ã€ŠAzrael and the Gate of Madnessã€‹


 Chapter 0. Prolog

    Finally, everything made sense. The endless search, the strange events, the baffling situations that seemed to defy logic¡ªall of it now fell into place.

    Now he knew what had to be done. What he must do. There was no choice in the matter. This was his destiny. HE had orchestrated everything, meticulously ensuring that this moment would come to pass. HE knew it would end here, exactly like this. It was all part of HIS plan.

    A dissatisfied laugh escaped his lips. ¡°So, this is how it ends. WE will be forgotten. I hope you¡¯re pleased with yourself.¡±Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    The young man surveyed the battlefield. Millions of corpses. Death and despair stretched as far as the eye could see.

    ¡°I hope it was worth it,¡± he whispered, his voice laden with sorrow.

    Even she had died. He forced himself to look away from her impaled body. The sight of her lifeless form twisted something deep inside him, but there was no time to dwell.

    ¡°Well then,¡± he muttered, raising his hand to the heavens. His left eye began to glow, radiating an intense light. A dense fog spread rapidly across the land, swallowing the world whole.

    When the mist finally cleared, his figure was gone. Vanished without a trace.

    As if he had never existed at all, even the memory of him faded into nothingness.

 Chapter 1. Warm feelings

    The sun beamed warmly onto the small village, gently embraced by lush green meadows and tall, gnarled trees. The cheerful laughter of children filled the air as little Azrael raced through the vibrant flower fields.

    Bees and other insects scattered in annoyance as his tiny hands eagerly reached for the colorful blossoms. Everything around him radiated with life and unbridled joy.

    His parents stood at the edge of the field, their faces glowing with happiness and deep affection. Amused, they followed his every movement¡ªhow he leapt, rolled across the ground, and occasionally stumbled. They exchanged warm smiles, their hearts overflowing with the unspoiled happiness of their son¡¯s carefree laughter.

    "Azrael, come quickly! Dinner is ready!" a soft and soothing woman¡¯s voice called out, carrying gently over the calming rustle of the grass. The refreshing scent of the field, with its mix of fresh grass and blooming flowers, mingled perfectly with the tantalizing aroma of the meal awaiting them.

    ?Yes, Mama, I¡¯m coming! I just need to catch this frog first," Azrael replied, fully engrossed in his playful chase after a small green water frog. His focus was unwavering as he reached out his hand, only for the frog to let out a loud croak and hop away. Azrael crept closer, pulled back his hand, and made a quick leap as the frog hopped away again. Grass and colorful flowers swirled into the air as they moved through the meadow together.

    "I got him, Mama! I caught him! Can I keep him?" Azrael exclaimed triumphantly, raising his small, dirty hand high.

    "Well done, my love. But even a frog has a family. How would you feel if your family were taken from you?" His mother smiled softly, her eyes shimmering with love and tenderness.

    It was deeply important to her to teach her only son kindness and respect for all living things, no matter how small. She thought back to the many times she had shown him how to carefully carry an insect outside instead of harming it. All creatures shared the same earth, breathed the same air. In the same way, it was important to honor the life of the animal that ended up on their plates each evening.

    Azrael¡¯s eyes widened for a moment as he considered her question. Pride swelled in his chest from catching the frog, but the weight of his mother¡¯s words pressed heavily on his heart. At last, he relented, opening his hand to release the frog. It sprang away in an instant, darting toward a small, clear pond. The sunlight danced on the water¡¯s surface as the frog vanished into its depths.

    "I understand, Mama. Family is important." Azrael¡¯s voice was quiet but resolute.

    His mother knelt down, gently pulled him into her arms, and held him close. "Yes, my darling. Family is the most important thing." Her voice was full of warmth, and Azrael felt the tender embrace, comforting and strengthening him at the same time.

    The sound of clashing wood echoed through the early evening as Azrael and his father sparred in a friendly duel. The sky was painted in soft shades of orange, while the wind whispered through the trees and the ringing of wooden swords resonated in the air. Azrael loved this feeling¡ªthe swing of the stick, the tingling in his arms as he blocked a blow, and the sharp wind slicing over the blade as if it were real steel.

    He had started training at the age of four, and now, at six, he felt alive, as if fighting was in his blood. Every strike made his heart race, and his focus was entirely on his father. Rudolf, a tall, broad-shouldered man with brown hair, was not just his father but also his teacher. Though not a seasoned warrior, his two years of military training had given him enough experience to provide Azrael with a solid foundation. A deep scar ran across his right cheek¡ªa silent testament to his past.

    "Very good, you''re getting better every day," Rudolf praised, effortlessly deflecting one of his son''s strikes with practiced ease.

    Azrael frowned. "But I''m still weaker than you," he grumbled, lowering his wooden sword.

    Rudolf smiled and placed a hand on his son''s shoulder. "You''re only six years old, Azrael. It''s incredible how quickly you''re improving. Your talent is something extraordinary."

    Azrael looked up at him with wide eyes. "So, I''m special?"

    "Yes, of course." A proud smile spread across the boy''s face, his eyes sparkling with excitement. But Rudolf''s expression turned serious as he looked deep into his son''s eyes. "But don''t let it go to your head. There are many who are stronger than you."

    Azrael clenched his small fist tightly around the hilt of his sword. "Then I''ll just become stronger than them."

    Rudolf couldn''t suppress a chuckle as he parried another swing of Azrael''s sword and gave his son a gentle pat on the head. "What did I just say?"

    "Yeah, yeah, I won''t get cocky," Azrael muttered, but the grin on his face revealed that he had taken the lesson to heart.

    With a deep sigh, Rudolf finally ended the training. The twilight slowly descended over the village, and the tempting scent of grilled meat filled the air. Azrael''s mouth watered as he thought of his mother''s cooking skills. Together, they walked to the simple yet lovingly set wooden table that awaited them.

    On the table were steaming bowls of potatoes and thick slices of homemade bread. Next to a humble stew made from root vegetables and lentils, a few modest pieces of meat sizzled, browned to a crispy perfection in the pan over the fire. The aroma was familiar and comforting¡ªsimple, yet hearty food that brought the family together in the quiet of the rural evening.

    "Mama, you cooked so well again, maybe you should become a cook," Azrael said with his mouth full and a wide grin. The smell of the food still lingered in the air as the family spent a relaxing evening together. The soft crackle of the fire filled the room as the twilight slowly settled in.

    Later, to his son''s great delight, Rudolf began to tell a story. He spoke of a brave hero who protected an entire village from a band of ruthless bandits. His voice was deep and captivating, and Azrael hung on every word. The hero stood alone against the enemies and saved many innocent lives through his selfless act. The image of the hero, fighting fearlessly for good, burned itself into Azrael''s mind.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    "I''ll be a hero too one day," he decided, his eyes shining brightly as the story came to an end.

    Rudolf smiled gently as he watched his son. Azrael''s determination and dreams were familiar to him.

    Their house was located a little outside the village, a small, humble farm surrounded by fields and forests. Azrael''s parents were originally not from Care Brunn, the village they now called home. They had fled from the war, left their old life behind, and settled in this remote place. Rudolf and his wife Mariette had hoped to raise their newborn son in peace here¡ªaway from the noise and horrors of the world.

    But the villagers did not greet them with open arms. While they were allowed to live nearby, a subtle disregard toward them lingered. They were barely acknowledged, almost like strangers who never truly became part of the community.

    Azrael''s parents felt the weight of this rejection, and secretly, they blamed themselves for their son''s lack of friends. But Azrael himself seemed little affected by it. He often spent his days alone, lost in his training or wandering through the nearby forests. Fighting fascinated him, but just as often, he observed animals that he found endearing in his childlike innocence, letting the world around him unfold in its own time.

    One evening, after the training had ended and the stars were shining brightly in the sky, Rudolf sat down next to his son. "Azrael, you are so talented," he began seriously. "Your mother and I have decided to send you to the Eryndor Academy. I can''t teach you much more. In three years, you''ll wield a sword better than I ever could. But you must wait until you''re 14 before you can be accepted."

    Azrael pulled a face. "But I want to stay here," he said defiantly.

    Rudolf chuckled softly. "Don''t worry. We''ll move closer when the time comes."

    The two discussed the matter back and forth for a while, but in the end, they agreed to postpone the final decision. They decided to revisit the question when Azrael turned ten. Until then, he had plenty of time to enjoy life in the village and the peacefulness of the forests.

    The real reason behind his parents'' decision to send him to the academy was their desire to gently but firmly steer Azrael in that direction. They wanted to nurture his exceptional talent before it remained untapped.

    But Azrael was only vaguely aware of these intentions. Thoughts of the future and the Academy followed him into the night as he lay down in his bed. The darkness settled over the village like a heavy veil, but his thoughts remained bright and restless.

    Fatigue came only slowly, and when he finally fell asleep, he was suddenly pulled into a dream¡ªone of those strange dreams that felt more real than reality itself. In the dream, he found himself in a clearing in the forest, a place that felt both familiar and strange. The trees around him stood still, as if holding their breath, while he saw his own reflection before him.

    But this reflection was strangely distorted. Azrael saw himself, but somehow not. The pale white hair, which fell messily across his forehead, was the same as the one he wore in waking life. His face was porcelain-like, almost too flawless, with skin so pale it seemed to glow like marble in the moonlight. His green eyes, usually full of curiosity and life, sparkled empty and weary. The reflection before him seemed to have lost the life Azrael usually felt within himself. It stood there, like a shell that had been stripped of its soul.

    His heart began to race as he recognized the sadness in the eyes of his doppelg?nger. The once sparkling green eyes¡ªa rare shade that set him apart from the other children¡ªwere now dull and dark. Even the hair of his dream image, usually a wild, lively tangle of snow-white strands, hung limp and tangled over the face.

    The entire figure seemed to be filled with a deep loneliness that disturbed Azrael to his core.

    In waking life, the other children often called him "ghost" because of his unusual appearance. His skin was so pale it almost appeared translucent, and the bright green eyes, usually sparkling with energy, gave him a mysterious, almost otherworldly look. But these remarks had never bothered him much. He was used to being different and never felt drawn to the other children. The forest was his refuge. Here, he felt understood, as if he were part of nature itself.

    In the silence of the forest, Azrael found the peace that the company of humans could not give him. The whispering of the wind, the rustling of the leaves¡ªall of it was like a language only he could understand. Here, he trained, his movements in sync with the rhythm of nature. Sometimes he moved quickly and unpredictably, like a leaf in a storm. Other times, his steps flowed like the water of a calm river¡ªpowerful yet gentle.

    He often trained with his eyes closed, to improve his balance.

    To connect even more deeply with nature, he would often remove his shoes and shirt, letting the coolness of the earth and the wind brush against his skin. The moss beneath his bare feet, the soft grass, the wind whistling through his hair¡ªall of it made him feel like a part of the forest. In these moments, he didn¡¯t feel different, not lonely, but as if he were exactly where he belonged.

    ¡°Dad, will you come fishing with me today?¡± Azrael¡¯s eyes lit up with eager anticipation as he looked up at his father, still holding the wooden sword from training.

    Rudolf, who was currently putting away his tools, smiled and placed a hand on Azrael''s head.

    ¡°Good idea, son. A fresh fish for dinner sounds great.¡±

    In the late afternoon, father and son made their way to the small mountain stream that wound through the wooded slopes of the Hyramer Mountains. The village of Care Brunn lay in the northern part of these mountains, high on a small plateau where nature seemed wild and untouched. The remote location meant they rarely received visitors from other regions. The nearest town was miles away, so the villagers were forced to produce nearly everything themselves. But the isolation had its advantages¡ªthey were far removed from the wars raging in other parts of the land.

    The stream was calm and clear, its waters shimmering in the soft light of the setting sun. Azrael loved this place¡ªthe sounds of the water, the gentle rustling of the wind in the trees. It was a place where he felt at peace.

    Rudolf sat on a rock by the riverbank and showed Azrael how to thread the worm onto the hook. ¡°It takes patience,¡± he said, while Azrael watched intently. ¡°Fishing is not just about catching something. It¡¯s also about waiting and enjoying the silence.¡±

    Azrael nodded seriously as he cast the fishing line into the water. The waiting began. The sun sank lower, casting the sky in a golden light that reflected off the surface of the water. Azrael¡¯s thoughts wandered, but he enjoyed the peace that surrounded him. His father didn¡¯t speak much, but that was all Azrael needed. His mere presence was enough to give him a sense of security and connection.

    Just before twilight, Azrael¡¯s fishing rod suddenly jerked, and with an excited grin, he pulled it up¡ªa silvery trout flopped on the line. ¡°I got one, Dad!¡±

    Rudolf laughed and nodded with satisfaction. ¡°Well done, my boy. One more fish, and we¡¯ll have a feast.¡±

    With two trout in tow, they returned to the village. The air had grown cooler, and the last light of the day slowly disappeared behind the mountains. At home, Mariette, his mother, was already waiting to prepare the fish. She cooked the dinner with practiced hands¡ªstarting with a fresh salad made from their own harvest, accompanied by herbs from the garden. The trout were fried in a pan, served with golden potatoes and crisp vegetables that steamed on the plates.

    Azrael chewed his food with pleasure and gave his mother a mischievous look. ¡°Mom, you¡¯ve cooked so well again. Maybe you should really become a cook.¡±

    Mariette laughed softly and stroked his cheek. ¡°I¡¯m glad you like it, my dear.¡±

    Another peaceful evening passed, filled with the warmth of family life.

 Chapter 2. Hatred and Grief

    "Mama, I''m heading into the woods. Yesterday, I found tracks of wild rabbits. If all goes well, I''ll bring one back for us."

    Azrael eagerly slung his bow over his shoulder, along with the quiver of arrows. Exactly one month ago, he had turned eleven. Of all the dates, August 8th was etched most vividly in his memory. That day marked not only his birthday but also that of his father and mother. As a gift, he had finally received his own bow and arrows¡ªa present he carried with immense pride.

    Made from ash wood, the bow was light yet sturdy. Its arms curved gracefully, and the sinew string hummed faintly with tension. The grip was wrapped in a simple leather band, allowing him to hold it securely in his small hands.

    Quietly, he crept through the dense underbrush. Thorns and branches tugged at his clothing, but with cautious, deliberate movements, he skillfully avoided them. His outfit, made from coarse brown fabric, blended seamlessly with the surroundings. Azrael had learned the importance of leaving his clothes in the forest before hunting, so they would absorb the scent of the trees and soil.

    After a while, he reached the spot he had discovered the previous day. Rabbits were always alert, being a favorite prey for many hunters. Azrael held his bow loosely in his right hand, moving like a shadow among the trees. He knew this forest well¡ªalmost as if it were an old friend.

    At last, after an hour of searching, he spotted a group of rabbits grazing in the tall grass of a small, sunlit clearing. Silently, he climbed a tree about two dozen meters away, concealing himself within the dense green foliage to observe his prey. After watching patiently for a while, he chose a male rabbit nibbling on a particularly lush clover. He avoided the females, as they might be caring for young.

