"I never would've guessed he had that side to him, after everything that happened on that excursion," Walas muttered, glancing toward Leon. "We're family, Leon, so tell me this much—friend or foe? Should the nation be worried?"
Leon smirked, then let out a short laugh. "Neither."
Azarim looked at his son for a long moment before offering a soft, knowing smile.
Truth was, Azarim had never really allowed himself to consider it. An old friend once told him, "The heart is the strongest muscle." But for a man like him, opening up was like exposing a fatal weakness.
That all changed when he had them, the family that welcomed him. Without them, he'd still be wandering the wasteland, chasing something he knew deep down would never be found.
They continued their ascent. Deckard followed close behind, carrying the glass box with careful hands as they climbed the wide stone steps. At the top, the Holy One greeted them with open arms and a warm smile.
He was a slight man with sharp features—brown hair and eyes, and a faint wrinkle etched on one cheek that hinted at age, though his youthful energy remained. His dark-toned skin lent him a quiet gravity. He wore a robe trimmed with golden lining, clearly too large for him; it slipped low on his shoulders, and he kept tugging it back up, all the while maintaining a warm, unshaken smile.
"Angelica Evagalia Zilpher, daughter of Hamel of the Astrites," he said, bowing his head. "I've heard much about your brother."
"There's no need to bow," Angelica replied, raising a hand dismissively. "A servant of the great king mustn't, I should be the one doing that."
"You are as humble as he described," the man said with a gracious smile. "But formalities aren't necessary today. This day belongs to you and your family."
He turned toward Azarim. "And you must be Azarim. Am I right?"
Azarim nodded.
The man extended his hand, offering a calm, genuine smile—a striking contrast to Walas' earlier hostility. Azarim took it without hesitation, gripping it firmly.
"My name is Fortim Doval of the Sophians, one of the Holy Ones in service to the great king of Miguelania."
"Azarim Rivien of Creshire," Azarim replied.
Fortim nodded thoughtfully. "Azarim Rivien… It has a good ring to it. I'll remember that."
He shifted his gaze between them, then let it settle on Anzel. Slowly, he knelt, lowering himself until they were eye to eye.
"Across all these plains... among the Hellean children I've encountered, you are by far the most gifted."
Anzel glanced down, his fingers fidgeting as a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Really?"
"I am certain of it. None of them have what you have."
Fortim reached out, brushing a hand through the boy's hair gently, before rising to his full height. His gaze lingered on Azarim and Angelica, something unspoken passing between them.
Then he raised his hand.
"For the power that flows through these lands. The mana that surrounds all born of creation. Let the Welcoming of Anzel Rivien now commence.
The servants lowered their heads, as Leon and Walas stood up for words.
Fortim looked at Azarim and Angelica then closed his palm.
Golden light surged through the folds of his robe, each breath feeding its glow. As he opened his hand, a sphere of mana unfolded—orbital, weightless. With a sudden pulse, it expanded, casting the chamber in radiant light. Flecks of shimmering gold floated like falling embers.
The air itself felt changed—lighter, warmer, almost sacred.
Angelica stared at the thing as it floated down… but when it landed softly on her head, realization struck.
Mana could harm her boy.
She threw herself over him, shielding him with her body. But then she saw it—his tiny hand reaching out, touching the glowing mote. It twirled at his touch, responding as if alive. His eyes sparkled with wonder.
"No need to worry, this light was made to protect him from the unwelcomed spirits that wander," Fortim chuckled softly. "I can guarantee that he will be safe."
Azarim raised his hand, and another mote of light drifted down into his palm. He could feel it—Pleroma, the purest form of mana.
"I thought only that old man could conjure this kind of power in your nation," Azarim said, eyes fixed on the glowing light.
"No, no," Fortim said gently. "You misunderstand. As his direct subjects, we serve as conduits for his power—granted just enough to perform the rites and carry his blessing throughout the land."
He extended his hand, a quiet invitation shining in his eyes, "Shall we?"
Angelica and Azarim nodded. They knelt down—only Anzel remained standing, facing them, his hands held tightly together. Angelica's eyes brimmed with tears, which she quickly wiped away.
Deckard handed the box to Fortim, then knelt in front of Angelica with a warm smile.
"I've dreamt of this day ever since your father—my dear friend—entrusted you little troublemakers to me," he said. "I must confess, I slapped myself several times today just to make sure this was real. And I'm certain now, with all my heart, that this is not a dream."
"Deckard…" Angelica's tears burst forth again. She threw her arms around him and wept like a child.
"Now, now," he murmured, patting her back gently. "I still have a promise to keep—to see both of you start families of your own. Only then can I finally retire."
He gave her a wink. "But with Lord Leon's current lifestyle, that might be impossible. He'd need my 300-year lifespan just to figure it out. So, convince him soon, alright?"
Walas chuckled, and so did the servants. Leon rose with a dramatic exclamation, only to sit back down and sip his wine.
Angelica pulled away from Deckard. He held her shoulders gently and wiped away her tears.
"If Hamel were still here," he said softly, "he'd be proud of the woman his daughter has become."
Deckard turned to Anzel and knelt to his level.
"You know what this means, don't you?"
Anzel nodded, smiling.
