The sky had begun to thrum with unease. The constellations above Velgrath shifted restlessly, their once-imperious glow dimming in trepidation. Altherion's fury had not faded; it burned hotter, yet in restraint, knowing the child who had defiled its wife was no ordinary mortal.
But Azkarel was not idle. He moved silently among the scattered valleys, each ruined village and corrupted family a step in a grand design. His hands bore no scars, but the Chains pulsed with a hunger fed by the despair of those who dared defy him.
System Message:[Next Quest: Expand the Web – Observe, manipulate, and terrorize multiple celestial lineages.][Skill Ready: Tongue of Lies – Subtlety Enhanced.][Title Earned: Ash-born Strategist.]
The boy's next target was far more ambitious—a cluster of mortal kin tied to another constellation, Lyserion, known among the heavens for its pride and discipline. Their home was fortified, their lives disciplined, yet they were ignorant of the artful cruelty that waited beyond their walls.
Azkarel did not rush. He sent whispers first, small hallucinations of shadowy figures moving in the periphery of their vision, rumors of disaster in their own minds. Panic set in subtly: a dropped tool here, a faint shadow across the window there. Each illusion, each spark of fear, fed the Chains.
When he struck, it was surgical and theatrical. The patriarch of the household awoke to find his children tied with silken cords, not broken yet, but suspended above a pit of molten black—a warning more psychological than physical. The mother was forced to watch as the boy used Tongue of Lies to manipulate her memories: her children screaming in torment that had not yet happened, each echo feeding Azkarel's growing reservoir of cruelty.
System Reward:[Skill Upgrade: Shadow Veil – Induce terror without touch.][Title Gained: Weaver of Suffering.]
He did not end the torment quickly. He orchestrated grotesque visions: the father imagining his home burning while nothing outside was touched, the mother seeing herself betray her children in impossible ways, all projected through the Chains to heighten despair.
Above, Lyserion shimmered and pulsed in fury. Its celestial agents converged, spectral forms of light and discipline, ready to strike the boy down. Yet Azkarel had anticipated them. He twisted their perceptions, each believing they were attacking the real threat, when they were only striking at shadows.
The constellations' light faltered, their rage mingling with confusion. Altherion's earlier fury had spread, whispers reaching Lyserion: the boy was no mere mortal; he was a predator of stars themselves, patient, cunning, and merciless.
Zorvak's laughter echoed in the void, faint but immense: "Excellent. Observe their fear, twist it, and let them unravel. Power lies not in force alone, but in patience, cruelty, and the artistry of despair. Let them writhe in impotent rage. Let them know your name without touching them."
Azkarel smiled, small, precise, and cruel. Each step, each manipulation, each whispered lie built not strength in the conventional sense, but mastery of horror. He was still a child in body, yet the Chains and System molded him into something the heavens had not anticipated: a predator patient enough to feast slowly, cruel enough to make every strike a masterpiece.
The constellations gathered above, plotting, scheming, yet already a step behind. One by one, Azkarel would draw them into his web, teaching them the true meaning of Sweet Death—a lesson in fear, despair, and the slow unraveling of their cherished order.
And he would enjoy every moment.