    With a fluid motion, he drew a feathered arrow from his quiver, his fingertips brushing the smooth wooden shaft. Slowly, he pulled back the bowstring, feeling the familiar resistance that gave him confidence. As he raised the bow and aimed, the world around him seemed to hold its breath. The rabbit froze mid-motion. In that moment, Azrael released the string.

    With a faint whoosh, the arrow flew through the air, striking the rabbit. It leapt briefly before collapsing to the ground, twitching. Within seconds, it lay still in the grass. The other rabbits bolted away in panic.

    Satisfied with his precise shot, Azrael climbed down from the tree and approached his kill. A small pool of blood had formed around the lifeless animal. Gently, he picked it up, gazed at it for a moment, and whispered softly, ¡°Thank you.¡±

    "Good, the training paid off." Azrael smiled proudly as he examined the rabbit¡¯s heart shot. Whistling cheerfully, he made his way to the small river to gut and skin the animal.

    The river glistened in the evening sun like liquid metal. The clear water reflected the day¡¯s final golden rays, and Azrael spotted several fish swimming playfully below the surface. He let his thoughts wander until something moving in the water caught his eye.

    "Almost done. I¡¯m looking forward to dinner," he murmured, feeling his stomach growl. But suddenly, his movements froze. The log drifting along the riverbank wasn¡¯t just a log.

    "Mother?" he whispered, his voice trembling faintly in the calm evening air. No response.

    "Mother?" he called again, louder this time, the worry in his voice unmistakable. Panic seized him, and without hesitation, he leaped into the icy water. The shock of the cold water stole his breath for a moment, like icy needles piercing his skin.

    Fueled by a rush of adrenaline and desperate determination, he began swimming toward the supposed log. But the horrifying truth revealed itself quickly: it wasn¡¯t a log. What he embraced was the lifeless body of his mother.

    Frantically, he kicked toward the shore, his heart pounding in his chest as he dragged her unmoving form behind him.

    Every second seemed to stretch endlessly as he struggled to reach the shore. When he finally found himself on solid ground, he dragged the lifeless body onto safe land. His entire body trembled from the cold, his lips already tinged with blue.

    ¡°Mama? Mama, please, say something,¡± he begged, his voice torn by fear and desperation. Tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes. As he turned his mother over, an ominous inconsistency struck him: her stomach was unnaturally swollen upward.

    With trembling hands, he gently rolled her onto her side. A heart-wrenching scream escaped his lips as he discovered the small dagger lodged in her back. The realization hit him like a crushing blow. The ground beneath him seemed to spin, and he collapsed, unable to comprehend the cruel reality.

    Yet, deep within his soul, Azrael already knew his mother would never return to him. The tears flowed ceaselessly down his cheeks, as though they could bridge the chasm between him and the love he had lost. Memories of her gentle voice, her delicious cooking, and countless happy moments flashed painfully through his mind, only to be swallowed by the overwhelming weight of reality.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    "Mama, please, open your eyes. I brought you a rabbit," he pleaded, his voice a trembling whisper of hope that was lost in the cool night air.

    "What will Papa and I do without you?" His words rang hollow and forlorn in the oppressive silence, and the thought of his father¡¯s absence broke his heart even further.

    "I have to get Papa¡ªhe''ll know what to do." The desperate thought spurred him to his feet. Panic surged through him as he stumbled forward with hurried, uncertain steps, his footfalls echoing like the pounding of a caged heart in the growing dusk.

    The house, which once offered him solace, now loomed like a forsaken nightmare. The door hung askew on its hinges, as though it recoiled from the horrors left behind. Stepping inside, the sight that greeted him hit like a blow to the chest: chairs lay shattered on the ground, the table reduced to a chaotic wreckage, and the curtains hung in tattered shreds, fluttering like ghostly veils in the faint breeze.

    "Papa, where are you?" he called, his voice frail, breaking as it echoed through the eerie stillness of the house.

    Only silence answered, its weight pressing down on him like a smothering blanket. Dark, crimson stains¡ªbloody remnants of a nightmare¡ªmarked the floor. His eyes widened in terror as he traced the trail of violence leading outside, toward the river. In the waning evening light, it appeared as a sinister slash across the landscape, shimmering with a ghastly red hue.

    Hastily, Azrael began to follow the trail of blood, which stretched through the meadow like a sinister omen, vanishing into the dark embrace of the forest. Each step felt like torment, as though the earth itself conspired against him. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, while his thoughts swirled in chaotic turmoil¡ªa storm of fear and despair.

    After only a few meters, he stumbled upon a sight that struck him like a physical blow: a severed hand lay motionless in the tall grass, its blood dark and dried. A sickening, metallic stench filled his nostrils, mingling with the acrid taste of dread rising in his throat. Azrael turned away, nausea building inside him like a creeping tide, robbing him of breath.

    ¡°This can''t be. This mustn¡¯t be,¡± he muttered over and over, rubbing his eyes as though he could erase the nightmare before him. But the ring on the finger was unmistakable¡ªthe ring of his father. ¡°Why... why does this have to happen?¡±

    His heart felt as though it had stopped entirely as he continued forward, his steps growing heavier with each passing moment, as if the weight of the world rested on his small shoulders. The ground beneath him blurred, and reality seemed like fragile glass, on the verge of shattering. How could any of this be real? Where was the safety he had once known? Why did it have to end this way?

    The trees seemed to mock him, their shadows stretching long fingers toward him as if to pull him into the inevitable. Behind a small row of trees, he finally stumbled upon the unspeakable. His father¡ªhis head impaled on a spear like a gruesome trophy, his body lying next to it, completely exposed and abandoned. Blood and dirt were the only witnesses to this horrific crime.

    Azrael couldn¡¯t move. His eyes were fixed on the severed head, yet his thoughts felt muffled, as if wrapped in cotton. ¡°Papa, how could this happen? Where are you? What am I supposed to do?¡± These questions pierced his mind like sharp arrows. The reality was too much for him, too overwhelming. Every breath was a challenge, every sound another blow to his shattered heart.

    The world around him began to dissolve, and the darkness seemed to drape over him like a suffocating shroud. A desperate scream escaped his throat, but no sound came out. Despair smothered any remaining hope. His legs gave way beneath him, and he sank onto the cold ground, surrounded by the oppressive darkness that slowly enveloped him. The chill of pain and loss consumed him, and the darkness became his final companion.

    A harsh beam of light jerked Azrael roughly from his sleep. Confusion and shock surged through him like an electric shock as he struggled to process the brutal memories of his parents'' deaths.

    "Maybe it was just a nightmare," he murmured desperately, trying to cling to the familiar thoughts. "Definitely, I¡¯m in a bed after all."

    "Azrael, can you hear me?" a voice called, vaguely familiar but distorted through the haze of his pain.

    "Aunt?" he asked, his voice a fragile glimmer of hope.

    "Well, look who¡¯s finally awake?" she said, crossing her arms.

    "How are Mom and Dad?" he asked hastily, his voice trembling with fear and desperate hope. Inside, he clung to the thought that they could still be alive, that maybe it was just a misunderstanding or a cruel nightmare.

    "Well, they got it pretty bad, poor things, they''re dead," she giggled.

    The words hit him like a blow.

    "No, no, that can¡¯t be true. You¡¯re lying, where are they? This isn¡¯t funny anymore." He worked himself into a growing frenzy, trying to turn away from the cruel reality. Every thought of his parents'' death felt like another painful thorn in his heart.

    A loud slap made him jerk upright. His aunt had struck him hard across the cheek. The pain was like a brutal wake-up call from his desperate delirium.

    "Stop losing yourself in your fantasies. Your parents are dead. They¡¯re no longer here. Accept reality," she said in a sharp, unyielding voice. Her words were like blades, mercilessly cutting into his soul.

    "But how...?" he wanted to ask, but another hard slap on his other cheek silenced him.

    "Your parents deserved no better. They ran from the real challenges and died like cowards. Maybe it was better this way. The shining light of Solaren will forgive their sins." Her words were like cold poison, intensifying his hope and pain. She spoke of his parents as though they were nothing more than a footnote in a tragic story.

    "Don¡¯t you dare speak of my parents like that..." Azrael began, his anger and pain sharpening his words. But her cold disdain broke him once more.

    "The murderer must be punished," he declared, his voice icy and unyielding.

    Slap.

    "Speak only when you''re spoken to!" Her voice was a harsh command that smothered any form of dissent.

    Azrael threw himself onto the pillow, clenching his fists as unrelenting waves of rage and pain surged through his body. In the midst of his despair, he clung to a dwindling glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, it had all been a nightmare, and his parents had survived. Perhaps one day, he would find answers that could ease his sorrow and pain.

    His heart burned with fury and helplessness. Surrounded by people who did not share his grief and could not understand his rage, he felt lost and alone. In that moment, he was certain that the fight for his own hope and survival had only just begun.

 Chapter 3. Reason to live

    Anger flared in Azrael''s eyes, the despair transforming into uncontrollable rage. Why was life so unfair? he thought, as the fury overwhelmed him. His thoughts spiraled around the shocking idea that his aunt dared to insult his parents. How could she speak of people who had always been kind and helpful, even to the villagers?

    With eyes burning with madness, he jumped to his feet, but the blow to his jaw almost made him stagger. The force of the strike knocked him off balance. He gritted his teeth under the painful impact, and his jaw began to bruise.

    "Do you really think a brat like you could do anything to me?" she sneered, her voice laced with cold mockery. "I received my gift many years ago. You can only lose."

    His rage slowly gave way to the painful reality as Azrael collapsed, gasping, onto the bed. He felt a rib crack and then seemed to break. A tear, born from the mix of fury and pain, rolled down his cheek. The room around him spun, and the pain was almost unbearable.

    "Address me as Madame Lorena. If you have a question, raise your finger to ask," she said in a cold, detached tone.

    Damn bitch, Azrael cursed in his thoughts, the words burning like hot coals in his mind. You think you''re something special. Just wait until I turn twelve. I''ll make you pay for everything. His body trembled with anger as he struggled to get up and raised his hand.

    "That''s better," Madame Lorena nodded approvingly, as if she were dealing with a bothersome child.

    "Where are we?"

    "We''re in Lindell."

    "What?" Azrael shouted, shocked and desperate. "What about the burial of my..."

    Another blow hit him, so forceful that he was thrown off the bed. A muffled groan escaped his lips, and the pain spread like an ominous throb throughout his entire body. His chest pounded wildly, and the pain in his ribs became almost unbearable.

    "What did you forget?" she asked, her voice laced with a gleeful, malicious undertone.

    "Sorry, Madame Lorena," he gritted through his teeth, struggling to get back up and raise his hand.

    Smiling, she prompted him to ask his question.

    "Can''t I at least go to my parents'' funeral?"

    "No," she replied simply, with no trace of compassion.

    "But..." he began, only for his words to be silenced by another blow.

    "Disagreement is not allowed," Madame Lorena said, her voice sharp and final.

    "That filthy bitch," Azrael thought, the fury in his eyes replaced by a cold, burning determination. His heart burned with rage, and deep inside, he swore that he wouldn''t tolerate this injustice.

    After another painful break, Azrael shakily raised his hand to ask another question. The anger still burned within him, though he understood that there was nothing he could do right now.

    "Why did you even take me in?" he finally asked, his voice a fragile echo of his inner torment.

    "Good question," Madame Lorena began with a cold smile, one that gave no answer to his suffering. "Simple. I can''t have children. But among the followers of Solaren in this village, status increases when you have a child. We will mark you with a tracking rune. After that, you can go out into the woods, or whatever. Don''t bother us. Of course, you''re also allowed to help us a bit with the work."

    "Understood," Azrael murmured, his heart feeling heavy and empty.

    But inside him, an unrelenting hatred burned. "I need to get stronger first," he thought. "Only when I have my gift can I leave here. My priority is to find the murderer."

    A searing anger crept up inside him. He wanted to see the murderer suffer. If he had to play the obedient boy to achieve that, he would lower himself. No matter how powerful his enemy would be, he would make sure they suffered.

    Madame Lorena reached out a hand to him, and Azrael instinctively flinched. Her quiet laughter, mocking his fear and insecurity, made him shiver. "Now you please me much more. So sweet and tame. I''ll heal you a bit, so stay still. It would be inconvenient if the neighbors saw you like this."

    Azrael stared at her with a look as cold as the darkness in his heart. "Heal? Her?" he thought bitterly. "Why should I trust her? This woman has nothing but contempt for my parents. And I''m supposed to let her treat me?"

    The thought that Madame Lorena could embody any form of light or purity only seemed more repulsive to him. The only thought driving him now was the insatiable desire for revenge and the realization that every gesture from her only further distanced him from the goal his parents had wanted him to achieve.

    Lorena placed a cold hand on his forehead. At first, he felt nothing, but then, suddenly, an unimaginable pain shot through his body. His broken bones began to shift slowly, agonizingly, as if they were rubbing and grinding against each other. The dull scratching and cracking filled the room as his ribs painfully and slowly straightened.

    Azrael gasped for breath, his air caught in his chest, as his body jerked and cramped.

    Each breath felt like a stab, a burning pain that drilled into his lungs. The seconds dragged on, stretching into minutes, as he sank deeper into a whirlpool of pain and fear. His lips trembled, and a muffled cry of agony escaped him. The pain didn¡¯t subside; instead, it surged in waves, reigniting new flames of suffering with each passing moment.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.Endless minutes passed before the pain gradually eased. But instead of complete relief, he still felt a dull throbbing, a constant reminder of his injuries. His ribs felt as though they could break again at any moment, and every breath was accompanied by a faint, stabbing pain. He knew they weren¡¯t fully healed¡ªonly hastily patched together, just enough to keep him alive.

    Madame Lorena stepped back, her eyes cold, satisfied with her work. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a strange feather. Azrael blinked through the haze of pain. The feather was unusual¡ªblue-striped against a brown base, with sharp metal at its tip.

    "This is a blood feather," she explained. "It¡¯s used to carve runes into flesh. Should the rune be destroyed, you¡¯ll suffer a backlash and die."

    He inwardly flinched as she raised the feather. Reluctantly, he extended his right arm, every muscle protesting from exhaustion. She gripped his arm roughly and began to etch the metal into his skin. The piercing pain felt different from the healing process, but in his weariness, he barely registered it. After several minutes, which felt like an eternity, she was finished.

    On his arm glowed the symbol of a triangle, with spiral circles embedded at each corner. The blood slowly seeping from the fresh wounds made the rune shimmer ominously.

    "That¡¯s it for today. Do what you want," Lorena said indifferently, adding with a cold smile, "Thanks to this rune, I can find you anywhere¡ªno matter where you run."

    Lorena moved towards the door, then abruptly stopped. "Ah, almost forgot," she said with a sneering smile over her shoulder. "On your behalf, I wouldn''t get any ideas about telling anyone about us. No one will believe your ramblings. They know you¡¯ve suffered trauma." Her voice oozed with schadenfreude as she emphasized the words.

    It was a lie, expertly spun to suffocate any truth before it could be spoken. Azrael understood immediately: she had already told the villagers her version. To them, he was just the traumatized boy, confused and full of fantasies.

