A magic circle appeared beneath his feet, and before Nathanaël could dodge, a pillar of stone burst from the ground and slammed violently into him.
The massive pillar kept rising higher and higher without ever stopping and soon, its height became alarming.
Nathanaël was pinned against the pillar, unable to move because of its speed, which forced him flat against its surface. If this continued, he would either die from the fall... or from a lack of oxygen.
Summoning every ounce of determination he had left, Nathanaël forced himself away from the pillar, rolled awkwardly, and jumped off.
He was already incredibly high. Far too high to land without dying. From where he was, Azraël looked like an ant... or even smaller.
He drove his sword into the pillar to slow his fall and began descending at a much slower pace.
However, that wasn't what Azraël wanted.
In a flash, the pillar glowed crimson and disappeared.
Nathanaël cursed.
"Damn."
With nothing left to support him, he began plummeting once again, gravity pulling him inexorably faster and faster toward the ground.
Freefall was a strange sensation.
If death hadn't been waiting below, Nathanaël might have thought it was beautiful. The wind howled violently against his face as the ground slowly drew closer.
But knowing he was probably about to die, there was no way he could stay calm. What should have been a breathtaking experience quickly turned into pure terror.
As he rushed toward his inevitable death, Nathanaël's mind raced.
"Aura...Aura.... I have to use my aura.... I have to use it to soften the impact."
It was a gamble but it was one worth taking.
After all, it was either that... or death.
He was falling dangerously fast, and the ground was rushing toward him. So he concentrated his aura throughout his body, especially into his legs.
That much, he could do. It wasn't new to him. Manipulating his aura and guiding it wherever he wanted. Moving the countless particles of light toward their destination.
Making that energy completely his own...
His body glowed for a brief moment. For an instant, he looked like a star falling from the sky.
Then came the impact.
The ground collapsed beneath him as fragments of the throne room's ancient white tiles exploded in every direction.
Everything within a five-meter radius seemed to cave in. The shattered tiles threw up an enormous cloud of dust that surged outward like a wave, sweeping everything in its path.
Nathanaël stood at the center of it all, praying that his legs wouldn't give out while enduring unbearable pain. His body bent dangerously under the force and very quickly, the pain became unbearable.
Every muscle in his body felt as though it were burning, on the verge of tearing apart. He could feel the particles of light rushing to support them every time one came close to breaking. With each passing millisecond, Nathanaël felt like a new man, as though his entire body were being rebuilt at incredible speed to compensate for its own destruction.
What had lasted only a single second...felt like an eternity.
Yet, against all odds, he survived without any lasting injuries.
"Damn... that hurts."
Even Azraël looked surprised.
"That must be one of the Six's abilities. It's not that surprising. If the old man could survive falling from the sky, then you should be able to do the same. Let's see what you're really capable of."
Azraël crossed his hands into a strange position.
Nathanaël instinctively took a fearful step back. He still hadn't recovered from the fall. His body was still repairing itself, and his heart was pounding wildly.
If Azraël attacked now, there was no way he could defend himself.
He couldn't even move...
Suddenly, a tremendous sound echoed throughout the capital, causing both of them to stop in their tracks.
"What the..."
*
As Azraüs fell, he caught sight of the throne...
...and his father beside it.
All his life, he had resented him. He had always believed Reno could have ruled all of Nozras without difficulty.
Why come back for his mother?
She was the strongest.
Why give everything up after she died?
Shouldn't he have sought revenge?
Shouldn't he have shown the world who he truly was?
Azraüs knew exactly what his father was capable of. He was the Ogre, damn it. The damned Ogre who frightened even the greatest warriors.
His presence alone was monstrous. Every swing of his weapon carried superhuman strength. His speed was nearly unmatched, except for his own mother, who was simply too fast.
People even compared him to Nozras himself.
So why?
Why hadn't he become the next Nozras?
Why hadn't he proven to the world that he was invincible?
The question had been eating away at his heart for years.
After his mother's death, Azraüs had thought of only one thing: Revenge.
It didn't matter who the killer was. It didn't matter what methods they had used.
He would destroy everything. Massacre everything. Conquer everything.
That was how the warriors of Nozras spoke.
But now...
