Azarim stood before him, fingers curled beneath Samyaza's chin.
"Look at me."
Samyaza's eyes flared, as if trying to pierce through his soul.
"How dare you—"
The slap came swift and merciless, snapping Samyaza's face to the side.
"Do not speak," Azarim said coldly. "I want to savor this."
The chains coiled in his hand, their threads drawn tighter, darker. Mana surged through them—rippling like veins of shadow, thickening with every pulse. They wrapped around Samyaza's limbs, his chest, his wings, until his body was encased in living shadow.
But Samyaza resisted. He broke the bindings around his head, his wings flaring open with a burst of force. All his eyes snapped open—burning with light—locked onto Azarim.
Just as he began to move—
Crack.
Another slap. This time, his head snapped to the other side.
Azarim pulled the chains taut again, reinfusing them with concentrated mana. They reformed, regenerated—binding Samyaza even tighter.
"I told you," Azarim muttered, stepping in close, his voice like a knife against skin.
"Do. Not. Speak. I forbid you to utter a single word."
Samyaza's jaw clenched. His fury boiled. He whipped his head toward Azarim again, eyes glowing with defiance—
But in the blink of an eye, his left vision dimmed.
Gone.
No pain, no sound—just a sudden hollow where sight once was.
Samyaza stilled.
His breathing faltered.
For the first time, uncertainty flickered behind his many eyes.
Samyaza screamed at the top of his lungs, shaking the entire room. The weakened walls cracked, and fragments of debris and rooftiles tumbled down in showers of dust.
But before he could even feel the pain—another sting struck his cheek.
"You dare. A mortal. Like you," he said, with deep hatred in his voice. "You will pay. You will die in the most gruesome ever recorded in this world's history. You will…"
Another slap shut him up. A crack formed across his face—his celestial beauty breaking.
"Why are you mad?"
Azarim slapped him again. And again. Until his cheeks bled gold, the blood hissing into shimmering vapor.
"Did you somehow forget? She was happy that we finally reached this. Our son was finally given an opportunity to be given a correct way of life. To flourish on his own, to live like many children. But you, when she was at the peak of happiness, snatched that away," Azarim said, with cold indifference. "You hurt her. Do Archons not retaliate when their kin gets hurt?"
"You are far from beings like us. Never in a million years, you would be the same, an ant who entertains us, that will be and always will be your role in this world," Samyaza snapped.
"Yet this ant for entertainment held you like this?" Azarim said, as he raised his hand. "You really stoop so low."
He slapped him again.
'Make him pay. Let him suffer. Pluck his other eye. Collect all of his eyes. Pluck his wings. Take his head, and skewer it for all to see.'
Samyaza gritted his teeth, each breath fanned by rage. He absorbed the pain—feeding on it—using every blow from what he still believed to be a worm beneath him.
"That's enough!"
His voice erupted in Pleroma, disintegrating the shadows that wrapped around his body. The force of it blasted outward, and Azarim was thrown back, skidding across the floor before landing in a crouch, heels braced.
"I was saving this to plant vessels, yet you foiled that plan. It seems you've grown confident, but that ends now. You'll pay for your arrogance, and by the time I'm done. You will crumble before your eyes."
Samyaza flared his wings and lunged. In less than a blink, he was upon Azarim, their eyes locked.
A glowing blade materialized in his hand—searing with divine power—its edge aimed directly at Azarim's throat.
He no longer viewed him as an insect. No, this was an enemy. One to be eliminated.
The blade tore through—nothing.
Only darkness met its edge.
Samyaza halted mid-air, his eyes sweeping in all directions. Every one of them scanned, alert, frantic.
And then—he found him.
Azarim now hovered above, expression calm, a dark flame swirling in his palm—devoid of light, silent, menacing.
Samyaza turned to ignore the illusion.
But too late.
The shadow he'd dismissed turned viscous, latching onto his wings like tar—and ignited.
Flames erupted, golden feathers burning to ash.
Samyaza winced, stumbling mid-flight—but Azarim had already launched the sphere.
The black fire hurtled toward him.
Samyaza lifted his hand, summoning a radiant shield. As the sphere neared, he slashed through it, forcing it to split—its remnants detonating behind him, scorching the floor in molten ruin.
Azarim landed and sprang back, hands clasping together, gathering power.
Samyaza thrashed, trying to shake the flames free—but they burrowed deep, devouring feathers, scorching flesh, searing into his many eyes.
Still, he locked onto Azarim and screamed—a war cry laced with agony—and charged forward.
But Azarim stood motionless.
Then he raised his palm.
A small, silent orb of black flame flickered into existence.
"Incetra."
The moment the word was spoken, the orb erupted.
A beam of pure shadowfire tore through the room, wild and consuming. The ground shook with its force.
Samyaza raised his wings, summoned a layered barrier, layered in desperate defense.
It didn't matter.
The beam tore through the defenses as if they were parchment.
It enveloped him completely.
The shockwave rattled the foundations of the manor. When it reached the great doors, it swallowed them whole—puncturing through them as though they had never been there at all.