    Satisfied with herself, she turned and left the room. Before the door fully closed, Azrael heard her soft mutter, "Praise be to the eternal light." The creaking of the door echoed, and then it slammed shut with a dull thud. With it, the last trace of life seemed to depart the room, and an almost unnatural silence settled over the darkness like a heavy cloak.

    Azrael was left behind, alone with the silence that pressed down on him. The pain of his broken body was nothing compared to the turmoil that raged inside him. His thoughts swirled chaotically, like a storm he couldn¡¯t control. Everything felt surreal, as though the world had lost its grip.

    "Nobody will believe me..." he repeated in his mind. A bitter laugh crawled up his throat, but it did not pass his lips. His hands clenched into fists as the rage inside him simmered, hot and merciless. "How could everything be so unjust? How could they dare take everything from him and then humiliate him for it?" Lorena''s words echoed, digging deep into his soul, merging with the image of his parents and the blows he felt on his body.

    His mind screamed for revenge, for retribution. The hatred growing inside him was like a constant whisper in his head, a constant reminder that he must never forget. But there was something else ¨C the cold. It settled like a cloak around his heart, attempting to tame the burning rage, turning it into something darker, something more dangerous.

    "I will make them pay... someday," he thought, his gaze fixed on the closed door. For now, he was weak, vulnerable, and broken. But that would not last forever. "I will grow stronger. And when the day comes... I will make them all suffer."

    Slowly, he let himself sink back into the shabby bed, his body too exhausted to fight against the wave of fatigue any longer. The pain throbbed in his ribs, a constant, dull pulse that reminded him the healing process was far from complete. But that didn''t matter. None of it did. His thoughts only revolved around one thing: the hatred growing inside him, relentlessly driving him forward.

    "Mom, I''ll be a hero later," Azrael said, his eyes shining. Yet the light in his voice didn''t match the surroundings. An unnatural darkness hung around them, the sun hidden behind a leaden, oppressive sky. The grass beneath his feet was wilted and colorless, the trees stood like black skeletons at the edge of his vision, their bare branches twisted and desperate, reaching into the gray clouds.

    His mother smiled, but her face appeared paler than usual, almost translucent, and her eyes carried a trace of sadness he didn''t understand. She motioned for him to sit on her lap, and though her touch was familiar, her embrace felt colder than before. "Heroes are not all the same," she began softly and lovingly. "Heroes are people with a divine blessing. These blessings are given only once. People worship six gods. We call them the orthodox deities or gods. To worship other gods is considered a grave sacrilege. This means there can only be six recognized heroes among the people."

    She brushed a strand of hair from his face. "But, my darling," she asked with a thoughtful smile, "who do you think deserves the title of hero more? Someone who has a blessing, or someone who helps others?"

    Azrael''s eyes lit up. "Someone who helps others!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "That means I can be a hero even without a blessing, right?"

    "Definitely," she confirmed gently, pulling him a little tighter against her. "Then I''ll protect you, Mom and Dad!" He beamed at her with childlike confidence, full of determination. But this time, he received no response. The silence seemed to creep into the air, oppressive, heavy.

    "Mom?" He turned around, his heart beginning to race. But instead of the warm smile he had expected, he was met with a pale, expressionless face. Her eyes, empty and silent, stared at him like a lifeless mask. A cold shiver ran through him, and with a scream, he jumped up.

    The scene suddenly blurred, like in a fever dream, and he found himself at the edge of a raging river. The water, black and eerie, surged relentlessly past him. Fog veils hung over the floodwaters, casting everything in a ghostly gray. The ground beneath his feet was damp and slippery, and the roaring of the river sounded like ominous whispers.

    "Mom!" he called out desperately as he spotted her in the water. She was helplessly drifting in the current, her movements frantic and weak. Without thinking, he jumped into the icy waters. The water was like ice, cutting into his skin, but he swam as fast as he could. Yet the harder he tried, the further she seemed to drift away, like a shadow that remained out of reach.

    "Why can''t I get closer to you?" he screamed, but his words were swallowed by the wind, now blowing around him like a quiet, malicious laugh.

    His strength faded, his limbs grew heavy, and the river pulled him deeper into the darkness. "I don¡¯t want this anymore..." he whispered, his voice weak and exhausted. The fog consumed everything around him, the world seemed to crumble. Everything felt meaningless, empty. Even the rage and hatred that had driven him for so long faded into the endless darkness.

    Slowly, he sank into the black waters, his arms giving out, and the cold dragged him deeper. But just before everything went silent, he heard her voice. It was clear and distinct, cutting through the fog and the darkness.

    "LIVE."

 Chapter 4. losses

    Drenched in sweat, Azrael jolted upright in bed. The first faint rays of sunlight were only just beginning to pierce through the dense clouds shrouding Manor Mountain. The room remained cloaked in cool twilight, and the silence was broken only by the soft murmur of the wind.

    Blurred memories of his nightmare flooded his mind. The raging river, the icy embrace of the cold, and the silent, expressionless face of his mother still clung to him like a dark shadow. Yet, the final word his mother had whispered echoed within him, as if it were a clear command from afar.

    A trace of determination crept across his face. ¡°It was just a dream,¡± he whispered to himself, but his voice was steady and resolute. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what my mother would have said. It¡¯s clear now¡ªI can¡¯t waste any more time. Her killer is still out there, and I will find him. Giving up is not an option. Not now, not ever.¡±

    His heart pounded fiercely, and his eyes burned with determination. ¡°Just wait. You¡¯ll regret not sending me to the afterlife along with them. I¡¯ll come for you. I¡¯m the one who will decide your fate. I¡¯ll be the reaper. Wait for me, because I¡¯m coming. I¡¯m coming for all of you.¡±

    Quietly, a few days later, Azrael slipped out of bed and stepped into the hallway, its atmosphere radiating an ancient tranquility. The walls were crafted from sturdy, dark oak wood that had aged to a deep brown hue. Intricate carvings adorned the paneling, depicting interwoven patterns and floral designs. In some places, the wood had chipped away with time, lending the corridor a venerable yet slightly dilapidated charm.

    The floor was covered with thick, worn rugs whose patterns had faded into muted tones over the years. The rugs bore the marks of age, evident in the threadbare patches and faint stains scattered across their surfaces. Their fringed edges hinted at decades of continuous use and careful upkeep.

    Knotted wooden doors lined the walls, each made from solid, dark timber. Deep cracks and knots marked their surfaces, giving the doors a rustic and unrefined appeal. The doorframes, carved from the same wood, featured heavy bronze fittings intricately designed with stylized vines and blossoms. Every detail of the metalwork showcased a remarkable craftsmanship. The doors themselves were thick and robust, each bearing a unique character shaped by the passage of countless years.

    Quietly, he crept toward the door of his room and opened it cautiously. The hallway stretched out before him, and he could see the door at the far end that led to the exit. With a muffled sigh, he stepped into the hall, tiptoeing carefully toward the front door to avoid waking Madame Lorena. Along the way, he noticed four other doors: two on the left and two on the right. The walls were adorned with golden-glinting portraits depicting a man whose face was blurred, his long hair cascading in golden waves over his shoulders. The man exuded an air of noble elegance, wearing a robe of pure, radiant light that made him appear enveloped in divine brilliance. The entire portrayal emanated an aura of supernatural majesty and commanding power. Azrael suspected the figure was meant to be Solaren.

    At last, he reached the front door. The sight that met him was unexpected: the first rays of sunlight illuminated the forms of Madame Lorena and a man standing beside her. The man was his uncle Bard. He had a clean-shaven head and a short, brown beard. With his broad back and muscular arms, he radiated an imposing presence.

    Madame Lorena and Bard knelt with clasped hands in prayer. Their backs were turned to him, their fronts facing the rising sun. Hesitantly, Azrael stood in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. After a moment''s thought, he decided to slip past his uncle. With the hedge to his right blocking his path, he had to move close to Bard to get by.

    As Azrael attempted to sneak past his uncle, a gleaming object suddenly shot toward him. Reflexively, he jerked back, but the sharp impact sent him staggering. A searing pain exploded near his eye, and his vision blurred beneath a crimson haze. A pained whimper escaped his lips as he fell to the cold ground, feeling the hot blood trailing down his face.

    "How dare you," Bard roared, his voice cutting and full of fury. His eyes burned like embers, and the blood-smeared dagger in his hand gleamed menacingly. "To disrupt the morning praise of the almighty Solaren is an unforgivable sin. I ought to kill you for this."

    Madame Lorena stepped forward, her demeanor icy and composed. "I think that''s enough, darling," she said with cutting calmness. "We''ve put so much effort in him, i don¡¯t want to start at the beginning again.¡°

    With an angry snort, Bard turned back to the morning ritual, while Madame Lorena¡¯s gaze, sharp as a cold blade, fixed on the crumpled Azrael. ¡°Dare to disrupt the sacred ritual again, and you will die.¡± Her voice was as emotionless as the frost of a winter afternoon. ¡°Let me see your eye.¡±

    Trembling and wracked with pain, Azrael slowly moved his hand away from his injured eye. His limited field of vision made it hard to focus on his surroundings. Warm blood trickled down his cheek, mingling with the chill of the early morning air. Madame Lorena inspected the wound with an expression of detached indifference.

    ¡°Forget about your eye,¡± she muttered after a brief but thorough examination. Her eyes remained unmoved, her face devoid of any trace of sympathy.

    Without wasting another word, she retrieved a gray bandage from her pocket, its scent of herbs and freshly cut fabric cutting through the cold air. She applied the bandage with precise yet harsh movements, aiming to stop the bleeding. Her touch was cold and merciless, treating the bandage as more of a necessary formality than a genuine act of care.

    ¡°If anyone asks, say you hit your eye on the edge of the table,¡± she ordered, dismissing him with a disdainful wave of her hand. ¡°Leave.¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    With throbbing pain and visible limitations that made his movements clumsy and uncertain, Azrael hastily left the doorway. His restricted field of vision distorted the world around him, rendering it blurry and uneven. Every step became an uncoordinated struggle against the numbness and cold that hung over him like a heavy shroud.

    As he stepped outside, the pulsating pain from his lost eye made it difficult to focus. Each movement felt shaky, his sense of balance skewed. He stumbled over an uneven stone in the ground and narrowly avoided colliding with a branch by twisting hastily to the side, his actions more instinctive than deliberate.

    With each agonizing step forward, Azrael tried to push past the stabbing pain and his narrowed perception. Time and again, he brushed against the hedge, its dense vegetation and sharp twigs proving an additional hazard. Every collision made him flinch back with a sharp cry, and he fought the overwhelming urge to break down in anger or frustration.

    Finally, he reached the street and gazed upon the houses of Lindell, which lined up like a simple yet charming parade. The buildings were made of rough-hewn sandstone and wood, their uneven surfaces marked by the passage of time. The sandstone walls had developed a muted hue, giving them a sense of history and permanence. The roofs were covered with dark brown tiles or a thick layer of straw. Small chimneys occasionally emitted smoke, filling the air with the scent of burning wood.

    The windows were narrow and rectangular, their wooden frames showing cracks and signs of wear. Through the small, irregular glass panes, only weak light filtered in, casting a dim, melancholic glow inside. The doors were made of solid wood, firmly set into their frames and adorned with sturdy iron fittings that exuded an antique charm.

    The alleys between the houses were narrow, paved with uneven cobblestones, some covered with moss. The scent of earth and aged wood hung in the air, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of the residents going about their daily routines.

    Azrael felt lost in this environment, yet the painful memories of the confrontation and the blood that clouded his vision pushed him onward. Despite the struggles, only one thought remained in his mind: to find the murderer and unravel the mystery of his past.

    He himself stood on a path that resembled a makeshift road made of crumbling sandstone. The ground crunched beneath his feet with every step, the dust swirling in the air as he glanced through it. In the distance, he could make out the vague outlines of several market stalls. They appeared blurred, as though covered by an invisible veil. In front of the sandy-colored houses, people knelt in prayer, their hands tightly clasped, their lips moving in silent words. Their bodies were in deep harmony with the devotions.

    To his left, several fields stretched out, where the grain stood in dense rows, gently swaying in the wind. A narrow dirt path wound through the golden rows, leading toward a dark forest that sat at the foot of a nearby mountain.

    He hesitated, casting a nervous glance at the worshippers who remained frozen in silent devotion. After a moment of thought, he decided to follow the path toward the forest, hoping to find a place for himself there. The distant murmurs of the prayers made him shudder, prompting him to keep his distance.

    Carefully, he took his steps, mindful of making no noise. But the lost eye made him uncertain, and he kept stumbling over loose stones that shifted beneath his feet. His movements were clumsy. The deep green of the forest grew nearer, the pines standing like massive pillars against the gray sky. The air became heavier, the silence more oppressive.

    When he reached the forest floor, he immediately noticed the thick moss that stretched like a damp carpet across the ground. Every step was muted, and his feet left barely any marks in the soft mass. The pines stood tall and unmoving, while no shrubs or other vegetation disturbed the forest¡¯s stillness. He carefully crouched down, his fingers feeling the damp moss until they found the shallow prints, which felt immediately familiar.

    ¡°Fallow deer,¡± he murmured softly. The tracks were fresh, not yet washed away by the last rain. He lifted his gaze and moved deeper into the woods.

    Suddenly, he collided with the rough trunk of a tree. A suppressed curse escaped his lips. The lack of sight on his left side was like a blind spot, causing him to stumble again and again. The dead angle forced him to move slower, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on.

    ?I have to be more careful,¡° he scolded himself, his voice a hoarse whisper swallowed by the dense forest.

    Hours passed, and the shadows of the trees grew longer. The forest seemed endless, but to his relief, he finally found what he had been searching for. A small clearing, hidden between the trees. The ground was level, the grasses sparse and soft beneath his feet. It was silent. An eerie stillness surrounded him.

    The second spot he discovered was even more secluded¡ªa vast moss field lying beneath the thick canopy of the ancient pine trees. Little light reached the forest floor here. The towering trees stood spaced far apart, their trunks rising like ancient sentinels into the sky. It was dark, cool, and quiet¡ªexactly the kind of place he needed.

    Azrael stood in the middle of the moss field. The scent of resin filled his nostrils, though it was faint¡ªthe whole left side of him remained muted, distant. A slight breeze swayed the trees in harmony with nature. Over and over, he heard the soft tapping of a woodpecker, its rhythmic drumming echoing through the silence like a heartbeat. He removed his outer clothing and shoes, feeling the coldness of the ground beneath him, though his missing eye left him with a disjointed sense of perception.

    With a deep breath, he sprinted forward. But running was a challenge¡ªevery time he used the trees as obstacles, the left side of his field of vision felt like a black hole. More than once, he came dangerously close to the trunks.

    With one particularly daring step, he nearly collided head-on with a tree that lay in his blind spot. A dull pain spread through his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to slow down.

    Sweat dripped from his forehead as he collapsed to the ground after the first sprint. His body trembled, his muscles burned, but the pain helped him push the thoughts away. As he tried to steady his breath, a memory suddenly slipped into his mind: his mother''s face, her warm smile, her gentle stroke across his cheek. A wave of sadness and emptiness spread through him, a painful lump lodged in his throat. He didn¡¯t want to think about it.

