The kingdom of Sebdue sat upon red hills, its towers carved of stone and iron. It was not the largest of nations, but it was feared. Its lords were cruel, its priests zealous, and its armies unrelenting. They claimed to serve the True God of Light, spitting upon the very whisper of Azeron's name.
"A false god. A shadow demon. The daughter of Estrellia is possessed."These words spread like wildfire, igniting Sebdue's fury.
So when rumors of a strange man wandering the land — one who could bleed but never falter — reached their ears, the lords of Sebdue acted swiftly.
Azeron walked calmly through the dirt road leading into Sebdue's capital.Merchants sneered, peasants spat, guards eyed him with suspicion. He wore nothing but tattered cloth, his bare feet leaving crimson stains where his wounds had not stopped bleeding.
Children pointed and laughed.Priests raised their hands and shouted, "The heretic walks among us!"
Yet Azeron walked on, silent, unfazed.
At the gates of Sebdue's grand hall, spears barred his way. A captain snarled, "Begone, wretch. No beggar enters the court of Sebdue."
Azeron's gaze lifted to meet his. For a moment, silence weighed heavy, so heavy the guards shifted uneasily.
And then, Azeron spoke:
Azeron (Form 1):"Do you not know my name?"
The captain barked a laugh. "Your name? You are nothing! Only one name is forbidden here—the blasphemer's. Azeron!"
The man spat the word like poison.
Azeron's lips curled into a faint smile. His voice lowered, sharp as a blade.
"Then you speak it already. And soon, you will kneel to it."
Dragged in chains before the throne of Sebdue, Azeron was cast onto the marble floor. The High Lord sat upon his seat, draped in furs, his priests standing tall at his side.
The hall was filled with laughter as the bloodied man knelt, unresisting.
"This is the heretic? The demon the world fears?" The High Lord jeered. "He bleeds like a man. He crawls like a man. He is no god."
The priests raised their staffs, chanting prayers of light, burning symbols in the air. Flames engulfed Azeron's flesh. His skin blackened, his wounds deepened, his body scorched.
But he did not scream.He did not move.He simply raised his head and looked them in the eyes.
Azeron (Form 1):"Is that all? Is this your holy fire? I have walked through chains hotter than your suns. I have suffered wounds deeper than your prayers can imagine. You call me mortal because I bleed. But tell me… when I do not fall, when I do not cry, when I do not die—what then am I?"
The flames died. The priests faltered. The hall fell silent.
Azeron stood, chains rattling as if they were mere ornaments. He walked toward the throne, every step leaving blood upon the marble, every step echoing louder than thunder.
The High Lord trembled, his voice breaking. "S-stop him!"
Spears pierced his body. Swords tore his flesh. Blood poured onto the floor.But Azeron walked on.
Unflinching.Unbreaking.Unstoppable.
He stopped before the throne, standing over the High Lord whose face was pale with terror.
Azeron (Form 1):"Your kingdom calls me false. Your priests call me shadow. Yet your people will soon whisper only one truth: you could not break me. You could not burn me. You could not kill me.
Sebdue, hear me. I am Azeron. I will not save you. I will not bless you. I will not love you. I will own you. And every knee in this hall will touch the ground before me—or drown in my shadow."
The first to fall to their knees were not the guards, nor the nobles, but the priests themselves—fear carved into their faces. One by one, they collapsed, whispering his name. The guards followed, trembling. And finally, the High Lord himself dropped from his throne, his crown rolling across the floor.
Azeron's shadow stretched across the hall, swallowing it whole.
That night, Sebdue's bells rang—not in warning, but in proclamation.
"Azeron has come."