The fluorescent lights of St. Mary's Emergency Room flickered faintly above, buzzing like angry insects. Blood, sweat, and antiseptic clung to the air. For most, the atmosphere was suffocating. For Dr. Adrian Vale, it was home.
"Scalpel," he ordered. His voice was calm, sharp, and carried the edge of a man who was used to being obeyed.
The nurse slapped the instrument into his palm with practiced speed. Adrian's gloved hands moved with machine-like precision as he cut through flesh and clamped arteries. Another gunshot victim, another life hanging by a fraying thread.
"Pulse dropping!" a nurse cried.
"Clamp it, now!" Adrian barked, his eyes blazing with focus. The monitors screamed, the patient convulsed, but his movements never faltered. Within minutes, bleeding slowed. The wound sealed. The heart stabilized.
A collective exhale filled the room.
"He's alive," the nurse whispered, wide-eyed.
Adrian peeled his mask away, lips curving into a faint smirk. "Of course he is. I told you—I don't lose patients."
It wasn't arrogance—not entirely. It was truth. His colleagues had seen it too many times. Adrian Vale was brilliant, unmatched. In his hands, death was often cheated. But he also knew the truth: not everyone could be saved.
Yet hours later, exhaustion gnawed at him. Thirty-six hours without sleep, his body begged for rest, but his mind raged on. He saved some. He lost others. The image of a child's monitor flatlining replayed endlessly.
"I was right there," Adrian muttered in the locker room, staring at his trembling hands. "So close… and still…"
The arrogance cracked, and grief seeped through.
He slammed his fist against the locker. If I just had more time. More control. More power… I'd bend death itself if I could.
That thought clung to him like a curse as he stepped outside into the cool midnight air.
"Vale."
The voice slid from the shadows. Adrian turned, frowning at the hooded figure. "Do I know you?"
The man didn't answer. Steel flashed. Pain tore across Adrian's ribs as a knife plunged deep.
Adrenaline blazed. His hands shot up, twisting the wrist, forcing the blade back. The attacker gasped, coughing blood as steel sank into his side.
Pinned against the wall, Adrian's voice was ragged, furious. "Why?!"
The man's lips curled in grief-stricken rage. "You… didn't save her. My wife. She died because of you."
Adrian's grip slackened.
The man collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
Adrian staggered back, hand pressed to his bleeding side. His knees buckled. The world blurred.
Didn't save her? I tried. I always try. Damn it… is this what it means to dedicate your life to saving others? To be hated for the ones you couldn't save?
He collapsed beside the corpse, laughter escaping between coughs of blood.
"To die like this… hah… well, at least now I'll finally see what's on the other side."
His vision dimmed, the world fading into silence.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
The bells of House Valemont tolled, their deep voices rolling across the sprawling ducal estate. Servants rushed about the manor, some with genuine concern, others with well-practiced indifference. For tonight, the Duke's fourth wife was giving birth, and the sixth son of House Valemont was about to enter the world.
The birthing chamber reeked of sweat, blood, and incense meant to mask the stench. The midwives worked frantically over Lady Selene Valemont, a woman of rare beauty whose auburn hair clung damply to her forehead. Her lips were pale, her breaths shallow, her once-bright eyes clouded with pain.
And then—finally—the wail of a newborn broke through the silence.
A boy.
Wrapped in linen, his tiny fists thrashed against the air as though protesting his cruel arrival into this world.
But joy did not follow.
Selene's hand trembled as she reached for the infant. "Az… Azral…" The whisper was so faint the midwife had to lean in to hear it. Her trembling fingers brushed the baby's cheek one last time before falling limp against the bloodstained sheets.
Her chest stilled. Her eyes lost their light.
The midwife froze. "She… she's gone."
At the bedside, Duke Darius Valemont stood silent. His expression was carved from stone, but his dark eyes flickered with surprise—something cold, something calculating. He quickly concealed it, but to those who truly knew him, it was the only emotion he had shown in years.
He did not cry. He did not shout. He merely stared at the lifeless body of his wife before turning away.
"Clean the mess," he ordered, his voice like iron scraping against stone. He didn't even glance at the child in the midwife's arms.
And then he was gone, his cloak sweeping after him.
Back in the fragile body of the child, Azral was confused about what was happening. At first, he thought it might be some strange dream, but soon realized it was not. When he heard about his mother's death and the Duke's cold words, he simply thought his father blamed him for it. He had seen such bitterness even on Earth.
That was how Azral Valemont entered the world—born in blood, greeted with silence, and robbed of a mother's warmth before he could even open his eyes.
Azral's earliest years were shaped not by family, but by duty-bound hands. Servants fed him, bathed him, changed his swaddles. They whispered among themselves, careful not to be overheard.
"Poor child."
"Born and his mother died the same day."
"The Duke won't even look at him. Not once."