    With a jerk, he sprang to his feet, as if to shake the memory off.

    His heart pounded wildly as he set off again, this time faster, harder. The trees seemed to be closing in on him, but he dodged them, pushing off with all his might as though he could shove the memories away with each step.

    "Not now," he muttered. He couldn¡¯t afford to be weak.

    He spent the rest of the day on more exercises: push-ups, stretching, pull-ups, and squats. But even here, he noticed how the lack of orientation made his training more difficult. With the push-ups, he lost his balance if he leaned too much to one side. He gritted his teeth.

    "Strength isn¡¯t enough," he told himself. "Mobility and flexibility are just as important."

    He adjusted his exercises: with the next push-ups, he pushed up as quickly as possible to train his reaction time. Sweating and with his throbbing eye, he finally returned at nightfall, each step deliberate, careful not to stumble.

    One thing had become very clear to him. The missing eye would continue to cause him problems.

 Chapter 5. Agreement

    Shortly before his return, Lorena and Bard sat across from each other in the dimly lit room. The scent of burnt wood lingered in the air, and Bard''s gruff voice broke the silence.

    "The boy shows promise," he grumbled, setting down his cup.

    Lorena raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. "Are you sure?" Her words were cold, as if she engaged in the conversation reluctantly.

    "Yes. He¡¯d make a fine soldier. Even at his young age, he managed to react to my attack," Bard replied, his tone devoid of pride.

    Lorena¡¯s face twisted as if she¡¯d tasted something bitter. "Hmm, our reputation would greatly improve if he joined the army. But I have no desire to encourage that brat. The mere fact that he had such cowardly parents... it disgusts me. And worse still is their betrayal of the holy light of God."

    Her lips pressed tightly together, and disgust was etched across her face. For a moment, it seemed as if she had to restrain herself from slamming her fist on the table.

    "I have a suggestion," Bard continued, as if trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "We offer him the chance to train freely and search for his parents'' killer, on the condition that he joins the army when he turns sixteen."

    Lorena''s eyes gleamed, her cold expression shifting to a cynical smile. "A good idea. He¡¯ll never find the murderer anyway. But he can¡¯t begin searching until he¡¯s sixteen. And what if he turns against us?"

    Bard shrugged indifferently. "He¡¯s weaker than I am," he grunted, his hands gripping his cup firmly. Having served several years in the army, the thought of Azrael posing any threat to him didn¡¯t trouble him in the slightest.

    "We¡¯ll simply keep reminding him that the Church is on our side," he added. "There won¡¯t be any issues."

    Lorena nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing as her thoughts turned to Azrael. "Indeed. It¡¯s time he learns his place."

    A creaking sound interrupted the silence as the front door opened.

    "It seems he¡¯s here," Bard remarked casually.

    Lorena shot a disdainful glance toward the door. "Azrael, come here!" she called out, her voice sharp and icy.

    "Great, looks like they¡¯re not too happy about my extended absence," Azrael thought gloomily as he felt the tense atmosphere pressing down on him. The piercing gazes of his relatives seemed to suck the air from his lungs as he reluctantly approached the table.

    Lorena greeted him with a cold smile and gestured for him to sit. "We want you to join the army when you turn sixteen," she announced as if the decision had already been made.

    "No." The response came without hesitation. His gaze hardened, and his jaw clenched. The memory of his parents, who had sacrificed everything to keep him from such a fate, burned within him. Even if they tried to force him¡ªhe could never give in to them.

    But Lorena remained unfazed, continuing with an unyielding tone: "In return, you¡¯ll be allowed to train without interference. Additionally, after joining, you¡¯ll be granted permission to search for your parents¡¯ killer."

    Azrael¡¯s heart raced as he absorbed the words. Silently, he weighed his options, his gaze fixed on the ground. "The offer is tempting," he thought, his hands twitching nervously. "Training is my top priority right now, even if it¡¯s just a means to an end. My parents would never have wanted this, but... I could refuse once I¡¯m strong enough."

    He lifted his head, his eyes narrowed and watchful. "Agreed," he finally said, his voice steady. "I¡¯ll accept the offer."

    Lorena leaned back slightly, as if she had expected nothing less. "I¡¯ll inform the Church as well," she continued, a hint of triumph curling her lips into a faint smile. "Solaren is the way and the light. He will guide you on the right path."

    Azrael felt her words rumble within him. "She¡¯s warning me," he thought, his gaze momentarily dropping to the floor. The idea of the Church intervening didn¡¯t worry him to much¡ªin fact, he was ready to stand against them if it came to that. Yet he knew he had to avoid conflict for now. Any disruption to his plans would be too great a risk.

    That evening, Azrael fell into a deep, dreamless sleep ¨C his physical exhaustion took its toll. But the peace did not last long.

    "Mother!" he suddenly screamed, his voice tearing through the silence of the night. Drenched in sweat and with wide-open eyes, he sat upright. His heart pounded violently in his chest as he looked around frantically. The familiar surroundings of his room slowly emerged from the darkness. He took deep breaths in and out as the realization struck him like a cold shiver: "Another nightmare..." His tension eased, and his breathing gradually steadied.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    Azrael wiped his forehead and stared at the ceiling. "I have to get rid of these cursed dreams somehow," he murmured, despair evident in his voice. The thought refused to leave him. "More training¡­ maybe it will help." His gaze hardened, filled with determination. "If I wake up because of a nightmare, I¡¯ll train. If I feel lonely, I¡¯ll train even harder. Sooner or later, it has to stop."

    A new idea began to take shape. "I could sleep in the forest. No relatives, no chatter. Just me and my training." The thought of being alone in the wilderness promised peace, but also new challenges. "I¡¯ll provide my own food. Hunting practice¡­ that would be useful." The prospect of supporting himself this way financially made sense to him. "Besides, I need money."

    His expression darkened as his thoughts turned to his bow, the only gift that had ever truly mattered to him. But even that, they had denied him. "They could have at least brought the bow," he growled quietly. Hatred flared within him. "How could they be so indifferent?"

    Suddenly, he froze. "Wait a minute¡­ how did I even get here?" The question gnawed at him. "I was in Care Brune, and now I¡¯m¡­ far away. How is that possible? Was I unconscious for that long?" His thoughts churned, the memory of it seeming blurry.

    "What was I just thinking?" For a moment, his mind went blank, as though someone had thrown a veil over his thoughts. "Well, it can¡¯t have been that important," he muttered, shaking his head. Something gave him pause, but he quickly pushed the thought aside.

    Azrael decided to head into town to search for work. His options were limited, but he knew he had to find a way. Madame Lorena had casually mentioned a wash bucket in her garden that he could use. The coldness in her words hadn¡¯t escaped him, but he tried to brush it off.

    "Under no circumstances can I disturb her morning prayers," he reminded himself, a shiver running down his spine. His hand instinctively moved to the place where his eye used to be. The loss still burned deeply in his soul.

    Quietly, he crept out into the garden. The morning air was cool, and the damp ground chilled his feet. The garden stretched nearly three dozen meters in length and about a dozen meters in width¡ªa secluded, silent world encircled by a dense hedge. At the far end, he spotted a small, weathered wooden shed with a fenced-in area in front of it. Inside, about three dozen chickens scratched at the earth, and four goats stood motionless in the cool dawn. Their soft bleating was the only sound breaking the stillness.

    To his right, a small stream cut through the garden. The current gurgled gently, and beside it, a large tub was embedded into the earth. Here, he could wash himself. Azrael approached the water hesitantly, feeling the icy coldness as it splashed against his skin. He washed quickly, almost in a rush, as if afraid to delay the ritual any longer. Once he was done, he dressed and tied a band around his head¡ªmuch like an eye patch, to cover the disfigured emptiness on the left side. The sight of his lost eye was hard for him to bear, let alone for others.

    The sun had not yet risen, so he was able to leave the house unnoticed. The stillness of the dawn enveloped everything in an eerie quiet. The day before, he had briefly mentioned his long absence. But Madame Lorena seemed not to care about his words. Her indifference cut deep, but he knew it made no difference to her. With the rune binding him to this place, escape was impossible anyway. He was trapped, just as he was in his nightmares.

    Bard had reacted similarly. Azrael couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that it didn¡¯t bother him in the slightest if he disappeared. Perhaps he was even relieved by it.

    "For them, I''m nothing but a tool," Azrael thought, unmoved, as he walked through the dim morning twilight. His hand once again brushed against his eye patch. "But that will change. One day, I''ll be strong enough to leave all of this behind."

    "Damn, everyone''s still asleep." Snorting in frustration at his own stupidity, Azrael changed his course. "I''ll add survival training to my exercises," he decided firmly and stepped into the cool morning air of the forest.

    Until the town awoke, he used the time to explore the two chosen spots in the woods. The moss field he had selected stretched out like a green carpet, gently shaded by the dense tree canopies. The trees stood tall and majestic, their thick trunks covered in deep green lichens that bathed the light in a soft, muted glow.

    "This will be where I set up camp," he murmured, as he found the perfect spot at the edge of the moss field. "From here, I¡¯ll have the best access to the necessary resources."

    To the north of the field, a clear, sparkling river wound its way through the forest. The water gently rippled over smooth stones, and the sun broke into shimmering light reflections on the river''s surface. The banks were lined with soft, damp mud, regularly replenished by the constant movement of the water.

    "Perfect." The animals he intended to hunt would gather here to drink. Upon closer inspection, he even spotted a few fish gliding through the clear current, making the river an ideal place for his plans.

    The surroundings were dotted with fallen trees and scattered branches. The bark of the trees was partially overgrown with moss and small fungi. The gnarled, branching trunks and scattered logs provided him with plenty of material to build shelter.

    "I just need to make sure I find the best spots," he thought to himself, scanning the terrain with his sharp gaze. "It will still be hours before the shops open," he mused. "I can use the time to start building the camp."

    A new idea began to take shape in him. Perhaps he could sell part of his hunt. That would help him become financially independent without wasting time on unnecessary work.

    "First, I''ll stack deadwood," he planned. "Then I''ll find someone willing to pay a good price for game meat. Merchants or locals are sure to be interested. If not, I ca do other small works, like cleanig."

    With a clear goal in mind, Azrael set to work. Building the camp was hard labor. The soft ground of the moss field pressed under his feet with each step. The air was fresh and cold, filled with the quiet rustling of the trees and the occasional chirping of birds.

    Hours passed, and when he finally took a break, sweat dripped from his forehead. His hands were stained brown with earth and dirt, and his muscles burned from the effort. Yet, in the heart of the forest, surrounded by the serene beauty of nature, he felt alive¡ªeach moment pulling him further away from his past and closer to the independence he longed for.

 Chapter 6. Hunt and escape

    Excited, Azrael started running straight towards the town, only to become aware of his disheveled appearance. Frustrated, he trudged back to the creek.

    "Man, am I stupid or what? I should at least think a little before doing something," he scolded himself. "Well, time for another shower."

    The icy water pierced his unprotected skin like cold needles. A hiss escaped his pale lips.

    "Look, someone''s swimming over there," a childlike voice rang out.

    Startled, Azrael turned to the speaker. Three boys, likely his age, stood on the opposite bank of the river.

    "I don¡¯t even know him. Who is that?" called a blond-haired boy who stood out due to his noticeable overweight.

    "I wonder if he can even see his feet anymore. How much do you have to eat to look like that?" Azrael thought disdainfully. The thought of the chubby boy, who clearly struggled to move, felt foreign and incomprehensible to him.

    He himself had never had problems with obesity. He couldn¡¯t imagine what it would be like to feel limited by such a body. Azrael only truly felt alive when he was sprinting through the forest, scaling stone walls, or practicing with his sword. All of that was out of reach for the fat boy.

    Azrael had a lean yet muscular physique. At first glance, his frame resembled that of a young athlete who had carefully cultivated his fitness and strength. The muscles beneath his skin were well-defined but not excessively prominent. His abdomen was taut, his narrow hips and well-proportioned upper body a testament to the regular effort he put into his training. His arms and legs bore the marks of persistent, rigorous work, though his young age left no room for exaggeration.

    His face was that of a determined young man, though traces of his past marred his appearance. On the left side, where an eye would typically be, the skin was pale and uneven. The empty eye socket, concealed by a firm band, combined with his well-toned body to create a striking image. Despite the scar that ran into the hollow of his lost eye, he exuded an unyielding will and determination that everyone around him could feel.

    "Leon, haven¡¯t you heard about that new crazy one yet?" whispered a tall boy. With his long, dark brown hair and well-groomed appearance that hinted at a wealthy background, he stood almost a full head taller than Azrael. His hair fell in soft curls, and his finely embroidered tunic emphasized his aristocratic demeanor.

    "Right, I think my mother mentioned something like that once," Leon called out mockingly.

    Fascinated, Azrael observed how Leon''s stomach jiggled with every movement.

    "Franz," the third boy addressed the tall, brown-haired one with respect. "Should we play a round of Battleship?" His tone carried hints of mockery and aggression.

    "The smallest hides his oversized ego behind the strongest," Azrael remarked indifferently.

    Since he had more important matters to attend to, he turned away from the boys to leave the water.

    "Friedrich, Friedrich, you''re always so impatient," Franz, the leader of the small group, sighed with a meaningful glance. "The poor boy already has to suffer under the heretical decisions of his parents. Surely, you¡¯re aware of their blasphemous deeds. Show some tact."

    Laughing, the three boys watched as the white-haired boy in front of them froze abruptly. His piercing green eye, as if chiseled from stone, fixed on them motionlessly. His jaw muscles tightened, and his lips pressed into a thin line. The hatred in his gaze sparkled like embers on the verge of bursting into flames.

    "Calm down, calm down," he whispered repeatedly in his thoughts, as if the words could play a soothing melody within him. His breathing quickened, and his hands clenched into fists, tightening the skin over his knuckles. It took immense willpower to contain the rage that simmered inside him like a wild, untamed beast. With a tense expression, he slowly turned away and quickened his steps, as if trying to escape the mockery of the others.

    "The poor boy," Franz sighed dramatically, clasping his hands in a prayer-like gesture and gazing skyward. "God must have abandoned him entirely. Father Uranon spoke of the kindness of his relatives. They took in the forsaken boy, even though he strayed from the path of the radiant light. May the light grant his poor soul peace in death." His voice was a saccharine whisper of pity.

    "You¡¯re so compassionate," Leon murmured with reverent nodding, his eyes shining with admiring approval.

    Azrael felt his anger building within him, boiling like lava on the verge of eruption. "If you don¡¯t shut your damn mouths, I¡¯ll put you down!" he growled, his voice trembling with suppressed violence. The flames in his green eyes burned brighter, as if madness itself flickered within them.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    Friedrich¡¯s mocking grin didn¡¯t falter for a second. "It seems your parents didn¡¯t think much of teaching you manners." His words stung like poisoned arrows, each one an attempt to shatter Azrael¡¯s self-control.

