--Planet Aetheria--
The Demon Lord's castle, a colossal testament to dark power, hummed with a chilling, restrained energy. Within his throne room, crafted from solidified night and shadowed malice, Azazel sat, his obsidian skin gleaming under the faint, malevolent light, his bright red eyes burning with an eternal, cold flame. His subordinate, a lesser demon with an unhealthy pallor and trembling hands, knelt before him, a holographic projection of Namil City shimmering in the air between them.
"Where are they?" Azazel's voice, a low, guttural rumble, echoed through the vast chamber. It wasn't a question of inquiry, but a demand for information he already suspected. His rage simmered, a constant, low-frequency hum beneath his immense power.
The kneeling demon, its form quivering, dared not meet the Demon Lord's gaze. "They are on Namil, my lord."
A profound, oppressive silence descended. Azazel's red eyes narrowed, fixing on the holographic projection of the peaceful city. Namil. The neutral ground. A place even his power, bound by ancient pacts and intricate political maneuvers, could not directly breach without risking a galactic incident that would draw unwanted attention from other cosmic powers.
"Namil, so we can't touch them, huh?" Azazel purred, the sound more dangerous than any roar. His voice was laced with a chilling amusement, a predatory satisfaction at the temporary frustration. "A shrewd choice, Edward. You always did possess a cunning mind." He leaned forward, his massive form casting a long, intimidating shadow over his subordinate. "Why are they in Namil? What is their purpose? Why not flee to the Outer Rim? Or seek refuge with other… troublesome factions?"
The demon, emboldened slightly by the Demon Lord's contemplative tone, replied, its voice still a nervous whisper. "They seem to be pursuing a path as adventurers, my lord. To gain legitimacy, they believe. So that they can be pardoned for their actions in Kazakhar, and move freely."
Azazel's cruel lips curved into a sneer. "Adventurers. How quaint. Such a petty aspiration for those who have dared to defy me so directly. A pardon? From whom? The galactic council? Their laws mean nothing to me." He paused, his gaze returning to the hologram of Namil. The absurdity of it. Edward Bloodrose, a being who had challenged a High Seat Demon, now seeking a 'pardon' like a common thief. It was almost laughable.
Almost.
"For the meantime," Azazel finally said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet ringing with absolute authority, "you will just keep an eye on them. Do not engage. Do not reveal our presence. Follow them when they are out of Namil. Every step they take. Every world they visit. You must tell me their movements.
Understood?"
"Yes, my lord! Your wish is my command!" the demon replied, relief flooding its form at the simple, clear directive. It bowed low, almost touching its head to the cold floor, before vanishing from the throne room, leaving Azazel alone with his thoughts and the burning image of Namil.
The Demon Lord's red eyes glowed with a dangerous anticipation. This was merely a delay, a minor inconvenience. Edward Bloodrose had escaped, yes, but he had chosen a path. A path that would eventually lead him out of Namil's protected borders. And when he did, Azazel would be waiting. The hunt was merely paused, not cancelled. And the scholar, Tom Aristotle… he was the prize.
--Namil City--
The week began with a tangible shift in their routines. No more aimless wandering. No more simply savoring freedom. The clock was ticking towards Monday, the Adventurer's Exam. Their application papers, filled out and submitted by Tom's surprisingly neat handwriting, now rested with Natasha at the Adventurers' Guild. The next seven days would be dedicated to one thing: training.
Their first stop, after a quick breakfast at Marcus's pub, was the Guild. Natasha, surprisingly, was ready for them.
"Ah, good morning, applicants!" she greeted them cheerfully, her eyes twinkling as she processed their forms. "All submitted and accepted. You're officially on the roster for next Monday's exam. The exact location and time will be posted on the Guild's main board on Sunday evening. Any questions before you begin your… pre-exam preparations?"
Adam stepped forward. "Yes. We're going to be training intensely this week. Do you have any recommendations for secluded areas, training grounds, anything where we won't disturb the peace too much?" He glanced pointedly at Edward.
Natasha's smile faltered for a bare second, her gaze flickered to Edward, then back to Adam. "Ah, yes. Given your… unique composition, I understand the need for discretion. There's a series of disused warehouses on the industrial outskirts, towards the old power conduits. They're mostly empty now, concrete floors, high ceilings. Should be ample space and privacy for… rigorous activities. Just ensure you clean up any messes." She handed him a small data-slate with coordinates. "And try not to blow anything up, please. Namil appreciates its infrastructure."
Adam nodded, taking the slate. "Understood. Thank you, Natasha."
They left the Guild, the weight of the upcoming exam, and the week of intense preparation, settling upon them. Their first destination: the industrial outskirts.
The disused warehouse was vast, cold, and dusty, but it offered the perfect, unobserved space for their training. Edward, now fully revitalized by Adam's generous blood and the presence of his sword, immediately took charge. His methods were brutal, efficient, and honed by centuries of warfare.
"Your goal this week is not to learn new techniques," Edward declared, his voice echoing in the cavernous space, the Bloodrose Sword gleaming at his side. "It is to hone what you already possess. To make your movements instinctive, your reactions immediate. And to fight as a cohesive unit. You were strong, yes, but you still move as individuals. That will change."
He first focused on their individual strengths.