By two, Azral had learned simple language from watching the servants speak. He could already understand them when they gossiped, believing he was still too young to comprehend.
And it was true. Darius Valemont, Duke of the House, avoided the boy like one avoids a bad omen. Even when summoned for rare inspections of his children, his gaze would sweep past Azral without pause, as though the boy were invisible.
Azral didn't mind, not truly. As long as he was treated normally and had his needs met, he felt it was enough. But when he turned three, he saw something that shook him to his core and kept him awake for nights.
Magic.
Azral realized then that he had been reincarnated into a world of sorcery.
He wanted to learn more. To do that, he needed books. He began asking the servants for them.
"Master Azral, you are too young—" a maid stammered.
"The books won't eat me," Azral replied.
By four, he was reading tomes meant for those twice or thrice his age. His voice was small but articulate, reciting passages on history, nature, and magic theory.
"Why does fire need air to live?" he once asked a servant polishing silver.
"Because… well… it just does, young master."
"Then if there were no air, fire would die… like a man without breath. Correct?"
The servant blinked, unsure whether to nod or flee.
Word spread.
"The boy is… touched by brilliance."
"A prodigy."
"Surely the gods have blessed him."
Even the Duke began to notice.
At banquets, Darius would summon Azral, making him recite knowledge before impressed nobles. His small voice carried across halls filled with silk and wine, guests murmuring their envy at such a child.
For the first time, the Duke's gaze lingered. Cold, yes, but not entirely dismissive. For the first time, Azral felt the faintest spark of recognition.
So this is it, he thought, his young mind sharp. If I show talent, if I prove myself useful, then maybe… maybe he will see me. Maybe he won't hate me for Mother's death.
And so Azral strove harder, his arrogance surfacing in flashes when tutors faltered before his questions. He was kind to servants, sharp to peers, and smug when he outpaced boys twice his age.
Kind. Carefree. A little arrogant. But beneath it all, a dangerous sharpness glittered.
That was Azral Valemont at age four.
The Fifth Year
The day of his fifth birthday began like any other.
But when the sun dipped low, the sound of boots echoed in his chamber. Two guards entered, their faces unreadable.
"Young master," one said stiffly. "You're to come with us."
Azral tilted his head, hope sparking faintly. "Did Father call for me?"
"…Yes."
His chest warmed. Perhaps, finally, his father wished to recognize him properly. He followed eagerly, small steps echoing against the stone floors.
But the path did not lead upward to his father's study or the grand hall. It spiraled downward. Into twisting stairwells that smelled of rust and damp. Torches flickered weakly against cold stone.
Fear crept into his chest. "This… isn't Father's hall. Where are we going?"
The guards did not answer.
They led him into a cell. Iron rings jutted from the walls. Chains hung like serpents waiting to coil.
Azral's heart pounded. "Why… why are we here?"
Before he could act, rough hands seized him. Cold shackles bit into his wrists and ankles. He cried out, struggling, but the iron held fast.
"W-what are you doing? Let me go! I'll tell Father!"
One guard muttered under his breath, almost guilty. "Forgive us, young master."
After a few hours, the heavy door creaked open.
Duke Darius Valemont entered, his presence filling the room. Beside him walked a man cloaked in black robes, his face hidden beneath a deep hood. The air around him seemed wrong, heavy, like the chill of a graveyard.
Azral's eyes lit with desperate hope. "Father! They chained me—tell them to stop!"
Darius regarded him with cold eyes. His voice was devoid of warmth. "This is for your good. You will thank me one day."
Azral's breath caught. "Wh… what?"
The Duke gestured to the hooded figure. "This man is a dark mage. He will help you awaken the dark affinity. Endure this, and you will become strong."
"No! No, Father, please! I don't want this—I'll do anything, I'll—"
But Darius was already turning away. His cloak swished as he left, not sparing his son another glance.
The hooded man chuckled. His voice was low, smooth, and cruel.
"Stop crying, boy. You're wasting your breath."
Azral swallowed, fear choking him. "Wh… who are you?"
The man lowered his hood. Pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Eyes like dim embers smoldered in the dark. His thin smile was that of a predator savoring its prey.
"My name is Aurel Rainn. From today, you will be in my care. For the next ten years, this cell is your world. Your screams, my music."
Azral's heart pounded, his mind racing. His so-called father… abandoned him with a lunatic.
Chains rattled as he struggled. "No! No, please!"
Aurel leaned closer, his breath icy as a tomb.
And thus the tortures began.
Pain became his cradle. Screams became his lullaby. His days started with needles draining his blood until the world spun. Strange sigils burned into his skin. At times, light mages healed his wounds only so they could begin anew. When Aurel tired, he left the cell—only to return the next morning and repeat.
Day by day, the child prodigy of House Valemont was stripped away. His body healed. But his mind…
His mind began to fracture.