    Azrael¡¯s muscles tensed, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. It was too much. Without thinking, he whirled around, ready to cross the water and literally shut the boy up.

    But in the middle of his motion, he froze. His gaze locked onto a figure several meters away from the boys¡ªa woman. Something about her was profoundly wrong.

    Her tangled black hair hung wildly over her face, as if it hadn¡¯t seen a comb in weeks. Her upper body was grotesquely hunched forward, as though weighed down by an invisible burden. Her clothing was nothing more than shredded rags that fluttered with each gust of wind. But it was her eyes that held him captive¡ªblack, wide open, and unnaturally twitching, as if feverishly searching for something.

    The saliva dripping from her mouth only deepened the chill running down Azrael¡¯s spine.

    And those eyes¡­ They were fixed on Franz.

    The moment Azrael¡¯s gaze landed on the woman, a cold d¨¦j¨¤ vu coursed through him. It felt as if he were being hurled back in time¡ªto another part of the forest, another moment, where he had encountered something just as dangerous and unpredictable.

    He had been about seven years old, wandering the woods with a small pouch in hand, searching for berries. The sun hung low in the sky, the shadows of the trees stretching long, and the only sound breaking the silence was the rustling of leaves in the wind. Those days had been lonely, and Azrael had grown accustomed to being alone. But that day was different.

    At one point, as he plucked a handful of dark red berries, he heard the snap of branches followed by a deep, menacing growl. Azrael had turned slowly, finding himself face to face with a wild bear. The creature was massive, with shaggy fur and a dripping maw, its eyes wide with bloodlust. Foam gathered at the corners of the bear¡¯s mouth, making it look almost rabid¡ªout of control, driven by an insatiable hunger.

    Azrael¡¯s heart pounded in his chest. Time seemed to stand still. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to run, but he knew any sudden movement could seal his fate. All he could do was stand there, paralyzed by fear, as the bear locked eyes with him, ready to pounce. Yet after what felt like an eternity¡ªor perhaps just the blink of an eye¡ªthe bear turned and disappeared into the thicket, as if it had lost its desire to attack.

    The memory of that moment, of the raw ferocity in the animal¡¯s eyes, never left him. And now, as he stared at this woman, the same sense of uncontrollable danger gripped him. She exuded that primal menace, like a rabid beast poised to strike at any moment.

    Azrael¡¯s body tensed almost imperceptibly as he watched the woman lean forward, her hands grazing the ground before she suddenly charged¡ªlike an animal hunting its prey. A chilling shiver ran down his spine, but his thoughts remained oddly focused. Her erratic, lurching gallop didn¡¯t shock him; it triggered something else: calculation.

    His eyes darted from the woman to the boys. They were still laughing, oblivious, as if the world around them wasn¡¯t unraveling. Their voices had faded into a muffled background hum. They didn¡¯t matter anymore. The threat was right in front of him.

    "What is the next step?" he thought sharply, feeling his muscles tense. Unarmed, no cover, the woman faster than she should be¡ªno time for mistakes.

    With a determined jerk, he turned and started running, his feet splashing through the shallow water. Every movement was precise and purposeful. As soon as he left the deeper water, he gained speed. The thought of the three boys completely faded away.

    The image of the woman, running on all fours like a predator, burned into his memory, but he managed to push it aside.

    "She¡¯ll get to the others first," he thought, as his fingers hastily pulled his shirt over his still wet body. The cold bit into his skin, but it was a mere inconvenience. Shoes. Essential. Time was short, but every second was well spent.

    His movements remained precise, without trembling or panic. In his mind, he pieced the facts together like parts of a puzzle.

    "If it comes to a chase, cold will be my enemy. I need freedom of movement. Pants first, then shoes." He ignored the damp spots on his body, dressing with practiced efficiency, never stopping to think.

    The situation was clear. No room for unnecessary emotions¡ªjust clear decisions.

    Azrael heard the scream. A piercing sound that cut through the silence like a blade. Reflexively, he turned around, his eyes briefly focused on the scene behind him. Franz lay on the ground, the woman above him. Her fingers dug into his neck, as she bit into his flesh like an animal.

    Blood splattered, red droplets flying into the air, mingling with pieces of flesh. Azrael saw Franz desperately thrashing, his hands flailing helplessly, but it only seemed to provoke her further.

    A finger dug into Franz''s eye as he screamed, this time thinner, hollower¡ªlike a final gasp before the end.

    Azrael forced himself to look away. The other boys were already running, their legs carrying them away from the horror in a panic. Not a second had they hesitated, leaving their "leader" to madness. Azrael''s mouth twitched; he almost laughed. It was a bitter, cold realization¡ªthese boys, who had felt so strong and superior, were now running like frightened rabbits.

    Azrael''s gaze fell on Leon, who was running clumsily, his movements awkward and slow, as if his body was betraying him. A malicious thought shot through his mind, and a barely noticeable smile curled his lips. "Leon, roll faster," he called mockingly, his expression cold. The irony in his words brought him a strange sense of satisfaction as he watched the two boys flee without any regard for each other.

    Without further hesitation, he turned away. There was nothing left to hold him there. His body picked up speed again, and he disappeared into the dense forest, the echo of the screams still in his ears, but his mind already clear and focused on what mattered ¨C survival.

 Chapter 7. Blood and Death

    ¡°Damn it, I¡¯m too slow,¡± Leon thought, panic gripping him tighter with each step. Behind him, the fading screams of his friend echoed faintly, but the horror was far from over. The wet, nauseating sound of flesh tearing apart made him retch repeatedly, his throat burning as stomach acid clawed its way up.

    He couldn¡¯t stop himself from looking back. What he saw froze the blood in his veins: the beast tore Franz¡¯s arm from his body as easily as a child ripping apart a stuffed toy. Franz¡¯s body crumpled to the ground, limp and lifeless, like a shattered plaything.

    Terror overwhelmed him as he felt his bladder give way. The sharp stench of urine mixed with the metallic tang of blood thick in the air. He had no control over his body, no control over anything anymore.

    A fleeting glance at the monster behind him forced a pitiful squeak from his throat. The distance between them was maybe fifty meters¡ªhardly enough to survive. Friedrich was far ahead, much farther from the danger. But Leon could feel it closing in on him, his end drawing nearer with every moment.

    In that moment, it hit him: he was going to die. Here. Now. His life¡ªinsignificant as it had been¡ªwould end in the most horrific way imaginable. No more dinners, no midnight snacks. Instead, he himself would become a snack, torn apart and devoured by this monster.

    Tears stung his eyes as he sobbed, cursing his lack of athleticism for the first time in his life. ¡°If only I were faster... faster than Friedrich,¡± he thought desperately. Then, he stopped in his tracks as a chilling realization struck him like a blow.

    ¡°Wait...¡±

    ¡°I can make it. I just have to keep running. Keep going. The creature will be busy with Leon for long enough,¡± Friedrich thought frantically. He dared a quick glance over his shoulder. The female monstrosity loomed over Franz¡¯s corpse, her hair whipping around her like a storm, an obscene aura of destruction radiating from her. She held the torn-off head aloft like a trophy, blood dripping from it in steady streams. Greedily, the creature let it flow into her open mouth, as though drawing power from the gore.

    At that moment, Leon came to an abrupt halt.

    ¡°What the hell are you doing, you lunatic? Do you want to die?¡± Friedrich shouted, fury and fear sharpening his voice.

    Friedrich could barely conceal the mockery bubbling inside him. ¡°Come on, you fat slob. Just keep running a little longer. Every second you slow it down is another second I win,¡± he jeered inwardly.

    His spindly legs carried him as fast as they could. But suddenly¡ª

    Boom!

    A heavy blow struck the back of his head. He stumbled and crashed to the ground. His vision blurred, and for a moment, everything went black. As consciousness slowly crept back, he felt disoriented and wracked with pain. He tried to push himself up, but¡ª

    ¡°Stay right where you are,¡± came a familiar voice from directly behind him, cold and menacing.

    ¡°Leon!¡± Friedrich roared, his voice trembling with boiling rage, but his shout was swallowed by the encroaching darkness. A heavy rock slammed against his head, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

    Leon could barely believe his prayer had been answered. Relief flooded through him as he silently thanked the god of light and purity for this unexpected blessing. The throw had been perfect.

    ¡°Now move,¡± he whispered urgently to himself, forcing his legs into motion. He resisted the urge to look back, focusing instead on the faint glimmer of hope ahead.

    A heavy silence descended upon the clearing. No wet, slurping sounds. No growls. The world seemed to pause for a fleeting moment. Leon gambled everything and ran on desperately. In the distance, he spotted an imposing tree in full bloom.

    "Hopefully, it can¡¯t climb," he thought, as the last shred of realism kept him from blindly fleeing toward the village. The idea of reaching it in time felt increasingly unrealistic.

    The thought of Franz¡ªthe sacrifice he had left behind¡ªcut through his mind like a razor-sharp blade. They had been good friends. Memories of their shared laughter and conversations surged to the surface, unbidden and cruel. The pain of knowing Franz had been brutally murdered, and that Leon had been powerless to stop it, gnawed at him.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Leon reached the tree and felt his legs give out beneath him. His lungs burned like fire, and his thoughts churned into a chaotic storm. The sharp stench of urine clinging to him didn¡¯t matter anymore. Only one thing did: finding safety.

    With trembling hands, he reached for the lowest branch. His muscles, weakened by exhaustion and fear, protested with every movement. Thoughts of Franz, whose death now weighed on him with unbearable clarity, flooded his mind. The loss of his friend was a crushing blow, but the primal urge to survive burned stronger.

    With a desperate gasp, he hauled himself up. Every muscle screamed in defiance, yet the memory of Franz, who would never stand beside him again, pushed him onward. The solid grip of the branch was his only anchor in this living nightmare.

    Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he climbed higher into the tree. He felt the bark splintering under his hands, cutting into his fingers until they bled, but fear propelled him forward. Every snap and rustle in the forest below made him flinch, certain the beast would appear at any moment.

    At last, after what felt like an eternity, he found a sturdy branch wide enough to perch on. Shaking, he pulled his legs close to his chest and tried to remain as still as possible. He barely dared to breathe as his wide eyes scanned the clearing below.

    Not far away, he saw Friedrich being torn apart systematically. The monster gripped his right arm first. Its feet planted firmly on Friedrich¡¯s chest. With a powerful yank, the arm was ripped from its socket, leaving nothing but a gaping, bloodied wound.

    His thoughts spiraled in chaotic disarray as he tried to absolve himself of the guilt. ¡°I... I couldn¡¯t help. What was I supposed to do? Should I have followed him? What if I had died too?¡±

    The words sounded hollow, and Leon knew it. But in his desperate attempt to calm himself, he grasped at any small excuse that might make his conscience more bearable. ¡°I had to run to survive. Maybe... maybe I could have saved him if I¡¯d been faster.¡±

    The thought that, in the crucial moment, he had only thought of himself gnawed at him. The idea that he had abandoned his friend was a burden almost too heavy to bear. But in his desperate effort to forgive himself, he clung to the thought that it wasn¡¯t entirely his failure¡ªthat perhaps Friedrich¡¯s own rash decision had sealed his fate.

    In the stillness of the early morning, as he hid safely in the tree, Leon wrestled with the ghosts of the past and the uncertainty of his own choices.

    Friedrich lay lifeless, showing no sign of response. Impatiently, the creature seized the remaining eye and devoured it. With a bloodstained mouth and face speckled with crimson, it turned its attention toward Leon¡¯s hiding place.

    It sniffed with its nose raised. The trembling Leon held his breath. Fear-sweat formed on his forehead. Every cell in his body screamed for him to flee.

    "Don''t move, don''t breathe, don''t exist," he repeated over and over in his mind. The sight he had witnessed earlier had already traumatized him completely. He had to watch it. He couldn''t bring himself to look away.

    Thoughts of how he would be torn apart himself plagued his mind.

    "Ugh," he exhaled quietly. The creature turned away from him. A wave of relief washed over him. "I can survive."

    In a swift motion, it spun around on its own axis. In its hand, it held the severed arm. With a powerful movement, the arm left its hand.

    "The question is how much time it gives me," Azrael thought with an impassive expression. They had insulted his parents. Their deaths didn''t matter.

    "The creature seemed quite human," he analyzed as he ran. At first glance, it was easy to think of it as just a monster. In a way, it certainly was, without a doubt.

    "But despite everything, it seems to have no abilities."

    A completely insane human seemed to be the most fitting description. "If I''m right, I can kill it. But not now. I need more preparation."

    His chances of reaching the village unscathed looked very good. For that reason, he dismissed the thought of hiding.

    A desperate scream reached him.

    The arm collided with Leon. He staggered. Sweat beads fell to the ground. His arms flailed through the air, searching for support. In vain.

    With a feeling of helplessness, his feet slipped off the branch. He fell. Plummeting hopelessly three meters into the depths.

    "This is it. If only I had been faster. If only I had trained more. If only I had realized the reaction of the white-haired devil better. In the end, only death remained. Every life eventually meets its end. His was now approaching."

    Regret tormented him. There were so many things to achieve. So many treats to devour.

    The impact came. All breath left his lungs. Not even a cry of pain escaped him.

    Several bones shattered under the violent impact. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth.

    And then it came. Slowly, step by step. It recognized his vulnerability perfectly. The fat prey lying on the ground could no longer resist. No longer flee. Slowly, it advanced with satisfaction.

    One could say it reveled in the situation. Its legs tensed. With a powerful leap, it pounced on him. Resigned, his eyes closed.

    The monster grabbed him by the neck. With a maniacal cackle, it slammed his head into the ground. Again and again and again. Until it burst. Then it burrowed into his chest, seized the weakly beating heart, and devoured it.

    Her hair, her clothes, her teeth¡ªeverything was dripping with blood. Yet the creature did not seem satisfied. Its bloodlust burned even stronger.

    Her gaze wandered around. It searched desperately for any living creatures. None were in sight. A disappointed scream escaped her lips.

    Slowly, her eyes began to regain clarity. As if nothing had happened, she trudged toward the river, stepped into the water, and swam.

    On the other side of the river, she spotted a pair of underwear left behind on the shore. With a detached gesture, she bent down and picked up the garment. Her blood-soaked face showed no emotion as she looked at the underwear, which seemed like an odd detail in the scene.

 Chapter 8. Weard Situation

    Azrael dashed through the thicket, his lungs burning like fire, his thighs feeling as though they were made of lead. The relentless sprint was a test of both his physical and mental limits. Thanks to the grueling training he had imposed on himself, he could cover long distances without collapsing.

    "Almost there. Just past the thick oak to the right, and I should reach the dirt road," he muttered breathlessly, his thoughts a constant mantra to drown out the searing exhaustion. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, ever watchful for any signs of danger pursuing him.

    He came to an abrupt halt at the entrance to his house, his heart pounding as his chest rose and fell in quick, labored movements. Casting a hurried glance over his shoulder, he sighed in relief when he saw no trace of the monster. "Just as expected," he murmured with satisfaction, pushing open the door to the despised house, which, for once, felt oddly welcoming.