Julian, his natural grace and precision already formidable, was pushed to his limits. Edward, himself a master of the blade, would engage Julian in dizzying flurries, forcing him to anticipate, to react with blinding speed. "Your master, Veresha, taught you well, boy," Edward would acknowledge, his own sword a blur. "But she fought against mortals. I will show you how demons fight. How they move. How they die." He forced Julian to counter impossible angles, to defend against shadow-fast lunges, to find openings in seemingly impenetrable defenses. Julian emerged from these duels drenched in sweat, his body aching, but his sword arm faster, his mind sharper.
Astrid, already nimble and quick, was tasked with enhancing her agility and stealth. Edward would place her in mock 'ambush' scenarios, forcing her to utilize the warehouse's vast empty shelves and discarded machinery as cover, to strike from unexpected angles. He would materialize from shadows, testing her reflexes, pushing her to move faster, more silently. "A flicker of movement, a whisper of breath," he'd instruct, his crimson eyes piercing the gloom, "and a demon will find you. You must become the ghost they cannot perceive."
Panchenko, for all his bluster, was a powerful, if sometimes clumsy, fighter. Edward worked to refine his spear work, teaching him to use his strength with more precision, to anticipate enemy movements, and to control his formidable but unwieldy weapon more effectively. "Your strength is your asset," Edward observed, easily parrying one of Panchenko's wild swings. "But raw power without control is merely a blunt instrument. Learn to guide it. To aim it where it truly matters." Panchenko, though complaining good-naturedly, threw himself into the training, surprisingly eager to improve.
Adam focused on overall combat efficiency. Edward made him move with his sword, tirelessly practicing footwork, parries, and thrusts against imaginary foes, his body constantly aching, pushing past the limits of his endurance. Edward would often engage him, disarming him repeatedly, forcing Adam to adapt, to learn from every mistake. "You are a brawler," Edward critiqued, his voice devoid of judgment, "but a brawler with spirit. Learn to refine that spirit into precision. Into lethality." Adam absorbed every lesson, his mind a sponge, hungry for knowledge that could save their lives.
Tom, surprisingly, was also put through his paces, though his training was less about direct combat. Edward recognized Tom's strategic mind and his invaluable technical skills. He tasked Tom with analyzing and identifying weaknesses in the warehouse's structure, in their simulated demon movements, and even in their own fighting styles. He was the tactical observer, the one who would anticipate enemy movements and guide their strategy in real combat.
Edward even taught him basic self-defense techniques, emphasizing evasion and distraction, acknowledging that Tom was their most vulnerable, yet most essential, member.
"My fighting style is less 'slaying demons' and more 'rebooting circuits,'" Tom would quip, but he still diligently practiced his evasive rolls and quick counter-strikes, knowing his life, and their escape, depended on it.
As the week progressed, their individual skills sharpened. But it was their growth as a cohesive unit that was most striking. Edward, with his unparalleled experience in leading demon hunts, drilled them endlessly on synchronized attacks, defensive formations, and communication in the chaos of battle.
"When one of you falls, the line breaks," Edward would stress, his voice cutting through the sounds of their sparring. "You are no longer individuals. You are one blade, one shield, one unbreakable wall."
They practiced fighting blind, relying on sound and intuition, mimicking the conditions of Level Five. They drilled on quick, decisive movements to conserve stamina, knowing that sustained combat would drain them in the harsh environments of Kazakhar.
During breaks, exhausted and covered in sweat and dust, they would talk.
"I still can't believe we're doing this," Panchenko said one evening, stretched out on the cold concrete floor, staring at the high ceiling. "One week ago, we were being chased by worms. Now we're training with a vampire lord to become adventurers."
"It's a strange path," Astrid agreed, wiping her face with a damp cloth. "But it's our path now. We're fighting for something. Not just to survive, but to live."
Julian, sharpening his blade with a whetstone, looked at Adam. "Your goal, Adam… the Demon King. Edward mentioned he's powerful. Are you truly prepared for what that means?"
Adam met his gaze. "I don't think anyone can truly be prepared for that. But I'm going to try. He took everything. My home, my life, the lives of so many. He is the root of this nightmare. If we want true peace, he has to fall."
Edward, who had been listening in silence, added, "He is indeed a force of nature. But he is not invincible. He has enemies, even among his own kind, though few dare to challenge him. And he has weaknesses. Every being does." His crimson eyes held a calculating glint. "Such knowledge will be vital."
Tom, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "And that knowledge often comes from the Adventurers' Guild, Adam. Higher-ranked quests often involve intelligence gathering, infiltrating demon strongholds, or acquiring ancient artifacts that could hold clues to their weaknesses. We need those ranks."
The days blurred into a cycle of brutal training, meager meals, and cautious exploration of the city's limits. They slowly started to heal, both physically and mentally.
The grief for Harry and Jones, though still present, was being transformed into a burning resolve, a silent vow to make their sacrifices mean something. Edward, initially a grim, formidable ally, slowly became something more akin to a demanding, yet oddly paternal, mentor. His centuries of experience, his cold assessment of situations, and his unyielding pursuit of power, proved to be exactly what they needed.
As Sunday arrived, they were a vastly different group from the battered fugitives who had stumbled out of Kazakhar. Their movements were sharper, their senses keener, their teamwork seamless. They were still far from legends, but they were no longer just survivors. They were a nascent force, forged in the crucible of despair, and ready to take the first step on their impossible journey. The Adventurer's Exam awaited, a doorway to a new, dangerous chapter in their fight for freedom.