*************************
Leon, approaching the gates with a force of men and women—blades drawn, staves gripped, grimoires aglow—suddenly stopped.
The ground beneath them trembled. A deep, mournful rumble.
"What's that?" asked a beastman, his voice low and rough, his features like those of a bull.
Leon dropped to one knee, pressing his hand against the earth. His eyes widened. Without a word, he sprinted to the front of the gate.
He interlocked his fingers and thrust his hands forward. A barrier formed—shimmering and tubular—arching slightly upward, angled toward the sky.
Then, as if on cue, the blast came.
A torrent of black flame tore through the manor door, melting it in an instant. The eight-legged stallion and carriage of Revel and Walas, stationed just outside, evaporated into ash.
The flame collided with the barrier.
Leon strained, redirecting the beam through the tube. It surged forward, twisting with his guidance, then arched skyward in a furious blaze.
Sweat poured down his face. His arms trembled. Each breath came ragged, legs ready to buckle beneath him.
"That bastard used that?" Leon gasped. "If that didn't seal the deal, then this city's in for a hell of a lot of work."
***********************************************
Fog blanketed the ruined manor. The room was dim, heavy with smoke and ash. The only light came from the open doorway, where moonlight spilled faintly across the debris.
Azarim's footsteps echoed through the silence.
He emerged slowly, walking toward Samyaza. His wings and entire form now absorbed all light—black and void-like.
Samyaza stood frozen in place, wings curled tightly around him, pitch-dark, like charred stone.
Azarim reached out. The moment his fingers brushed against the wings, they disintegrated—falling to the ground and evaporating into ash. Everything vanished... except Samyaza's body, his feet sunken into the scorched floor.
"I finally understood why your mana was so foul and familiar," Samyaza said, voice strained. His hand lifted weakly toward Azarim—burnt and blackened. "They hailed from the world outside of here also, yes?"
Azarim raised his hand.
"Oh, you poor, poor little thing," Samyaza laughed maniacally. "The people who gave it to you... they must've done a lot of things to you, hmm? I wish I was there—to listen to you screaming."
Azarim grabbed him by the neck, yanking him close, voice low and cold.
"Shut up. You know nothing."
"As a matter of fact, I do," Samyaza grinned, teeth stained with blood. "To have the power of hell within your grasp... not only were you put through so much—this face, this world—abandoned you, huh? Gave you nothing. Took everything and everyone you ever got close to."
Azarim slapped him, then drove his fist into Samyaza's face, sending him stumbling backward.
"Now I understand why I lost," Samyaza coughed, laughing. "Me being here wasn't so useless after all. I thank you for that—for giving me such insight. If you exist here, then the one who hails and rules this world... must've been far too busy keeping you under control."
Azarim stepped forward and seized Samyaza's neck once more.
"This is the end of you," he growled. "Go back to where you belong."
Black fire ignited in his palm—but flickered out just as quickly. The shadows binding Samyaza began to dissipate. Azarim's grip faltered. His body sank to its knees, jaw clenched as a tremor of agony rippled through him. He collapsed, breathing ragged.
"A price," Samyaza said with a grin, "for such raw power."
Azarim writhed, too weak to stand. The air around them grew dense with pressure.
"I wish I could stay long enough to see your hubris come in fruition. But my time here is nigh." Samyaza's body began to glow—a golden light pulsing from deep within, as though the Welcoming had resumed. Dust fell from him like stardust, radiant particles unraveling his form.
"But worry not," his voice echoed, "I'll leave you a parting gift."
Azarim, gasping, watched helplessly as the shadows that had sealed his wounds slipped away—leaving behind scorched, bubbling flesh. His skin blackened. Bones that had been held together by his power and will, now disjointed, out of place. Every inch of him screamed. His nerves lit up like fire. His body begged for death.
He screamed—raw and primal—as his body convulsed in spasms.
"Music to my ears," Samyaza said with relish. The more Azarim writhed, the wider his grin became. "You performed this ritual to gain attention from on high. Then I shall grant it. I will give him my blessing. This vessel shall be one of my masterpieces. Take good care of him… son of Abaddon."
And with that, the golden light scattered into the air.
Where the Archon once stood, a boy now lay—white-haired, pale-skinned, eyes closed in deep slumber.
Anzel.
Azarim saw him and reached out, his burned hands trembling. His body dragged forward with only his elbows, desperation in every movement. Inch by inch, he closed the distance.
Then, hesitating, his hand hovered above the boy—shaking, uncertain. Would his touch harm him? Would it trigger something worse?
Instead, he leaned forward—and pressed his forehead gently against Anzel's.
Warmth.
Mana flowed from the boy like a quiet stream. Azarim, despite the torment lacing his body, smiled.
But something was wrong.
His son's form remained unchanged—his hair, his face, his body.
Yet something was missing.
Azarim's mind turned, haunted by Samyaza's final words.
Blessing.
Vessel.
This was his son's body… but it was no longer his son.
Azarim's hand twitched. He tried to scream, but no sound came, only a broken gasp. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, he collapsed into unconsciousness.