His father was dead too. None of it made sense anymore. He had wanted so badly to impress him. To show him that he could avenge their family, even if his father had become hollow and lifeless.
Who could he blame now?
A dead man?
There was no point. Nothing made sense anymore. Truth be told, he hadn't been completely deaf to Azraël's pleas.
The world was suffering.
Nozras had been crying for a long time, but those tears had become war cries. No one wanted to hear people weep. So they screamed instead, to drown the tears out.
Clans betrayed one another.
Families lost one member...
Then two...
Then everyone.
In the end, everyone disappeared one way or another.
They all claimed they didn't care. That it was simply Nozras's instinct.
But was it really?
Was that truly the burning desire for battle that drove them?
Azraüs genuinely loved fighting. Holding his club. Crushing his enemies. Sometimes, when an opponent was especially strong, the battle itself made him tremble with excitement.
And when he won, he always felt a little empty.
But it felt good.
That, to him, was what Nozras truly was. He didn't have to kill to fell alive. But you had to fight. Maybe that was why he resented his brother so much.
Azraël killed without hesitation in the name of some supposedly noble purpose.
In the end, Azraël had probably killed far more people than he ever had.
Azraüs loved talking to his defeated opponents after a battle. He would discuss how and why he had won. What he planned to do next. Or how they might have defeated him instead. Then he would leave without looking back, walking toward a brighter future.
Was that what his father used to do?
Man-Eater was terrifying. But in truth, it didn't deserve its name.
Azraüs knew his father almost never used it. Not even against the great clans. Only occasionally against assassins skilled enough to push him to his limits or simply to intimidate an enemy.
The truth was that although Man-Eater had probably slaughtered thousands of men, Reno hadn't been the one who killed them with it.
Even his mother didn't kill on instinct. She never struck vital points. She always left her victims alive, wounded enough to recover. Though perhaps never to fight again...
Of course, she had killed far more people than Reno. But after she met him, life had gained meaning for her.
And because of that, so had everyone else's.
Or perhaps...
Perhaps all of that was only his imagination.
Perhaps his parents had simply been two cold-blooded killers...
Just like Azraël.
Only without a noble cause.
Azraüs landed hard on his back at the foot of the hill below. The impact was violent, the pain intense, but strangely enough, he had endured worse.
He spat violently, a little blood escaping his mouth. He rarely bled, but this time, the damage was internal.
"Greetings, son of the Ogre."
A calm voice echoed not far from him.
Azraüs slowly turned his head.
A silhouette emerged from the dust, then a shadow, then finally a man. He was tall, lean, and slender. His gaze was calm, yet deceitful. His clothes fit him perfectly. A light suit of armor gleamed beneath the white rays descending from the sky. He wore only silver pauldrons over his shoulders, and his hands were covered by matching silver gauntlets. A dark green tunic, resembling the leaves of a dead tree, flowed all the way to his feet, hanging close to his body. It wasn't particularly bright and seemed to have faded with time, but at its peak, it had surely looked like the robe of a nobleman.
"Who are you?"
"Your father never told you about me? That saddens me."
Armes stepped out of the dust, allowing Azraüs to finally see his face clearly. He had the handsome features of a mature man, with sharp, well-defined traits. Yet his gaze seemed capable of peering straight into one's soul. His green eyes shimmered faintly. His light brown hair swayed gently in the wind, while his hands remained perfectly still.
Azraüs wasn't particularly happy to see him. With everything weighing on his mind, and his brother fighting Nathy at the top of the hill, he wasn't in the mood to speak with a man who looked like he spent his days spouting nonsense.
He sighed.
"No. My father didn't say much, you know. If you really knew him, then you know that after that day... he barely spoke about what happened in the capital."
Armes seemed slightly unsettled.
"Yes... that's true. Terrible things happened that day. It's for the best that you never learned what truly took place."
He paused before continuing.
"Still, here you are. You look well, at least."
"Oh yeah?"
"Believe me, you remind me of your father. Although... he never looked quite this hopeless."
"Were you there that day, sir? Couldn't you have done something?"
Armes silently observed the young man...
He truly was just like his father.
Then, without a word, he drew a long sword from behind his back.
"You'll need this. I believe it suits you better than you realize."
Azraüs knew Armes had deliberately avoided the question. He didn't care. It was already too late anyway.
