Azarim approached the guard station and veered toward the smaller gate, meant for commoners on foot, those without carriages or coins for grandeur.
Through the rusting bars that separated the outer path from the inner hold, he spotted the guards in the adjoining room.
They were huddled over a table, cards and dice scattered across it. One slammed his fist down with a snarl etched into his face.
So that is how Anzel slipped through, Azarim thought, eyes narrowing.
Prioritizing their fun rather than duties.
"Toll," barked a guard, barely looking up as he held out a grimy palm. His white-plated armor was dulled with wear.
Azarim said nothing.
"What you waitin' for, foreigner?" the guard muttered, finally looking up. His gaze dropped, and paused. A lock of white hair had slipped loose from the bundle in Azarim's arms, the boy's face just visible, his head resting quietly against his chest.
The guard's expression shifted. A brief pause. Not confused, just assuming the obvious.
"Every visitor pays. After that, if you want, my mate'll show you where to offer the boy a proper burial."
"You misunderstand. He is merely asleep," Azarim said, calmly.
"Well, we ought to believe in something, eh?" the guard replied nonchalantly, "Two copper."
He missed the point entirely.
Azarim exhaled sharply, irritated, and yanked out his coin purse.
"Why's the line taking so long??" came a voice from behind. Clutching his helmet, he stomped in, broad-shouldered, red-faced from whatever card game he'd lost, clearly irritated.
"Someone refusin' to pay?" he said, eyeing Azarim. "These brutes ought to be reminded of their places."
Then he took a good look at him, and froze. Dark hair. Blue eyes. That cold, unreadable face.
"L–Lord Azarim. You're… back."
Azarim held his gaze for a long moment. Then gave a low grunt. "It would seem so."
The first guard stiffened, rising so fast he nearly knocked over his stool. The second followed, slower, eyes wide.
"Lord Azarim?" he asked, voice low, uncertain. Recognition settled over him.
They moved in unison a beat later, fists thudding against their chests.
"Welcome back, Lord."
From the adjoining room, the noise faltered. A head peeked out—then another. Dice clattered to the floor. The card game was forgotten. One by one, they emerged, slow and silent.
"Welcome back, Lord Azarim," they echoed, more careful now. More reverent.
The line behind them rustled, folks craning their necks, trying to size up what the hell was going on.
Azarim grunted. He then shifted the boy slightly, freeing one hand, and drew two dull coppers from his belt pouch. They clinked sharply on the counter. Without a glance back, he
moved past the booth and out of the line.
A guard bent down to pick up the copper, then stepped out of the booth.
"Lord…?" he called, raising a hand
He gestured again, uncertain, but Azarim gave no reply.
As one guard struck the other because of that mistake, a small girl in the line, half-hidden beneath an enormous hat, murmured, "Who's that?"
"You must be a newbie along these parts. That's the lady's husband," said a beastman with a massive sword strapped to his back, his fur still bristling.
"Him? No fucking way." A skinny man scoffed, hand resting on the hilt at his hip.
"I also find it hard to believe," the beastman shrugged. "How can a woman like her fall for that?"
"His reputation perhaps, thus the guards nearly pissed themselves off." the girl giggled.
"Enough chatter, you mongrels! Back in line!" the nearest guard snapped, cutting their gossip short.
*******
Belthorn. The city that lay at the edge of the Hellean Plains.
Azarim stepped onto the rough cobblestone, greeted by white-walled buildings that loomed like sentries in the dark.
Street lanterns flickered with signs of elemental mana, their warm glow spilling in broken patches across the road. Shadows danced between lanterns.
The sounds of the city drowned everything else, various races of women calling to passing men, locals slipping into favored bars, carriages rumbling over stone.
This was Belthorn. Even at dusk, it was busy, loud, and bright.
His home.
And the last stop before venturing beyond the Towers of Rheuk.
The plains they call, Rue.
Azarim gazed down at the boy cradled in his arms. His son.
Still and silent.
His skin was warm, but empty. No traces of mana stirred within him.
