Leon dragged a hand across his face, breath ragged and seething with anger. The faint rings of mana, glowing a dull, ominous hue, swirled around his ears and brows. With a single motion, he raised his hand—the source of the shimmering barriers.
"Is peace too much to ask when you morons visit?"
Revel grinned, the air light with a false ease. "Go on then, have your drink. This'll be over in a minute."
"Really?" Leon's eyes narrowed, his gaze cold, unflinching. "Look behind you."
Revel's grin faltered, a fleeting unease creeping across his face. There was something in Leon's voice—too composed, too certain—that made the tension tighten.
He turned.
Azarim stood as before, frozen in stillness. But the air had changed. There was no movement, no word from him—just a suffocating aura, his presence far too heavy, too consuming.
Azarim's eyes locked on him—cold, unwavering. There was no anger in them. No words. Just silence. But something lingered beneath the surface. Something primal. Something far more sinister and darker than the magic he had seen so far.
Revel's heartbeat quickened.
And then he saw it.
A shadow loomed behind him—twice his size, its flaming fist halted mid-swing by Leon's barrier. A wraith-like figure, its form an eerie reflection of the blow Revel had intended for Azarim.
It was suffused with a dark fire, but there was no life to it. Nothing but death.
"Look at me, Hellean," Azarim said, his tone calm but dangerous. "I thought you wanted to test me."
With a sudden closure of his fingers, the shadow figure turned to mist, wrapping his hands down to his torso, enveloping him, remaining until his eyes were forced to look at the man in front of him.
Azarim pointed his finger downward, and he dropped into the ground without much resistance, shattering the cobblestone with his weight.
"Did I pass the test?" Azarim said calmly, as he looked down on him.
Revel didn't respond—he couldn't. His eyes were quivering with fear, as if he were in front of Grandart Errion himself, the main Father of all the Houses.
"This power…" Walas muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
Then, turning to Revel, he added, "That man is no order folk of that kingdom."
Azarim raised his hand to his chest. Shadows curled along his arm, gathering at his palm in slow, deliberate motion. A silent warning.
Behind him, Walas vanished in a blink. When he reappeared, his blade was already drawn—its edge cold against Azarim's neck.
"Careful now," he said softly. "Let him go, so that you'll keep your neck."
Azarim didn't flinch. "Do you really think you are in a position to bargain?"
The pressure of the blade deepened.
"How are you wielding the Pleroma of a monster?" Walas asked, his voice caught between awe and disbelief.
Before Azarim could answer, a sharp gust split the courtyard—a burst of air so sudden it howled past them. Walas blinked again, retreating just in time, landing near the manor steps with his coat trailing behind him. Leon was already there, sitting lazily and watching the scene like it was a stage play.
And then—she arrived.
A woman stepped forward, white-haired and silver-eyed, with a broad blade balanced against one shoulder. Her dress was torn along the hem, streaked with dust. Her eyes locked on Walas, cold and unwavering, her grip shifting slightly on the hilt.
"I did what you asked," she said. "And now you come here and mock my family?"
Azarim turned. His voice softened. "Angelica…"
"You shut up," she snapped, eyes flashing as they flicked toward him. She raised her blade and let it vanish into thin air.
"Get inside. Rest. I'll deal with you later."
"I—" Azarim started, but she was already striding toward him, her boots striking the stone with measured force.
"I said later," she repeated. "Dispel your magic. Now."
Azarim paused. Then exhaled, slowly. The shadows faded from his palm, retreating into his sleeve like breath drawn back into lungs.
He cast one last look at Revel—cold, sharp, final—then turned toward the door.
Revel swallowed, his gaze still fixed on Azarim, who was already kneeling to inspect the splintered door. How could a man like that be unknown?
"Deckard, get some mages from the guild to repair that door immediately." Leon said, a sigh escaping him.
He watched Azarim as the man crouched, picking up the broken pieces of wood with careful precision.
"Should I still call for the mages, my lord?" Deckard asked.
Leon scratched his head, his gaze never leaving Azarim. "No, it's no longer necessary."
He walked over to Azarim, who had pulled out a ring with an etched green rune, his focus unwavering.
"I guess you did more than exchange names. You come back after two years and already give us a headache. You've changed a lot." Leon said, with a hint of sarcasm.
Azarim didn't respond. Instead, he extended his hand, offering Leon the ring. Leon sighed, taking it from him without hesitation. He slipped it on and channeled his mana into the fractured door.
"Restra," Leon muttered lazily.
Azarim turned then, moving toward Deckard, "Have someone carry the door into place."
Not waiting for their reply. He turned and walked inside.
********
The door creaked as he opened it. Books lay strewn across the floor, clothes draped like shadows in the corners. Pots sat abandoned on the table, their contents long dried into brittle crusts. The herbs he'd left behind had withered into husks. Several magic stones were gone.
Azarim stepped inside and shut the door with a soft click. He moved to the table, where an open book awaited him—its spine cracked, pages torn out in jagged handfuls.
He slammed his fist against the wood.
Then, with a slow breath, he shrugged off his cloak.
His arms were marred—twisted with blackened burns that coiled like serpents, flowing outward from a black circle etched with a pentagram on his chest. The marks pulsed faintly, their edges scorched and raw, as if branded by something ancient and unrelenting. Each one throbbed with pain, the memory of fire etched deep into flesh.
