Rules carved into stone can be broken.
But those etched into the heart—those become pillars. Beliefs that guide civilizations to flourish.
Yet even sacred traditions can turn to shackles—stifling growth, choking potential.
In the windswept Hellean plains, potential was unmistakable. A gleaming signal of success, a power that might uplift all of Miguelania. Among the five ancient races who called this land home, each had its ordained purpose. For the Hellean, that purpose was war. They were bred for battle.
Azarim stood hunched over the table, grinding the glowing heart of a Dungeon—the core of that cursed place—into fine powder within a stone mortar. Whispers. Rumors. That was all he had to go on. He had sought a natural cure, a gentler path, but the odds were as likely as a god stepping into a newborn's cradle to bestow a blessing.
And there were no gods anymore.
Only them.
The rumors claimed that if he consumed the Dungeon core, he might become... normal.
Normal enough.
And maybe—just maybe—that would be enough. Enough to keep the taint within him from spilling into his son. Enough to give a piece of himself without destroying what he loved most.
Two years spent acquiring this fragment of hell. It would all be worth it—if it worked.
And if it didn't…
He slammed the pestle down harder. His hair snapped around his face, his gaze locked with grim resolve. The coarse stone scraped his hand raw as he ground down again, and again, until at last the core yielded.
A dark purple hue, a drop like dew clinging to the edge.
He stared at it, chest tight, unsure how to drink without swallowing shards.
But as he watched, he felt it.
Pure mana.
He clung to that hope—that its purity might purge what corrupted him.
That was the requirement for the Welcoming: a piece of himself, and a piece of Angelica. Only together could they offer a whole soul to their son. Only together could they give him a chance to live fully—not as someone blind to Pleroma.
But in his current state, it was impossible.
Mana surged within him like wildfire, consuming muscle and marrow. Darkness curled beneath his skin, seeping through his blood. If he offered himself now, it wouldn't be a gift.
It would be a death sentence.
He had grown used to it. The pain. The pretense. He smiled for Angelica, spoke as though nothing was wrong.
But deep down, he knew that she knew.
Yet she said nothing. She let him keep his pride.
Azarim poured the powder into his palm, letting the heavier fragments scatter across the stone floor. He closed his eyes, raised his hand to his lips, and licked the fine dust.
It hit like a flood. A surge of darkness tore through him—ripping free the corruption nestled deep in his core. His body convulsed. He dropped to the ground, gasping, sweat pouring down his brow.
When he raised his head, a shadow loomed before him. A figure—his own likeness—but its eyes blazed a fierce, electric blue.
"You are…" Azarim whispered.
He reached out, fingertips trembling.
It vanished like mist.
He blinked, heart hammering. Nothing remained. The aching, the burning sensation—gone. Only a faded mark lingered on his chest, like smeared paint. It was as if his power had left him.
With effort, he rolled to his side, muscles leaden, vision swimming. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he collapsed again.
"That was the price, huh?" he whispered.
His mana—barely a trace of it remained.
But it worked.
A smile broke across his face, quiet and unsteady. He crawled toward the door, braced himself against the wall, and rose. The grin widened, wild and full of something between relief and disbelief.
"Finally… I can give you what you want."
He sank back down, sliding until he sat with his back to the wall, chest heaving.
The door creaked open.
"Azza, are you done? The preparations are ready. They've asked for a Holy One to perform the rite." Angelica's voice filled the room—then cut off.
She saw him slumped by the door, smiling.
"Azza?" she breathed. "You're… almost devoid of mana. What happened?"
"I did it, Angelica," he said, voice rough but proud. "Those two years… they paid off."
"Shhh. Let's get you help first."
She rushed to his side, cradled him in her arms, and carried him into the corridor as his consciousness began to slip.
I did it.
*******
Azarim woke.
He blinked, then looked down at his body. Slowly, he lifted his arm—it felt incredibly light. He opened and closed his hand, marveling at the sensation, as if he could feel every fiber of muscle and sinew. It unsettled him. His own movements felt foreign, unfamiliar.
He tried to focus, gathering mana into his palm—
—but a small, gentle movement pulled his attention away.
He froze.
It was soft. Warm. Familiar.
For a moment, he lay still, disoriented.
His bed.
He hadn't slept here in two years. The softness made him uncomfortable. For the past two years, he'd grown used to hard wooden boards that taverns offered, stone slabs for pillows, and the gnarled branches of trees cradling his weight while he rested.
He closed his eyes, trying to relax.
Then it came again—a wiggle.
He leaned forward.
There was a weight on his chest. Not painful. Just… present. Solid. Real.
He looked down.
White hair.
A boy lay across him, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Almost snoring.
Anzel.
The heaviness in Azarim's chest shifted. It wasn't the boy. It was everything that came before this moment. The waiting. The trying. The fear.
He reached up and gently brushed the hair from the boy's face.
And breathed.
Azarim exhaled, relief washing over him.