    His gaze froze on the bodies before him. They couldn¡¯t have been much older than he was.

    His short, raven-black hair was a tangled mess, matted into small clumps from his frantic pace. His face, streaked with dirt and dust, bore an expression of grim determination. It was etched into his sharp, gray-blue eyes, their piercing gaze betraying a depth of seriousness that stood in stark contrast to his young age.

    He was of slender build, but his movements carried an agile grace. Two light scimitars hung across his back, their blades glimmering faintly in the dim light of the room, casting jagged patterns on the floor. The hilts were worn, bearing the marks of countless trials. His clothing¡ªa tattered tunic and sturdy trousers¡ªwas frayed and stained from frequent use in the field.

    The boy moved with a confident ease that spoke of practiced training, yet his face betrayed a profound despair. "Why are more and more people losing control?" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the disturbing scene before him.

    The sharp lines of his face conveyed a mix of determination and helplessness. "I have to hurry. If only I knew the cause, I might still be able to help." His thoughts were consumed by an urgent resolve¡ªto uncover the source of this horror and prevent more innocents from falling victim to its grip.

    "Let me think¡ªI could probably take the creature down. The real issue is the source of this mess. As much as it disgusts me, I''ll have to tell those bastards." With resolute steps, Azrael entered the house.

    The oppressive atmosphere of the entryway pressed down on him. The shadows cast by creaking furniture and the acrid smell of old wood and burnt fat served as a constant reminder of the weight of his predicament

    Madame Lorena and Bard sat at the dining table, dimly illuminated by a flickering lamp. The two were engrossed in a hushed conversation that ceased the moment he stepped inside. Bard, a burly man with a stern expression, scrutinized him with sharp eyes, while Madame Lorena, a woman with piercing features and a cutting gaze, arched her eyebrows in a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

    "Scared of the dark, are we?" Bard greeted him with a sneering grin that accentuated his rough, angular features. Madame Lorena''s gaze sliced through him like a dagger, her thin lips curling into a sardonic smile.

    Azrael ignored their taunts, raising his hand as if to ask permission to speak. He wasn¡¯t in the mood for another slap.

    "Oh, you''re actually learning," Madame Lorena remarked, her voice saccharine but laced with a satisfaction that felt anything but warm. Her eyes bore into him, sharp and unrelenting, like knives against his defiant expression. "Well then, go ahead. What brings you here?"

    "I understand. I was attacked," he began, his voice steady, though a current of tension simmered just beneath the surface.

    "Don''t lie, boy." Bard''s booming laughter cut through the air. "No one''s going to believe your little horror story here." His tone was dripping with mockery, his voice laced with scorn and derision. "I know every kid your age. There''s no Leon, no Franz, no Friedrich. Did you make it all up? Your trauma must have spiraled into some deep nightmares. Poor kid." He punctuated his words with a bored snort before returning his attention to his meal.

    Madame Lorena and Bard resumed eating, as though Azrael¡¯s words held no significance whatsoever. Their indifference echoed painfully in his mind, lingering in the cold, heavy air of the room.

    Azrael stood rooted to the spot. What kind of reaction was that? As if I¡¯d been dreaming. Nonsense.

    Knock, knock.

    Someone was at the door.

    "Ah, that must be Amandine. Boy, go open the door!"

    Without protest, Azrael moved toward the door, his thoughts still tangled. The hinges creaked softly as he pulled it open.

    A woman with jet-black hair stepped into view. His calm demeanor shifted into a mix of shock and tension. Though he tried to maintain his composure, the figure before him clearly unsettled him.

    "Hello, my boy. You must be Azrael. It¡¯s a pleasure to finally meet you..."

    Before she could finish her sentence, Azrael leapt backward. The woman standing before him was the same one he had seen by the river. Yet, one crucial detail was missing¡ªthe blood that had haunted his visions. Her eyes now shone clearer, devoid of the wild, fiery glow etched into his memory.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    "Damn it, she followed me even here," he muttered under his breath.

    Instinctively, his hands moved into position. His left hand guarded his face, while his right hovered lower, poised for a counterattack. Despite his effort to maintain a composed exterior, he couldn¡¯t fully suppress the rising tension in his chest. His gaze locked onto the woman, studying her every movement with sharp focus.

    She stood there smiling, unfazed by his defensive stance. Her calm and composed demeanor only made Azrael¡¯s pulse quicken, though he fought to appear outwardly steady.

    "You poor boy," she said softly, her tone dripping with an unsettling mixture of warmth and pity. "Your trauma must still weigh heavily on you. Don¡¯t worry. I mean you no harm." Slowly, she reached into her bag, her movements deliberate as if trying not to alarm him.

    From her bag emerged... his underwear.

    "You must have forgotten these," she said, her smile unwavering. "I just wanted to return them to you."

    Azrael¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief. His fingertips twitched with the tension coiled within him, his mind struggling to process the surreal turn of events.

    "Something is seriously wrong here. She remembers everything. How can she hide such madness so well? What the hell is going on?"

    Hesitantly, he forced himself to step closer to her. Slowly, he extended his arm, but the haunting images of her blood-smeared lips made him flinch. Every movement, every flicker in her eyes, was scrutinized by his sharp gaze. Every muscle in his body was taut, like a drawn bowstring, ready to spring into action.

    He grabbed the clothes, his fingers brushing against the fabric. Without incident, they were back in his possession.

    "Well, that¡¯s all," she said casually, her tone disarmingly nonchalant. "I won¡¯t trouble you any further." Turning her back to him with an almost playful indifference, she began to walk away.

    "Should I attack her? I could kill her right now," Azrael thought, his mind racing. "But that would cause so many problems. My wonderful relatives would tear me apart for it."

    Reluctantly, he closed the old door behind her. The tension in his body began to ease, but only slightly.

    Late at night, as he lay in his bed, his thoughts were a storm of determination and dread.

    "I have to kill her. The sooner, the better. She knows where I live now. I have to be ready for an attack at any moment. Tomorrow, I need to prepare for the hunt."

    Slowly, his mind began to drift, the weight of his thoughts pulling him toward sleep. But suddenly, he jolted upright, his heart racing. His face was marked with worry and tension as though he could sense danger closing in.

    "How did Madame Lorena know she was coming? They didn¡¯t seem to have arranged it beforehand. Normally, she¡¯d be at the door to greet Amandine."

    Azrael began pacing the length of his room, his mind churning with suspicion. "The problem seems bigger than I thought. Maybe Bard and Madame Lorena are also affected by the anomaly. Who¡¯s to say she¡¯s the only one? I need to watch closely. Who knows how many others might be involved?"

    Before returning to bed, he crept quietly into the kitchen. From a shelf, he took a small clay jug filled with water. He also grabbed two kitchen knives.

    Back in his room, he placed one knife parallel to the door and balanced the tilted jug precariously atop it. If the door were to open, the jug would tip over, spilling its contents¡ªa rudimentary alarm. The second knife he tucked under his pillow, close to hand.

    His night was restless, plagued by the same unease as before. This time, however, the scenes in his dreams were bloodier than usual.

    Children were playing soccer with human heads. Mothers were grilling their children over open flames. Amandine sat serenely in a rocking chair, sipping a red liquid from Franz''s skull.

    She was served by two lifeless corpses¡ªone belonged to Leon, the other to Friedrich.

    Irritated, Azrael woke early in the morning. The sun was barely visible.

    ¡°These dreams are really starting to annoy me. All I want to do is sleep. Well, whatever. Let¡¯s start with the morning training.¡±

    He turned toward the door leisurely, but then his body froze. His mind was completely empty, not a single thought. Never before had he felt so hollow. Panic began to rise in him.

    The entire jug was empty, not a single drop of water remained. The knife was also gone. Frantically, he reached under his pillow.

    ¡°Gone.¡±

    For a moment, he stood there, frozen. No reaction. He didn¡¯t know what to do next.

    ¡°What¡¯s going on here? How could this happen? What should I do?¡±

    Louder and louder, the questions echoed in his mind, but there were no answers.

    Gradually, he regained some composure.

    ¡°There are two possibilities. It couldn¡¯t kill me¡­ or it didn¡¯t want to kill me. Which of these possibilities is true? The madness I saw in Amandine points to the first, but it¡¯s not certain. Such madness can¡¯t be understood by a normal person. More importantly, how did it get into my room? My window was tightly shut.¡± No solution came to him.

    ¡°Let¡¯s put that question aside for now. What should I do now? Is it safer here, or somewhere else? Damn it, damn it, damn it.¡± Desperately, he clutched his head. So many questions, with no clear answers.

    In the end, Azrael decided to stay in his room. Since he was still alive, it seemed like the wisest decision.

    After his morning training and a refreshing bath, Azrael made his way into the city. The road leading to the city was lined with dense, bustling market stalls. The noise of the townsfolk, the calls of the vendors, and the murmurs of conversations reached his ears, growing louder the closer he got to the heart of the market.

    "My main goal is to earn money. The quickest way would be theft. The problem is the potential consequences. I could get caught, and my relatives might become suspicious if I suddenly come into large sums of money. The chance of getting caught isn¡¯t that high, but the risks outweigh the reward. So I¡¯ll just walk through the stalls and ask around."

    The wide street was paved with cobblestones, the uneven surface crunching beneath the boots of the passersby. On both sides of the street, the market stalls stretched out in a colorful jumble: fresh vegetables and fruit piled high here, vibrant fabrics and handcrafted jewelry hung there.

    The smell of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and spices mixed in the air, creating a nearly tangible atmosphere of market hustle and bustle.

    The first stall Azrael approached was a food stand, its wooden frame glinting in the sunlight. The vendor, a bearded man with a sweaty brow, busily handled various types of vegetables. The scent of herbs and fresh produce filled the air.

    "Excuse me, mister, is there a way for me to earn some money here?"

    The vendor shot him a sharp look and seemed to pause for a moment. He scanned Azrael from head to toe, and a flicker of recognition flashed in his eyes before he shook his head.

    "Sorry, boy. You''re still too young to really help me."

    Azrael nodded understandingly and moved on to the next stall. This one offered fresh pastries. The air around it was filled with the tempting aroma of freshly baked rolls and sweet jams. A middle-aged woman, her hair tied in a firm bun, stood behind the table, smiling kindly.

    He asked the same question, but she too seemed to recognize him and shook her head gently, but firmly.

    So Azrael continued his search. He passed by a pub, where the loud conversations of the guests and the clinking of glasses formed a constant background noise. Even the small eatery, with its windows adorned with colorful curtains, and the other food stalls, where vendors busily arranged their goods, offered him no hope.

    Each attempt ended with the same response: "Sorry, but we don''t need anyone right now."

    The mix of desperation and frustration pushed him to reconsider theft. The thought of the potential risks and consequences seemed, at that moment, less daunting than the prospect of continuing to search unsuccessfully for an honest opportunity.

 Chapter 9. Friend or Danger

    "Hey, boy! Looking to earn some coin? I might have something for you," called a burly old man from a window.

    The shop the voice came from barely stood out among the other buildings on the street. It was plain and unassuming, with a massive, wide chimney that gave the roof a distinctive character. Above the entrance hung a sign reading "The Iron Anvil," swaying gently in the morning breeze.

    The old man peering out of the window had gray, singed hair sticking out in wild directions. His face was etched with deep lines that spoke of a lifetime of hard labor. Despite his age, he exuded an undeniable vigor and energy. His arms were so thick with muscle they rivaled the size of Azrael¡¯s thighs.

    Azrael''s heart quickened with excitement. "A blacksmith," he thought as he stepped into the shop. The air inside was heavy and smoky, laced with the metallic tang of iron and molten ore.

    The blacksmith greeted him with a coarse laugh, his voice rough as sandpaper. His long, gray beard quivered with every movement, marked with numerous scorch marks that testified to years of intense labor at the forge. Azrael immediately recognized that this man was no ordinary smith¡ªhe was a master craftsman, one who had endured countless years of grueling work.

    ?Greetings, my name is Azrael and I¡¯m here to¡­¡° Azrael began, but the blacksmith casually interrupted him.

    "Blah, blah, blah, enough with the noble blabber. Talk like a normal person, will you? I already know why you¡¯re here. Those two lunatics have been shouting your trauma from the rooftops, so I caught wind of it. Heard you train a lot too. Just man the bellows until you drop, and I¡¯ll make sure you¡¯re well paid."

    "If he wants me to speak plainly, why not push my luck a little?" Azrael thought.

    "I need a weapon. I¡¯ll work the bellows as long as it takes to cover the cost. Is that acceptable?"

    The blacksmith raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips.

    "Interesting. Yeah, that¡¯s possible. But tell me one thing." His gaze turned sharp and piercing. "Why do you need a weapon?"

    Azrael hesitated, considering his response. His first instinct was to lie, maybe mention training or self-defense. But something inside urged him to speak the truth.

    "To hunt."

    The smith¡¯s brow furrowed. "What are you hunting?"

    "A madman. No, more like a monster."

    Silence settled over the room. The blacksmith studied Azrael with a keen, scrutinizing gaze.

    "You¡¯re planning to kill a person?"

    "Yes." Azrael¡¯s voice was steady and resolute as he met the smith¡¯s eyes.

    "I understand." The smith nodded slowly and gestured toward a sturdy wooden table in the corner of the workshop. "Sit down."

    Azrael obeyed, taking a seat at the well-worn table, its surface scarred and stained from years of use. The smith pulled out a chair across from him and leaned back, as though preparing for a conversation of weighty importance.

    "Tell me exactly what happened," the smith demanded.

    Azrael drew a deep breath before recounting his experiences in plain terms. He described the encounter with the deranged woman, the eerie dreams, and the growing sense of dread that hung over him. As he spoke, his gaze never left the smith, studying his reactions for any sign of disbelief or judgment.

    "Luckily," Azrael thought, "he seems normal." It wasn¡¯t just about honesty¡ªAzrael wanted to gauge how the smith would respond to the grim details of his story.

    "Strange," the smith muttered, his tone pensive. "I¡¯ve suspected for a while that something¡¯s wrong around here. But this... it¡¯s serious. Normally, I¡¯d tell you to steer clear of all this, but I can see you¡¯ve made up your mind. You¡¯re determined to go through with this hunt."

    He sighed, as though admitting something he wasn¡¯t entirely comfortable with. "I¡¯ll help you. Truth be told, I¡¯m no great fighter myself¡ªmaybe I¡¯m too old for that. But someone like you, with resolve and the will to wield these weapons, is worth supporting."

    Azrael felt a flicker of unexpected hope. "What exactly have you noticed?"

    The smith paused for a moment, weighing his words before responding. ¡°People are growing more and more fanatical, especially in their faith. At first, belief in Solaren was more subdued, something that stayed in the background. But now? Nearly everyone has turned into a zealot.¡°

    ?Those who don¡¯t believe in him are despised. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if someone were attacked for merely insulting Solaren. On top of that, the townsfolk have become increasingly violent. There are far more fights and altercations than there used to be.¡±

    ¡°Damn,¡± Azrael muttered, a frown darkening his face. ¡°It seems like this isn¡¯t just about a few isolated individuals.¡±

    A faint sense of helplessness crept over him. He might have been able to deal with a single person, but an entire town? That felt impossible.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    After a brief silence, Azrael told Bartho about the break-in the previous night.