"You're going to become a man. That means putting on your own pants, sleeping on time, eating your vegetables, waking up early… Can you handle all that by yourself?"
Anzel's mouth dropped open, stunned. He tried to respond, but Deckard raised a hand.
"I was joking, my boy. I'll be right beside you—serving, listening, and learning—until the day you become a fine gentleman. I never had a grandson of my own… but I'm glad I have you."
Anzel embraced him tightly. Deckard held him for a long moment before the boy let go, beaming.
Then Anzel turned to Azarim.
"To be honest," Deckard said, standing and looking Azarim in the eye, "I never liked you. You came off as selfish, self-absorbed, and prideful. That was my first impression when I saw you in the market. And imagine my horror when, months later, the Lady said, 'I've found the man I'll marry.' Master Leon stayed sober for two whole years after hearing that."
He chuckled lightly. "As for I… I did what a servant should. I observed and served. At first, we never spoke. You were always buried in your studies. And my first impression seemed confirmed: self-absorbed. But as days turned to years, I noticed something. You carried everything on your shoulders, all to make the Lady happy."
Deckard stepped back. "Two hugs and tears on my shoulder are more than enough for one day."
Azarim stared at him, as if to say, I wasn't even trying to.
He looked at Deckard—the ever-polished monocle over his left eye, his golden mustache perfectly trimmed, his cheeks lined with years. And those green eyes: fulfilled, content. Willing to give up anything just to stay in this moment.
For the first time, they truly saw each other eye to eye.
Azarim reached out his hand.
"Deckard," he said.
Deckard smiled so broadly his eyes closed—and shook his hand firmly.
He lowered his head and descended the steps, adjusting his monocle with a satisfied smile.
Fortim stepped forward and opened the box, revealing a ceremonial knife—its blade a pristine white, the hilt carved from deep redwood, and the pommel adorned with a black gem set into the design of a nine-headed wolf.
Beside it lay a golden coin, etched with the image of a house.
"A coin and a blade, relics that symbolize the culture of the Hellean plains. Everyone is in debt to their blood. That will commence now, as a piece of you," Fortim pointed to Angelica and Azarim. "Will be given to him."
Angelica stepped forward, took the blade without hesitation, and sliced her right palm in a swift, practiced motion.
Anzel winced. His eyes widened with worry. "Mother, are you hurt?"
She gave him a soft, reassuring smile, then returned the blade to its place. Carefully, she let several drops of blood fall onto the coin.
Afterward, she closed her wounded hand and used the other to gently pat his head.
Fortim turned the coin over, revealing a hidden etching: a wilderness path winding toward a solitary tower.
Azarim stepped forward. He took the blade in hand and held it for a long moment, eyes fixed on his son.
After this, he will be whole. All that he could dream of will lie within reach. A piece of me… is a small price to pay.
He slashed his palm. Blood welled, vivid and red. Anzel turned his face away.
Azarim let the drops fall. As his blood touched the coin, it pulsed with golden light—brilliant, almost blinding—then faded just as quickly. The blood had vanished.
And with it, something awakened.
He could feel it again. Pleroma.
The kings of Miguelania didn't merely empower their servants with their mana. Their relics, too, were imbued—vessels of divine energy. Wasteful, yes. But if they could afford to let that much power flow freely…
How deep is their well of power?
That old man is something… Azarim thought.
Fortim knelt down, set the box aside, and picked up the coin. Facing Anzel, he extended it toward him.
"Today you will be reborn. Yesterday is no more. What matters now is this moment—and your future."
Anzel reached out and took the coin, staring at its golden radiance.
Slowly, thin golden chains began to crawl from its surface. The coin shifted, reshaping itself into a gleaming orb. It floated toward him, the chains stretching out, wrapping around his body like threads of light. The orb reached his chest—and merged with him.
In that instant, Anzel became the light.
His feet lifted gently from the ground. Golden mana surged upward, lifting him into the air. The attendants in the room bowed their heads. Leon and Walas rose to their feet in reverence. Azarim and Angelica followed, standing in silent awe as the ritual unfolded.
Azarim watched his son ascend, breath ragged, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Why did it feel so easy? For the first time in his life, he wasn't moving, wasn't fighting—only watching, as if things were unfolding as they should. And yet, he felt wrong.
Then—warmth. Angelica's hand in his, steady and sure.
It is meant to be. It must be. If it is not… then let the gods answer.
The Pleroma, that pure, sacred mana, flowed into Anzel, thread by golden thread, until nothing of it remained.
Only one figure was left bathed in its glow.
Anzel.
He slowly descended, and as he landed his feet.
"Anzel Zilpher Rivien, I welcome you into the world of—"
Fortim vanished before their eyes.
A sharp bang erupted to their left, just at the edge of their vision. Dust flared outward, and smoke rose in a slow, suffocating cloud. When it cleared, the light that had once been Anzel—once his size, his shape—was something else entirely.
It was taller now, slender, almost inhuman, wrapped in an unnatural stillness. Only the eyes stood out: nine radiant lines converging at their centers, like fractured stars. Each pupil glowed an impossible shade of blue, pulsing with alien light as the creature scanned the room.
"Welcome?" it echoed, voice distant and layered. "Did they foresee my intrusion?"