His body ached; every nerve burned like wildfire beneath his skin. Breath ragged, teeth clenched, he shut his eyes. Slowly—deliberately—he inhaled. Then exhaled. Again. Again. Until the furious blaze within dulled to stillness.
But peace would not hold.
A sharp knock shattered the quiet.
"Come in," Azarim muttered, pulling out a chair and sinking into it.
"My lord," came a soft voice—a woman's—from beyond the door. "I came to thank you… for earlier."
She paused.
Then, like a blade through the hall:
"Where is he?!"
The voice was unmistakable. Gentle—yet coiled with barely restrained urgency.
Angelica.
"Is he here?"
"My lady—please—"
Azarim heard the scuffle. The pounding on the door turned frantic.
He rose. Each step deliberate as he moved toward the noise, ears tuned to every breath, every heartbeat, every whisper of the storm outside. Then he sidestepped, positioning himself beside the door.
It burst open.
A woman stood there—slender, pale-skinned, with stark white hair. Her gray eyes, streaked with a sharp flare of orange, locked onto him. Small horns jutted from her forehead. She wore a tight-fitting petticoat dress, her presence at once elegant and otherworldly.
If he were an ordinary man, he might have forgotten—just for a moment—that she was his wife.
Her eyes burned. Her teeth were bared. And the servant's gaze begged for his help.
"Lord Azarim…" the servant said, voice trembling.
Azarim cleared his throat.
"You may have your rest now. Let us be for a moment, " he said, gesturing subtly toward Angelica's simmering fury.
The servant nodded and stepped aside, hesitant. Azarim held her gaze until she finally withdrew.
Angelica stood motionless, her eyes wet with tears.
Azarim turned toward the room, searching for something—anything—that might offer her comfort. He spotted a chair and took a step toward it.
But he stopped.
Her hand was on his arm.
"You left me here for so long—and this is how you welcome me home?!" Her voice cracked, caught between fury and grief, a tear carving a hot path down her cheek. "Do you even know how much I missed you? How our son whispers your name every night?"
She stomped her foot—half sob, half challenge—as if the floor could bear the weight of all her sorrow.
"I'm so tired, Azza."
Azarim stared at the ground, unable to meet her gaze. His fingers twitched, aching to reach for her, but what then? What could he offer that would make it right?
"I… was lost," he said softly. "For a year, I chased every rumor. Every spell, every whispered method. All of them—dead ends. Nothing that could guarantee his safety."
He paused. "I even thought about giving up. Letting him live a normal life—without mana. With us at his side, he'd be safe. But then I asked myself… would he be happy like that?"
Angelica's grip loosened. She dropped to the floor, sobbing.
Azarim knelt beside her and gently wiped her tears. Her flushed cheeks, her trembling lips—they were still so beautiful, even in anguish.
"He would be happy," Angelica whispered, her voice pleading. "He's always mumbling about places he wants to go with you—when you come back. Together. With me and you." She looked up, eyes shining. "To him, nothing else matters."
Azarim's expression darkened. "But what about your family? Would they be as pleased as we are? Everything in this world has a price. And as a child of their house, they will want compensation."
Angelica fell silent, staring at the floor. Then she raised her head.
"I've heard the rumors too—a sage in Rheuk who grants impossible wishes. An artifact buried deep in the catacombs east of here. They might help him, right?" She stood. "I'll pack our things. We'll leave before dawn."
But Azarim raised a finger and gently pressed it to her lips.
"You've done enough," he said quietly. "Keeping him safe. Waiting."
He wiped away the last of her tears and gave a faint, tired smile.
"I've found a way."
Her breath caught. "Really?" she asked, voice trembling.
He nodded.
She wiped her own cheeks now, her voice a whisper of disbelief. "Really? Really?"
Her smile bloomed—like sunlight after rain.
Azarim gently patted her head, then stood and extended his hand. But before he could speak, she lunged at him and wrapped her arms around him tightly.
"Azza," she whispered, pressing herself against him, as if trying to absorb his warmth.
"Truly, you are his mother," Azarim said.
"Of course," she said, lifting her head with pride. "No other woman could've given birth to that adorable child."
He smiled.
"I still remember you sitting there when he was born," Angelica added with a teasing grin. "Right between my legs, twiddling your thumbs while I screamed at you."
Azarim glanced away, the faintest blush rising to his cheeks.
Angelica laughed. "I knew you'd still turn red."
They held each other quietly, their embrace speaking more than words could. For a fleeting moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
But the moment was broken by approaching footsteps.
Angelica stepped back and quickly straightened her dress, fussing over every wrinkle. Azarim stood upright, his gaze sharp again.
The door creaked open. Leon stood there, arms crossed.
Angelica flushed, while Azarim glared at him like he'd just kicked over a shrine.
"Well," Leon said casually, "were you two about to get on with it?"
"Leon!" Angelica gasped.
"Don't be shy," he replied with a smirk. "It's perfectly natural for a couple to, you know, reconnect—even if the guy's got a few screws loose."
Azarim brushed off the remark with a tired glance. "Why are you here?"
Leon sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well… after Angelica was done with them, called for me to make a request."
"Again?" Angelica said, irritation flaring in her tone.
Leon gave a half-shrug. "They're a handful, even in the main house. But this time... it's different." He hesitated, lips tightening. "Let's just say—the wolves don't like it when a bigger beast walks in."
Azarim's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
Leonexpression darkened. "They are no longer waiting. They want to report back. Thus, they want the Welcoming to commence—now."