"I'm not done yet!"
Nathanaël glanced sideways as he dodged the dagger.
Hammiel had made a magic circle appear in front of his mouth. A white circle filled with various mystical symbols, resembling those Azraël used, floating with a pure white light that immediately reminded Nathanaël of...
"Snow?"
Nathanaël sensed nothing good coming.
In a flash, Hammiel blew with all his strength, the circle aligned with the trajectory of his breath. A blue light burst forth from it, and suddenly an enormous amount of freezing frost crushed the already ruined room under ice.
Everything was frozen in place, locked by the immense mass of ice where no particle seemed to move anymore. Even one of the Six appeared to have vanished beneath the frozen blast.
Hammiel wiped his mouth, proud of his move, seeing no trace of Nathanaël but his satisfaction was short-lived.
Nathanaël, trapped beneath the ice, began to shine intensely once more.
In just a few seconds, the ice couldn't withstand his aura and shattered into a thousand pieces, freeing him completely.
Caught off guard, Hammiel hurriedly recalled his second dagger and braced himself.
However, Nathanaël once again took the Emperor's stance.
Hammiel had already seen it, and he understood that he could not take it a second time.
He rushed forward at full speed and stabbed Nathanaël straight through the heart as he was preparing his strike.
"This time, I got you."
However, Hammiel felt something strange. The sensation that what he had stabbed was not a physical body. And he was right—what he had pierced was not a body, but a mass of aura so densely concentrated that he hadn't noticed the difference.
He had been tricked.
Normally, he would have seen through it, because the body of light had something uncanny that still distinguished it from the real one of the Six. But Nathanaël had fooled him by adopting the Emperor's stance. Knowing Hammiel would panic and rush in without thinking, he wouldn't have the time to question whether it was real or not.
Once again, Nathanaël's calculating and precise nature prevailed, and he won his gamble.
The body of light decomposed, and Hammiel realized he had been trapped.
"No… how…"
He turned around quickly and saw Nathanaël without any light, once again taking the Emperor's stance.
Watching him closely, Hammiel could almost glimpse the shadow of the original user of this technique. A tall, imposing, and highly charismatic man. Above all, a man who inspired fear and respect. He looked like a king—a terrifying ruler who reigned through strength and dread. Yet his elegance was never diminished by those traits.
And above all, Hammiel understood..
He was powerful.
Hammiel charged forward, trying to intercept him once more, but it was already too late.
"Goodbye, Hammiel."
Nathanaël had understood it now. To perfectly replicate this technique, he had to embody the very person who had created it.
Fear, respect, dread, charisma, elegance and above all, strength.That was Emperor Turcan, and Nathanaël had analyzed him well. And this…
…was his technique.
In a moment that felt far too short, Nathanaël shone brilliantly, relaxed his body, and unleashed his ultimate strike. Hammiel could only watch as he was struck. He was pierced from all sides by the beam of light. A massive amount of blood burst from his body.
As he fell to the ground, he stared up at the ceiling, his gaze empty and lost. He then remembered his leader's words.
"You too… are you tired of it? You too want it to stop. Come with me. We will save Nozras."
Hammiel was a warrior as well, but he didn't truly like fighting. He didn't like becoming a battle-crazed madman for whom fighting meant living.
He had arrived in the capital with his group of friends. At first, there were five of them. He lost one during a clash with another clan. He lost a second during the battle at the wall, which they had miraculously survived as three. Then, upon entering the capital, he lost the last two.
Alone, he no longer had a real goal. He only wanted to help his friends reach the throne. That had never interested him personally. Alone, he had nothing left to do.
When yet another warrior stood before him and defeated him effortlessly, Hammiel let himself fall, grievously wounded.
Arms spread, lying on the ground, he gazed at the sky for a long time, patiently waiting for death to reunite him with his friends.
But instead, a tall man with golden-blond hair appeared. In Nozras, no one had blond hair. Yet Hammiel remembered a legendary woman who had reached the throne years earlier...
