells that would come in handy later.
Oma, already flaring with rage, glared at Zefar as if his glare alone could undo a millennium of death and destruction. He had spirit, I'll give him that, but spirit alone doesn't win battles.
Not here. Not in Babel. And definitely not against Zefar, who, for all his theatrics and devilish charisma, had centuries of blood and strategy to back him.
I almost laughed at the boy's overconfidence. God, the arrogance of youth. The world hadn't even begun to break him yet, and he was already swinging imaginary swords in his head, declaring war on a man who could crush him without thinking twice.