In this world, mana was the breath of life, woven into every creature. Beasts and vegetation held it in their very essence. But his son had been born without it.
Without it, you were prey to those who had it.
Azarim had watched the so-called "crippled" fight a hundred times harder than the "Normal ones".
Some pushed forward with nothing but stubborn hearts and dangerous faith in the orthodox arts.
But it always came at a price. An exchange demanding equal compensation.
And often, the cost was nothing less than the soul.
If not for what they did… If I simply stayed put… You would not be born in this world…. And have to atone for sins you did not commit.
He lingered in that thought for a long while, haunted by the memory.
Standing at the edge of the circle again in his mind, he saw them: the robed mages chanting in a language he still couldn't name. Their voices rose, the air thick with mana, until his vision blurred and darkness claimed him.
When he awoke, the chanting had stopped. The circle was smeared in blood. The mages, what remained of them, were strewn across the chamber, torn and twisted, as though something had crawled out of the shadows and fed.
He pulled the boy tighter against his chest and whispered,
"I am sorry, my child. If what they gave me is the cost of what you became… All you have to do now is wait."
He walked on in silence. Strangers glanced at him as he passed, but he paid them no mind.
At last, he stopped before the gates of the manor.
He gently tapped the boy's forehead.
Anzel stirred, stretched his arms, let out a faint yawn, and drifted back to sleep.
Azarim lingered for a moment, leaning in to study him more closely.
Wrapped in his cloak, the boy looked eerily still. It reminded Azarim of the old funerary custom—how the dead were swathed in black before burial.
It was supposed to hide his face, for recognition, however...
Azarim sighed. No wonder the guard had mistaken him for a corpse.
Azarim approached the white-armored guards, who recognized him and opened the gate in silence.
The manor grounds lay quiet beneath the moonlight, the fountain shimmering like liquid silver. A cobbled path curved gracefully toward a silver-and-red carriage drawn by restless, eight-legged horses. Nearby, the manor's pristine white walls stood in stark contrast to the night.
In the courtyard, a white-haired man with silver eyes stood glaring down at the servants. He wore a sharp white suit, immaculate and cold, and from his forehead curved long, straight horns, proud and polished. Silver chains coiled around his wrists like ornate cuffs.
His voice was hard, each word slicing through the still air as he barked orders—then hurled a glass that shattered on the stone. Without pause, he delivered a stinging slap to a servant's face.
His breath was ragged, his face flushed red—clearly, he had a bit too much to drink.
As Azarim stepped through the gate, the man immediately sensed him and turned.
"You must be lost, boy," he sneered, voice thick with disdain. "This isn't some sepulchral hall."
He was massive. While Azarim stood at a height considered average among most of the races across Eljeru, this one towered over him twice his size, at least.
Azarim dropped to one knee beside the fallen servant, her hand clutching her swollen cheek.
"Seems the rumors are true," the man taunted. "You certainly have a way of pissing people off."
Azarim remained silent, pulling a metal flask from his pack and holding it out. "Call Deckard."
The servant hesitated, then took the flask with a tight grip. She nodded and slipped inside.
The man's grin widened. "I wasn't finished with her, but I suppose you'll do." He cracked his neck and raised his fist.
Without warning, he lunged at Azarim, his blow fast and brutal. Azarim tilted his head. The punch skimmed his cheek.
Azarim didn't flinch, his blue eyes locked onto the man's with cold calm. "You are drunk. A quarrel with you will lead to nothing."
The man grinned. "Oh, I don't care."
He swung again, wild and unrefined. Azarim easily evaded, but the punch caught his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
The man grin widened, and his fist pulsed with mana, glowing dimly. With a roar, he slammed it into the ground. The earth cracked. Dust exploded upward, and his blow tore Azarim's trailing cloak into shreds, he swayed the boy enough to remain untouched.
Azarim leapt back, landing lightly on the manor steps, cradling Anzel in his arms.
The doors behind him creaked open. Deckard stood in the entryway, his gaze fixed on the boy, who squinted and rubbed his eyes.
"Father? What is going on?" Anzel murmured, yawning.