That day, he had followed him and it had led to his own defeat.
Still, he regretted nothing.
"Save Nozras as you promised, Chief."
Nathanaël watched his opponent fall like a puppet.
It was a victory that brought him no joy.
He then looked toward Azraüs, who was finishing off his enemies.
"In the end… from their point of view, we're the villains."
And he carried that thought in his heart until the end of his life.
Azraüs stepped back. The blow he had taken was pretty solid even for him. His brain rattled violently inside his skull. He then looked at the colossus who had struck him. Standing at one meter ninety-five, he was facing a mountain over two meters twenty tall. Still, he calmly walked forward and pressed his chest against the giant's. He stared straight into his eyes with defiance.
"You want to compare?"
The colossus didn't waste any time and punched Azraüs in the face with all his strength. Azraüs struggled not to lose his balance, spat blood, and returned to his stance.
"My turn."
Azraüs struck back with all his might. The colossus staggered slightly before straightening up again.
"My turn."
Nathanaël watched the "fight" of these two monsters in disbelief. In truth, all the remaining warriors were watching the contest as well.
Suddenly, after around thirty exchanged blows, the colossus collapsed to the ground. Azraüs, fists bloodied, looked down at him and swayed himself. Then he forced himself back upright and spat in the giant's face.
"I won."
The warriors shouted and raised their fists in satisfaction, completely forgetting that they were enemies.
"Are they idiots or what??"
Nathanaël wondered if this country was simply lacking a few IQ points.
But he also understood what spirit of Nozras Azraüs was trying to preserve.
It was certainly a land of perpetual war—but it was also pride, and the recognition of living as a warrior.
That was the soul of Nozras, and Nathanaël let out a slow breath.
Azraël was on his way to the throne. There was nothing left standing between him and his reign. He had disintegrated, burned, electrocuted, drowned, crushed, and pierced every warrior who had dared to oppose him along the way. Magic circles floated throughout the capital, including one enormous vortex in the sky that summoned storms and lightning over the entire city.
Azraël was determined, and it would not be the soul of this country that stopped him.
He walked calmly, filled with anger and rage. But it was a quiet rage, one he kept buried deep within his heart.
"He will understand. They will all understand eventually."
Azraël climbed the steps that separated the ground from the throne, said to rest in the sky.
The stairs gleamed under the sole moonlight that accompanied him, as if the throne itself were welcoming him with open arms.
He thought back on the long path that had brought him here. His death. The man with the book. His mother's death. His father's cowardice. His clan. Azraüs… and even one of the Six who had come.
All of it, he had read. All of it, he knew. And he also knew how it would all end.
"The throne…"
At the top of the steps stood the objective of thousands of lives—the trophy of Nozras itself, a victory soaked in faint hope…
The hall was nothing more than a stone skeleton. Cracked columns rose like broken fingers toward a shattered ceiling, letting the cold moonlight pour in. The floor, fractured and scarred, bore the wounds of time—dust, rubble, dead roots. And yet, at the center, it still stood.
The throne.
Carved from ancient stone, rough yet noble, it seemed sculpted from the very heart of the mountain. Its lines were simple, almost austere, but every crack, every chip carried a story. Faded engravings ran along the armrests like forgotten whispers. The backrest, tall and slightly inclined, was split at its summit, as if the sky itself had tried to break it.
But the moon caressed it…
Its light slid across the stone with an eerie tenderness, revealing silver reflections in the veins of the rock. The throne, though in ruins, shone. Not with brilliance—but with presence. Even broken, it dominated the room. Even abandoned, it reigned.
Around it, silence was absolute. No wind. No life. Only that icy light, falling like a blessing upon a king who was no longer there.
And standing before it was Azraël, claiming the tyrant's seat in the deepest part of his veins…
He could finally see it. He could finally sit upon it…
Provided he overcame his final obstacle…
"I don't remember inviting you, father…"