    ¡°If you want, you can stay here,¡± the smith offered gruffly, his voice tinged with weariness. ¡°By the way, my name¡¯s Bartholomeus, but just call me Bartho.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not a bad offer,¡± Azrael thought. Of course, there was always the chance that something was off about the smith, but his instincts told him otherwise. ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll take you up on your offer. I¡¯ll stay here.¡±

    ¡°Good, good. So be it. I¡¯ll even give you the weapon in advance. In return, you¡¯ll work the bellows every day. But don¡¯t worry,¡± Bartho said with a confident grin, ¡°you¡¯ll get something good for your effort.¡±

    After sealing their agreement with a handshake, Azrael felt the smith¡¯s grip¡ªa vise-like strength that spoke of decades at the forge. Azrael held his own, refusing to back down.

    ¡°Impressive,¡± Bartho praised, a glint of approval in his eyes. ¡°You must¡¯ve trained hard. Now, to the bellows!¡±

    Azrael followed Bartho through a doorway into another room. The space was expansive, exuding the aura of an old workshop steeped in labor and fire. The heat radiating from the sunken forge in the center seemed almost tangible, clinging to the air and skin.

    Weapons, armor, and shields lay scattered across workbenches and the floor, a testament to years of relentless craftsmanship. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of molten metal, smoke, and sweat, as if the very room was alive with the spirit of the forge.

    The floor was darkened with soot and littered with fragments of metal and ash. Shelves and hooks lined the walls, holding tools and half-finished pieces, each glinting faintly in the dim, fiery glow.

    Bartho opened a metal door with a drawn-out creak, and a searing wave of heat rushed into the room, forcing Azrael to squint. The walls beyond were sturdy stone, blackened in places by years of smoke and sparks. At the center stood a massive anvil, and atop it glowed a molten piece of metal, waiting to be shaped by force and precision. In the corner, a large trough of water stood ready, its surface eerily still except for the occasional hiss of steam as heated iron was plunged into its depths.

    ¡°This is where you¡¯ll work,¡± Bartho said, handing Azrael a pair of thick leather gloves and a heavy apron. ¡°These will help you handle the heat and protect you from sparks.¡±

    Azrael donned the gloves and apron, their weight a grounding presence. His gaze wandered to the bellows, positioned near the forge, its leather worn but sturdy. Bartho shifted the coal box toward the center of the room, clearing enough space for Azrael to move freely.

    The heat pressed down like a physical force, and the rhythmic crackling of the fire filled every corner of the room, demanding focus and resilience. This was no ordinary task¡ªthis was the domain of flame and steel, and Azrael would have to prove himself worthy within its relentless grasp.

    "Get to work," Bartho commanded before leaving Azrael alone with the bellows. Azrael immediately set to work, pumping the heavy contraption and feeding the fiery forge with air. The heat in the room was stifling, every breath a struggle, but he was determined to honor his end of the bargain.

    Sweat poured down his face, and his arms burned with relentless strain as he pushed and pulled the bellows with all his might. Two hours had passed, each minute an ordeal that tested his endurance. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles trembling from the effort, yet his resolve held firm despite his body nearing its limits.

    Bartho, observing from the doorway with a knowing smirk, finally decided to step in. "Time for a break," he announced in a calm but firm tone.

    "I can keep going," Azrael protested instantly, his voice strained and defiant.

    "If you collapse here, you''ll be of no use to anyone. Trust the eye of an old man, boy." Bartho crossed his arms and waited patiently. Reluctantly, Azrael stopped, his exhaustion evident, though frustration flickered in his eyes at being forced to pause.

    Amused yet intrigued, Bartho studied the boy closely. ¡°How did you lose your eye?¡± he asked bluntly, his gaze lingering on Azrael¡¯s exhausted figure.

    Azrael responded without looking up from his blistered hands, which were red and raw even beneath the gloves. ¡°Bard gouged it out,¡± he said coolly, his tone devoid of emotion.

    Bartho stared at him in disbelief, his voice rising in sheer outrage. ¡°What?! They¡¯re your relatives! They went through the trouble of taking you in!¡±

    Azrael scoffed bitterly. ¡°Yeah, yeah, blah blah. Eccentric bastards, only ever out for themselves.¡± Yet as he spoke, he faltered, his head snapping up as though a realization had struck him. Something in Bartho¡¯s words rang odd, pulling his attention away from his anger.

    He fixed Bartho with a piercing stare, the smith¡¯s face still etched with astonishment as he processed the revelation. But Azrael¡¯s thoughts had already veered elsewhere. ¡°You said they took me in. Do you know more about that? Like when exactly it happened?¡±

    For the first time, he realized how hazy the circumstances surrounding his arrival in Lindell truly were. Unease crept into his mind, a nagging sense of something crucial yet elusive.

    Bartho furrowed his brow, his face tightening in concentration. ¡°Let me think. The day they set out¡­ something unusual did happen here. It was the first public execution in over ten years. But I can¡¯t remember the exact date.¡±

    Azrael stared off into the distance, lost in thought, as an unsettling feeling churned within him. It was as if pieces of a puzzle refused to align. ¡°Something doesn¡¯t add up¡­ but what?¡± he murmured quietly, more to himself than to Bartho.

    ¡°You¡¯re certain you can¡¯t recall the exact date?¡± he asked again, struggling to mask his disappointment.

    Bartho shook his head with a slow sigh. ¡°No, I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    Azrael¡¯s shoulders sagged under the weight of the uncertainty. He couldn¡¯t explain why this matter gnawed at him so persistently, but it was as if a silent voice urged him to dig deeper, to uncover something vital that eluded him.

    Then, Bartho¡¯s expression shifted, and his voice cut through the moment¡¯s heaviness. ¡°Wait! If you¡¯re looking for the exact date, go to the town square. There¡¯s a gallows there, and next to it stands a stone plaque. It¡¯s engraved with the names of the executed and their dates of death.¡±

    The heaviness lifted instantly, replaced by a spark of determination and a faint flicker of hope. ¡°Thank you, Bartho. I¡¯ll check it out tonight,¡± Azrael replied, a faint sense of relief washing over him.

    ¡°Feel free to,¡± Bartho said casually. ¡°If you want, I can accompany you. It¡¯s not safe for you to walk through the city alone. If it were just the forest where you usually train, there would be fewer issues.¡±

    Azrael¡¯s eye twitched, a reflex of his growing tension, but he didn¡¯t let it show. ¡°How does he know so much about me?¡± A sense of unease stirred within him as he considered the possibility that he had become the talk of the town. ¡°Is gossip really that fast around here?¡± The thought unsettled him¡ªhis every move seemingly on display for the people of the city.

 Chapter 10. Angry Mob

    A hint of distrust toward the blacksmith stirred within him. "Is there a way to test him?" Thoughts swirled in his mind as he considered how to confirm his suspicions. "Right, everyone here loathes it when someone insults Solaren. A subtle provocation might do the trick."

    "Frankly, I''m getting tired of this blind faith in the so-called benevolent god Solaren," he muttered quietly, his gaze fixed on the blacksmith. "How can the townsfolk justify such behavior in the name of the god of light and purity? Maybe it''s time to cross him off the list of orthodox gods altogether."

    Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the old blacksmith intently, gauging his reaction. "Please, let there be no change." To his relief, Bartho''s expression remained unmoved, as though he hadn''t even registered the words.

    "You might have a point," Bartho replied thoughtfully, his eyes distant. "But keep in mind, just because they act poorly doesn''t mean Solaren shares their views."

    "Do you believe in Solaren?" Azrael asked, his curiosity piqued as he studied the old blacksmith.

    A booming laugh burst from Bartho. "No, not at all! My faith lies with the Eternal Flame, the Ember of the Heart, the god of smiths, Drain."

    Azrael lowered his gaze, fidgeting with his hands as he pondered. "I''m not very familiar with the gods. My parents always thought it was important to keep me away from such topics. But now that they''re gone, and I''m no longer a child, I want to learn more."

    "Well, someone seems curious," Bartho remarked with a gentle smile that softened his weathered features. "Let''s start with the orthodox deities. There are six of them¡ªthough that''s not entirely accurate. There''s another deity, one that''s tolerated. Perhaps you''ve noticed that people don''t always describe the gods in the same way? That¡¯s because there are different ways to refer to them.

    "For instance, with Solaren, you¡¯ll often hear descriptions like ''the radiant light,'' ''the illuminated path,'' ''the embodiment of purity,'' ''the enlightenment of the soul,'' and so on."

    Bartho leaned back, his gaze growing distant as he revisited the stories of his childhood. "As you can see, it¡¯s a form of worship that helps people understand their relationship with the gods. The qualities we attribute to them act like a mirror, reflecting what we seek within ourselves."

    Azrael nodded, his curiosity deepening with every explanation. The conversation awakened a desire within him¡ªa yearning to learn more about the world around him and the secrets still waiting to be uncovered.

    "Ah, I see. That¡¯s why you speak of the Eternal Flame¡ªit represents the forge," Azrael interrupted, his interest sparkling in his eyes.

    "Exactly! But let¡¯s move on to the gods themselves. Do you already know their names and titles?"

    "No, only Solaren," Azrael admitted, furrowing his brow.

    Bartho shook his head, his expression serious. "By the way, calling the god of purity simply ''Solaren'' is considered an insult. You should remember that, or it could come back to haunt you one day."

    Azrael''s eyes widened as he imagined the consequences of his ignorance. "I¡¯ll have to keep that in mind. Otherwise, I might end up hanged for ignorance," he muttered, half amused, half concerned.

    "Alright, let¡¯s begin," Bartho started, gathering his thoughts. "There¡¯s the god of the Eternal Flame, Drain. He is worshipped primarily by smiths, though many other craftsmen find solace in his embers.

    "Then there¡¯s the gentle wind, Zephyros. Some nature-bound peoples, revere him. But you should know that cities often have diverse beliefs."

    He paused, his voice taking on a reflective tone. "Faith is a complex landscape. Each person carries their own convictions, often shaped by their region and traditions. It¡¯s fascinating how the gods influence people¡¯s lives and shape communities."

    "Now, let¡¯s move on to the Keeper of Life, Gaia. She is especially revered by those who place great value on agriculture and the preservation of nature. Her followers find inspiration and care in her, often centering their prayers around blooming fields and fertile soil."

    Bartho paused briefly, allowing the imagery his words evoked to settle before continuing. "The coastal peoples, on the other hand, tend to worship the tides'' ebb and flow, Thalassa. They see her as the embodiment of the sea¡¯s power, both as a giver and destroyer of life. The gentle waves and violent storms are, for them, expressions of their faith and their connection to nature."Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    "And then there is the Keeper of the Night, Naira," he added, his voice lowering, almost reverent. "Her followers are primarily those who love the night. They¡¯re often¡­ peculiar, let¡¯s say. They might be the most enigmatic among the adherents of the orthodox gods."

    Bartho let a moment of silence pass before continuing. "Lastly, there¡¯s the seventh god, Arek, the Flame of Slaughter. He embodies war and bloodshed, and his followers are in constant conflict. Because of his destructive nature, he is merely tolerated in society. Worship of Arek is often steeped in fear and unease."

    "As you may have noticed," Bartho explained, his gaze resting on Azrael, whose eyes gleamed with curiosity, "the local environment plays a significant role in determining which beliefs dominate here."

    Azrael nodded in agreement, signaling that this had indeed caught his attention. Bartho allowed a brief moment of silence, giving the boy time to absorb the wealth of information. The sound of melting metal and the crackling fire filled the forge, as the dancing flames cast flickering light upon the walls.

    "That¡¯s enough for today," Bartho finally said, casting a scrutinizing glance at the glowing furnace. "The steel should be ready soon. We¡¯ll need to heat it again. Then we can begin forging your sword."

    Azrael opened his mouth to reply, surprised, but before his words could escape, a loud commotion outside the forge window interrupted him. The noise sounded like excitement, perhaps even unrest, and it made Azrael¡¯s heart skip a beat for a moment.

    "Hang the white-haired one, hang the white-haired one!" a chorus of voices roared, their words dripping with unbridled hatred.

    "What now?" Azrael muttered, his brow furrowing.

    "Seems like they''ve got a problem with you," the blacksmith observed dryly, turning toward the window.

    Cautiously, Azrael moved closer, his steps measured, as if trying to present as little of a target as possible. The furious shouts stormed into the forge like a violent gust of wind. "There, that''s him!" they cried in unison. A particularly angry boy even hurled stones in Azrael''s direction. Quickly, Azrael pulled his head back, his heart pounding faster.

    "There are ten of them. Unarmed, but they''re furious and fully convinced of their actions," he said to the blacksmith standing beside him. "What should we do?"

    Bartho considered for a moment before nodding decisively. "We¡¯ll secure the building." Together, they bolted all the doors and windows. Massive oak beams were wedged into place, groaning under the strain as they fortified the forge. For a brief moment, the sense of immediate danger seemed to subside, but the angry voices outside refused to let Azrael find peace.

    "We''ll proceed as discussed. First, we¡¯ll take care of your equipment. Even with axes, it would be hard for them to break into the forge. We''ll watch and respond accordingly."

    Azrael nodded, though an uneasy feeling gnawed at the pit of his stomach. What will happen if things escalate? The muffled shouts from outside seeped through the thick wood of the doors and windows, carrying the tense atmosphere into the forge.

    "Now, boy," Bartho said firmly, "it¡¯s time for you to tell me exactly what kind of weapon you want. I can¡¯t engrave any runes for you at the moment. You¡¯ll need to awaken your gift first."

    Azrael had thought about this question for a long time. Now that the opportunity had come, there was no turning back. His mind raced, every thought like a shadow flitting over another.

    Agility was his top priority. He needed to move swiftly, especially across the uneven terrain he often traversed. At the same time, he couldn¡¯t ignore his physical limitations; his youthful strength couldn¡¯t match the raw power of a fully grown fighter.

    "The weapon should be light and easy to handle," he murmured, imagining a blade forming in his mind. "But it should also have enough length to complement my height."

    He pondered the shape of the blade. Should it be curved or straight? Single-edged or double-edged?

    "My sword should be as light as possible. I want it to sit snugly across my back so it doesn¡¯t hinder my movements. It shouldn¡¯t have a crossguard, just a pronounced ricasso to keep me from injuring myself when thrusting. The blade needs a gentle curve, with a finely sharpened, tapered tip. As for the material¡­ it should be matte, to absorb light rather than reflect it," Azrael rattled off in one breath.

    His words echoed through the forge, every detail articulated with precision. Bartho listened intently, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Azrael¡¯s heart raced as he outlined his weapon, almost as if it were an extension of himself.

    ¡°Ha ha ha!¡± The blacksmith burst out laughing, his face lighting up with delight. "I see you¡¯ve put a lot of thought into this. Very good¡ªyou''re not taking your companion lightly. But I have to ask... This doesn¡¯t sound like a primary weapon. Were you thinking of a second one?"