Without a word, Deckard rushed toward them, offering to carry Anzel, but Azarim's attention remained fixed on the man slowly walking toward him.
"Take him to his room, Deckard. Also, call Leon."
Deckard nodded. He moved inside, leaving them alone in the silence.
"Leon? What the hell is he gonna do?" The man grinned, his mana flaring like wildfire. "This is part of the initiation, a welcoming before The Welcoming. So, let's just say, I'm testing your capabilities."
Azarim's mana stirred, dark and seething, a living shadow bleeding into the air. His gaze fixed downward, locking with his.
"I seek no trouble but if you must. I must ask you," Azarim's voice was cold, unyielding. "Are you certain of this action, Hellean?"
"That is enough, Revel."
A voice rang out from the gate.
A white-haired man stepped forward, his black fur-lined cloak stirring with each measured stride. His silver eyes swept over the group—calm, unreadable. A faint blue glow shimmered in the air around him, subtle yet unmistakable.
His horns mirrored Revel's in shape, but they were shorter, more refined.
He wore a white suit, a checkered shirt visible beneath.
"You must be Azarim," he said.
He extended a hand, but Azarim didn't take it.
Azarim was not a small man, but beside these two, he might as well have been. The newcomer was slightly taller, and the other, Revel, nearly twice his size.
The white-haired man stepped closer, hand still outstretched. Refusing wasn't an option now. Azarim grasped it firmly.
"You're a difficult man to find, Azarim Rivien," the man said, tone measured. "I am Walas Gran Revlesi, weapon master of House Revlesi. I hear you've already met my brother, Revel." He paused, then allowed himself a small smile. "Impressive. An elemental mage lasting a full minute against him? That alone is a feat."
The handshake lingered—tightening. Walas's grip crushed down, testing bone and spirit. Azarim met it without flinching. Then, just as suddenly, Walas released him.
Azarim looked down. His hand was red, already swelling.
"I've been wanting to meet you," Walas continued. "You married one of our halflings. And supposedly, you hail from that fallen kingdom. I've read every report on you. But none of it adds up. No confirmations. So I made time to see you for myself."
A slow laugh echoed behind him. Footsteps followed, deliberate.
"Revel," Walas said without turning, "that's enough. Let me speak with him."
Revel scowled. "Why not test him more now? The Welcoming would have no effect on that boy. And training him will be a waste. But this one... he's useful."
"He's passable." Walas replied, studying Azarim's frame. "A mage on the front line makes a difference. However, let me speak with him first. Depending on his answer, you go."
"Alright, alright," Revel muttered, waving a hand as he pulled a flask from his coat.
But as Walas turned to speak again, Azarim was already walking toward the door.
Walas blinked. He appeared behind Azarim in a shimmer of blue light and tapped his shoulder.
"I still have questions," he said calmly. "And I'd like you to answer them."
Spatial magic? No—there were no traces of mana.
Pure physical prowess, then, Azarim thought.
Azarim turned slowly, eyes like ice.
"I refuse."
Revel laughed. "You heard him, Walas. He refused."
With a sudden blur of motion, he leapt forward, fist first, shattering the door with a boom.
Walas sighed. "Do what you must."
Revel's hand shimmered with mana, the energy coiling and leaking from his knuckles like smoke.
"No hard feelings, Azarim. This is just how we welcome family."
The manor trembled slightly as Revel's mana burst outward creating a blazing aura.
Azarim tilted his neck, expression unreadable. His mana crept out like a shadow, slow and deliberate.
The air between them crackled as their mana collided.
Revel stretched out his arms, both coated in flaring mana, ready to strike. He lunged forward, his fist aimed at Azarim. A direct hit—except it never landed. Inches from Azarim's face, the blow stopped cold, pressing against an unseen force. A barrier. Azarim glared, unfazed.
A man leaned against the frame, white hair tousled, crimson eyes squinting against the light like it physically offended him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath before speaking up.
"5 minutes, I was away for 5 fucking minutes," he said, rubbing sleep from his eye.