When he looked over, he saw Man-Eater resting in the Valon Clan Chief's hands.
"What do you expect me to do with that? Kill him? You want me to kill the last member of my family?"
Armes feigned surprise before answering calmly.
"You'll need it to defeat him. Whether you kill him... will be entirely your decision."
Yet Armes already knew what choice Azraüs would make...
Azraüs rose to his feet and slowly walked toward him. His steps were heavy, burdened with regret, but he had left Nathy up there, and that was even more unforgivable. His father had probably picked up this sword knowing exactly why.
Now... he would do the same.
"I don't trust you. My father probably didn't either. But I'm taking this sword and I'm going to beat the hell out of my brother. Not because I have a sense of responsibility, and not because I want to save this country."
He grabbed the hilt.
"I just feel like doing it."
Armes said nothing... but simply smiled.
The moment Azraüs wrapped his hand around the hilt, an overwhelming surge of power flooded his body. It was as though the sword was pouring an immense amount of energy into him. Something forced its way inside, strengthening every part of his being. The sensation was strange, even for him.
He didn't know how to react.
It wasn't pleasant. Nor unpleasant.
Yet he knew he would remember it for the rest of his life.
The first time Azraüs had ever seen aura was at the entrance to the capital, when Nathanaël had unleashed himself upon the surrounding warriors.
It had been beautiful. Radiant. The light had felt warm and welcoming, even though Nathanaël had been furious.
This...
...was something else.
It was brutal. Bloodthirsty. Powerful. Savage. Murderous. Unrestrained.
It rushed straight to his mind, invading every one of his thoughts, and nothing could stop the aura from raging through his body.
"So... this is the soul of Nozras?"
Azraüs gritted his teeth and pulled. The sword released a monstrous pressure.
As he drew it with all his strength, flashes of his father's battles flooded his mind. Every story Reno had ever told him while holding this blade unfolded before his eyes. He felt the way his father gripped it... the way he balanced its immense weight... the way he swung it... the way he cleaved through his enemies... the way he parried... the way he blocked...
Every movement Reno had ever made with the sword flowed into Azraüs' hands before climbing into his mind.
He had entered a trance.
He no longer thought.
He simply accepted the gift of a blade that had indeed been used to slaughter tens of thousands of men.
He felt its thirst for battle.
Its burning desire to cut down everything before it.
And deep...
Very deep beneath all of that...
Buried beneath every recent emotion the blade carried...
Lurked an ancient presence whose power could not be measured.
At last, Azraüs held it firmly in his hands, breathing heavily like a raging bull.
Armes had watched the entire process with a broad smile, never moving an inch, as though he were proud of what had just happened.
"Oh... I almost forgot to mention."
He chuckled softly.
"We improved it... in a way. The sword was already filled with aura. You simply had to unlock it. You'll see... this fight just became much easier."
Azraüs stopped and stared at the Valon Clan Chief.
Whatever he had done...
It had been essential.
"...Thanks, I guess."
The moment those words left his mouth, Armes began dissolving into the surrounding dust.
"My pleasure... I suppose."
Azraüs watched the strange man vanish into the haze.
He really was an odd fellow. But he had no desire to waste any more thought on him.
He turned to climb the hill once more when he heard it.
A drumbeat.
No...
After listening more carefully, he realized it wasn't a drum at all.
It was the sound of spears and swords striking the ground.
He turned around.... and froze.
Around fifty warriors stood there, each wearing a green tunic and holding a spear with perfect discipline.
A moment later, they struck the ground again with the butt of their weapons.
The sound was synchronized, heavy and precise.
It echoed inside Azraüs' skull. With every strike, his entire body trembled.
Then came another.
Faster this time.
Yet there were more voices in the rhythm now.
Soon, over a hundred warriors appeared around him like ghosts—some dressed in green tunics, others clad in armor, wielding powerful weapons—all driving their spears and blades into the earth in perfect unison.
"What the..."
Another strike.
Even faster.
Azraüs immediately understood what was happening.
In truth...
He had understood from the very first strike.
He had simply refused to believe it.
There was a legend...
In Nozras...
*
Azraël turned his head as the synchronized strikes began multiplying throughout the capital. His expression darkened, and he spoke in a voice filled with anger and suspicion.
"Armes?"