"Father?" Anzel squinted, blinking against the light. Then, without hesitation, he lunged forward. "Father! You're back!"
He buried his face in Azarim's chest, clinging to him, as if trying to absorb his very essence—desperate to feel all of him, to make sure he was truly there.
Azarim smiled faintly. "I am."
"What the hell did you do to lose almost all your mana?" Leon's voice cut in sharply from the side of the bed. He sat rigid, jaw clenched, fists tight.
Azarim didn't answer right away. Instead, he gently ran his fingers through his son's hair.
"Thank you, Leon," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me, you idiot." Leon leaned forward, his eyes burning. "Just tell me—what the hell did you do to purge the mana from your body?"
"Purge?" Anzel lifted his head, looking between them. "Is that super bad, Uncle Leon?"
"Bad is an understatement," Leon growled, grinding his teeth. "If Angelica hadn't gotten there in time, your father would've been on another trip. One I'd have been delighted not to stop."
"A trip?" Anzel tilted his head, then turned back to Azarim. "Father, can I come this time? Can Mother and I come too?"
Leon paused mid-scowl, caught off guard. "…That's not what I meant."
"I did it, Leon," Azarim interjected, a faint, tired smile on his lips.
"Did what?" They both said in unison.
"I found a way. To safefully receive my blessing." Azarim said, a hint of confidence in his voice.
"What stopped you before?"
Azarim turned as a new voice cut in.
"Actually, I am curious. Why drag the Welcoming long enough for the main house to notice?"
Walas.
Anzel instantly stiffened and buried his face deeper into Azarim's chest.
"Careful Father, That's the bad man who tried to hurt Mother. And everyone else," Anzel whispered.
"Relax, I'm not here to create animosity between us. Thus, why I didn't bring that oaf." He strolled in and dragged a stool over, planting himself between them. "I merely came to have a decent conversation."
"I told you to wait outside," he growled. "If you don't comply, by the gods, you'll regret ever stepping foot in Belthorn."
Walas raised an eyebrow, smug. "You're one of them, aren't you?" he said. "One of the Faceless Children of Creshire."
Azarim's face darkened.
Walas grinned wider. "You know of them. Don't bother denying it. One of them split the bloody sea at Blood Harbor. Zuinn the Sailor, right? And there was that incursion in Falyndia, where a dark mage burned their sacred tree and hung their general in it."
Still, Azarim said nothing.
Leon stood. His boots thudded as he crossed the room and stood between Azarim and the intruder. "I don't speak twice, Walas. Go wait. We'll come out soon."
Walas chuckled, backing toward the door. "Who am I kidding?" he muttered. "I'm joking. Those monsters are probably dead. The last one died ten years ago, didn't they?"
He reached for the handle.
"Anyway," he added, glancing back, "don't take too long. We'll assess the situation here and report back. Depending on Grandart Errion's advice… we might return. Or never come back at all."
He paused at the threshold.
"Personally?" He grinned. "I'm hoping for the former."
With that, he closed the door.
"Bastard's never looked that smug," Leon muttered, walking back to his seat and dropping into it. "Especially not in the main house. Just to clarify—I wasn't defending you earlier. I was defending this house's honor."
Azarim gently ran his fingers through Anzel's hair. "Leon, can you give us a moment?"
"Huh?" Leon's face twisted in disbelief. "That damn sister of mine nailed me to this chair because of you—and now you want me to leave?"
"Please," Azarim said, his voice soft. Pleading.
Leon squinted at him. "What's wrong with you? You hit your head or something?"
In all the years he'd known the man, Azarim had never once said thank you to anyone. And now he was asking, like that?
Leon scanned the nearby table, searching for the vial he'd handed over earlier—hoping it held the explanation.
"I am perfectly fine, Leon," Azarim said with a faint smile. "I just want a moment with him."
Leon scratched his head and sighed as he stood. "Very well—but you'd better tell Angelica. I'm not sitting through another one of her sermons. I've had enough."
Azarim nodded.
Leon paused at the door, then slowly closed it—only to poke his head back in a second later. "Don't die before the ritual. That sister of mine would kill me."
Azarim didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the boy in his arms. That was enough of a reply.
Leon sighed and quietly shut the door.
Azarim let silence settle around them. He cradled Anzel closer, speaking softly as he traced a line down his cheek, then brushed the hair from his brow.
"You know… when I was a boy, all of us would race to the hall—into his room—hoping he was awake. We would fight for the spot on his lap."
He smiled faintly, the memory a distant warmth.
"I never won the race. I would just stand there, watching. The others always made it into his arms first. But he always noticed me. Every time. He would lift me to his shoulders like I was the only one in the world."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"They were jealous. Haggling for my spot. But I never traded it."
Azarim pressed a kiss to Anzel's brow.
"I will give you that favorite spot," he murmured. "And I will make sure you feel it—that out of every boy in this world, you are special."
He leaned back against the headboard, holding his son close.
For a while, he simply rested.
Until a knock at the door stirred them both awake.