    "Yes, I want a bow," Azrael replied without hesitation. "A heavier sword would restrict my movements too much. I need to take full advantage of my agility."

    "Not a bad choice," the blacksmith nodded approvingly, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "I happen to have a bow down in my cellar. It belonged to a good friend of mine. It''s the only keepsake I have left of him," he added with a sigh, his expression turning pensive.

    "I want to entrust it to you."

    Azrael''s heart skipped a beat. "Are you sure about this?" The thought of holding the blacksmith''s memento in his hands filled him with respect.

    "Would I offer it if I weren¡¯t?" grumbled Bartho, though a small smile lingered in his voice.

    "Then I accept it gratefully."

    "Take good care of it," Bartho warned seriously, but the trust in his eyes shone through.

    "I will, I promise," Azrael vowed, feeling in that moment a little closer to the world of combat.

    "I''ll show you my library now. If you''d like, you can read something there. With your level of knowledge, my collection will definitely be helpful." Bartho smiled gently as he spoke.

    "Thank you, for everything," Azrael replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. At that moment, he realized that even with fifty years of bellows work, he would never be able to repay all these gifts.

 chapter 11 Beware of...

    Without another word, Bartho led him down a dimly lit hallway. Azrael''s heart quickened with excitement as the blacksmith opened the second-to-last door on the right. A pleasant scent of aged paper and kerosene filled the air as Bartho lit an old kerosene lamp. The flickering light cast dancing shadows on the walls.

    In the faint glow, Azrael saw five rows of books neatly arranged on dusty shelves.

    "That¡¯s a lot!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up. Even as a child, he had loved to read, though his parents couldn¡¯t provide him with many books. The high cost was one reason, but mostly, they had wanted to shield him¡ªfrom wars, violence, politics, and the other dangers of life.

    "I''m sorry, Mama, Papa. But I have to do this. I can¡¯t wander the world ignorant," he thought, as his fingers traced the spines of the books, a deep urge welling up to absorb every title.

    He gave the blacksmith a brief word of thanks before Bartho disappeared, leaving him alone.

    "Here we go," Azrael said, excitement in his voice. Every book seemed to call out to him, like mysterious treasure chests brimming with knowledge, waiting to be uncovered.

    Azrael let his fingers glide across the dusty spines, murmuring the titles softly to himself. "Gods and Their Histories. Myths and Legends. The Eternal Stream. Gnomes and Their Deceptions. Beasts and Terrors. Runes for Beginners..." His gaze darted from one book to the next, overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of knowledge before him. Each book seemed to whisper, urging him to open it and uncover its secrets.

    "So many books," he whispered in awe, his eyes darting across the rows of shelves. The sheer amount of knowledge gathered here made his heart race. It was as if he could taste the dust of centuries-old wisdom lingering in the air.

    "Finally," he thought, a smile flickering across his face. "Finally, I can quench my thirst for knowledge."

    He stood there for a moment, unable to decide which book to pick first. Then his gaze fell on an unassuming, worn-out volume: Gifts and Their Significance.

    The plain embossing on the cover left no doubt that this book held a special meaning for him. After all, he would soon be twelve years old, and the topic of Gifts had occupied his thoughts for a long time. It felt as if this book had been placed here just for him.

    Azrael''s eyes wandered through the room and settled on an old, weathered leather armchair tucked into a cozy corner. A blanket made of soft fox fur lay draped over it, as if someone had prepared it just for him. Nearby stood a small desk with a few pens and sheets of paper, the perfect setting for retreating into the pages of a good book.

    With a deep breath, he sank into the armchair, which creaked softly under his weight, and pulled the blanket around his shoulders. A sense of warmth and comfort spread through him as he opened the book. The pages were yellowed and carried the faint scent of old ink.

    But as soon as he turned to the first page, a sentence leaped out at him, making him pause.

    BEWARE OF THE CHURCHES!!!

    The words were scrawled hastily in the margin, crude and out of place for an old book of this kind. It looked as if the sentence had been added in a rush¡ªand something about the handwriting felt oddly familiar.

    Frowning in confusion, he whispered, "What is a sentence like this doing in a book like this?" His fingers brushed over the uneven letters, as if touch alone could reveal their origin.

    He turned the page, but everything beyond seemed normal again. Clean, orderly handwriting, just as one would expect from a book of this nature. A slight shiver ran down his spine. Something''s not right here, he thought uneasily.

    Azrael flipped back and ran his finger over the jagged writing once more. It felt strangely damp, as if the ink were still fresh. Startled, he examined his fingers¡ªtiny smudges of black ink clung to them. "That... that¡¯s impossible," he muttered softly, his heartbeat quickening.

    "Could it have been Bartho?" he wondered for a moment. But he dismissed the thought almost immediately. "No, he was standing right next to me the whole time. This sentence... it was written just a few minutes ago."

    An invisible weight settled on his shoulders, tension coiling tight in his chest. His eyes darted around the room. The books now seemed darker, the space more oppressive. He peered into the shadows, but nothing stirred. No one was there. Or was there? The fleeting thought flickered through his mind before he forced himself to shake off the unsettling feeling.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Probably just my imagination," he whispered, though his voice sounded unconvincing, even to himself.

    He squinted, studying the strange handwriting once more. It was as if the crooked letters were trying to tell him something, their messy arrangement seeming almost deliberate. His head suddenly felt heavy, and he stood up, uncertain of what to do next.

    But his missing eye often betrayed him in moments like these¡ªhis balance was never quite perfect. Sometimes, when he was too focused, he failed to notice things around him, and that was exactly what happened now.

    "Ow!" A dull pain shot through his little toe as he clumsily bumped it against the edge of the table. A faint clinking sound broke the silence as a small object tumbled to the floor. Azrael flinched, glanced quickly at the fallen object, and froze.

    Ink. Azrael¡¯s gaze fell on the tiny bottle lying before him, and he instinctively turned away. But a thought began to take root in his mind. Wait... ink? He picked up the small vial, turning it over in his fingers. The liquid inside was the exact same deep black as the writing in the book. His eyes widened as the realization began to sink in. But... that doesn¡¯t make any sense.

    He reached for one of the blank sheets of paper on the desk, hesitating only briefly before dipping a quill into the ink and scrawling the words:

    BEWARE OF THE CHURCHES.

    When he held up the paper, his throat tightened. The handwriting¡ªit was identical. Unmistakably his own. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

    "This... this means I wrote that message," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "But I didn¡¯t write anything..."

    He sank back into the chair, his thoughts churning chaotically. ¡°Only my parents know my handwriting,¡± he thought, his fingers nervously brushing over the parchment. ¡°There¡¯s no one who could have imitated it¡­¡± But what did that mean? Could it be possible he had written those words without realizing it?

    His hands trembled slightly as he stared at the sheet, as though it might offer him some explanation. ¡°Was I truly in my right mind the whole time?¡± The more he thought about it, the less certain he became. No matter how hard he tried to recall, his mind hit the same blank wall. ¡°Nothing. No clue, no lead.¡±

    Suddenly, a dark realization struck him like lightning. He still didn¡¯t know how he had even arrived in this city. His memories of the past few days were hazy, as though someone had erased them.

    ¡°What if¡­¡± Azrael¡¯s heartbeat quickened. ¡°What if I really did write that message and simply forgot?¡± A cold, unrelenting wave of fear coursed through him. If that were true, then he might be affected by an anomaly himself¡ªjust like the villagers whose strange behavior had unsettled him so deeply.

    He exhaled slowly, the breath heavy in his chest. ¡°In the end, there¡¯s nothing I can do to change the situation.¡± Those words were meant to reassure him, but the uncertainty gnawed at him like a shadow that refused to lift.

    With a deep sense of unease, he turned his attention back to the warning. ¡°I¡¯m supposed to beware of the churches. Does that mean the followers of Solaren, or all of them?¡± Thoughts raced through his mind, doubt creeping in. The churches had always cast a shadow over his life. ¡°So why the explicit warning?¡±

    Once again, no answer came, and frustration welled up inside him. ¡°So pointless,¡± he cursed under his breath. ¡°For a warning, it¡¯s completely useless. My compliments to the author.¡±

    His thoughts continued to spin, chaotic and unrestrained. With no further clues to uncover, he finally decided to read the book. Perhaps somewhere within its pages lay something hidden that could help him piece together the puzzle. The idea of expanding his knowledge offered him a faint glimmer of hope.

    At the same time, a strong urge pushed him to visit the stone tablet in the village square as soon as possible. The tablet had become a symbol of knowledge to him¡ªa potential key to shedding light on the darkness clouding his thoughts. If only he could discover what was inscribed there, it might help him untangle his fading memories and get closer to answering the questions tormenting him.

    Gifts and Their Meaning

    "Do you wish to learn more about Gifts? Are you curious about the differences between Gifts and Blessings? Then you¡¯re in the right place. Here, you¡¯ll uncover everything you need to know about Gifts and Blessings. Immerse yourself in humanity¡¯s source of power."

    A subtle thrill of anticipation coursed through Azrael as he turned the page and found a small table of contents. The book¡¯s slim nature made the list brief, but he didn¡¯t mind. In fact, he preferred it¡ªhe had no intention of spending time on unnecessary details. Who could say when the situation outside would worsen? The thought made his heart race.

    A faint smile crossed his face as he dove into the text with growing excitement.

    Seconds flew by like a blur, minutes seemed to stretch, and eventually, hours passed as he remained in the small, cozy room. His eyes skimmed across the pages, soaking in the words while his hand moved swiftly over paper. With a quill in hand, he eagerly jotted down thoughts and key points that resonated with him, capturing each piece of knowledge like it was a treasure.

    It wasn¡¯t just reading¡ªit was studying, immersing himself in the explanations the book offered. Every sentence seemed to call out to him, every insight whispered that it should not be forgotten. He wanted to engrain it all in his mind with precision. Knowledge was power, after all, and power was what he needed.

    Just before the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, Azrael lifted his head and exhaled with satisfaction. A warm sense of understanding flowed through him. Finally, he could make sense of many things that had once seemed like enigmatic riddles.

    His thoughts still swirled around the revelations from the book as he stood to get himself something to drink. ¡°Gifts and Blessings aren¡¯t as omnipotent as I thought,¡± he murmured thoughtfully, letting his gaze wander around the room. ¡°But, in a way, that makes sense.¡±

    After a brief pause, he began pacing the room, his steps quiet on the worn wooden floor. A self-dialogue helped him organize his thoughts and gain clarity. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s break it down step by step,¡± he began, gesturing with his hands as if sketching out ideas on an invisible board.

 chapter 12 Equipment

    "Once you turn twelve, you either receive a blessing or a gift. This is the same for everyone. Gifts are not necessarily weaker than blessings, though they are often less broad in scope."

    He paused and thought for a moment. "What applies to both, however, is that they can be improved through one''s own understanding." His gaze fell on a sunbeam streaming through the window, making the dust particles in the air dance.

    "Understanding is based on four things. First, your own mental state. If you receive a gift of light but are inherently evil, the compatibility doesn''t align well."

    His voice became more urgent as he spoke of the next point. "However, the most important thing is training. You must repeat your abilities over and over to get a feel for them. It''s like memorizing something," he said, nodding to himself as though reassuring his own logic.

    "Almost forgot, the third point is equally important: understanding your own ability. You must grasp its different facets. This point is more important for people with a blessing than for the others."

    You could see your progress by the mark on your palm. The color of the mark indicated how many times you had experienced an "enlightenment." The more intense the mark glowed, the closer you were to the next enlightenment.

    "Now, we come to the fourth point, and with it, something that unsettles me," Azrael murmured, letting his voice trail off thoughtfully. A slight discomfort twisted in his stomach as he formed the next thought. "Actions corresponding to the command also significantly increase one''s understanding."

    Unconsciously, he began to pace in circles, his brow furrowed slightly. The command. Everyone received it and had to obey. Azrael¡¯s heart quickened as he pondered it. The command took different forms for each person, but there were always similarities¡ªsometimes more, sometimes less. To be exact, with blessings, the commands were different; with gifts, they were similar.

    The thought that there were different punishments for not following the command gnawed at him. Sometimes, it could be relatively harmless, but there were also things one would rather not do. A short sigh escaped him as he pushed the thought aside and refocused on the book.

    As if struck by a hammer, a sudden wave of exhaustion hit him. "Ugh, this is going to be a lousy day. Tired of working the bellows, this won''t be fun," he murmured and sighed deeply.

    To clear his mind, he decided to open the window so the cold air could invigorate his senses. Quietly, so as not to wake Bartho, he pushed the window open¡ªand froze.

    The figures from yesterday were still standing there, motionless and pale. Their eyes were wide open, with a vacant, absent look in them. A shiver ran down his spine as he saw their trembling bodies. The cold had gnawed into their limbs, their skin was marbled, and bluish shadows stretched along their cheeks. Their lips had taken on an unsettling dark blue hue, like a harbinger of doom.

    "What the... were they here all night?" A cold shiver ran through him. Such fanaticism wasn¡¯t possible. At some point, the instinct for self-preservation should kick in, right?

    "Hang..." A coughing fit cut him off.

    "Hang the white-haired one!" he croaked, his voice weak, and the others, cloaked in darkness, weakly echoed him. But unlike yesterday, they lacked the energy, their voices sounded brittle and feeble, as if they were about to break at any moment.

    The pained expressions on the people¡¯s faces reminded him that they might be more than just angry believers. Perhaps they were also victims of their own fanaticism, trapped in a world they could no longer control.

    "You know what, just die then. I don''t care." Annoyed, he closed the window again and leaned against the cold wall. "By tonight, they''ll leave, or they''ll die," he muttered, turning away, unable to bear the sight any longer.

    Since it was already too late to sleep, he decided to continue his self-conversation. "Where was I? Ah yes, the command. The last commonality..." He rubbed his eyes, trying to concentrate. "When you''ve attained an enlightenment, you get two options. You must choose one of them: Either you improve one of your abilities, or you get an enhancement to your body. New abilities weren''t typically granted. Everyone has three abilities, one of them is passive."

    Slowly, the energy in his body dwindled, and the desire to keep pacing around faded. He sat back down in the chair, a yawn escaping his lips. His eyelids grew heavier as the urge to sleep overtook him.

    "It bothers me a little that so much of one''s fate depends on whether you get a good gift or a blessing. Though, the difference probably isn''t earth-shattering. At least I can train well..."The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    His thoughts began to blur, and slowly his eyelids closed until they finally sank shut.

    A loud knock jolted him out of his dark dreams.

    "Get up, or it''ll be dinner before you finally wake up!"

    His eyes snapped open, and he sat up, shaking the drowsiness from his limbs.

    "I slept? Damn, I slept!" he realized with a shock, his heart pounding faster. "What time is it?" His slightly blurred gaze wandered toward the window. The warm sunlight of a pleasant autumn day flooded the room, leading him to guess it was around midday.

    He immediately turned to Bartho to apologize, but he just waved it off uninterested. "Your sword''s done. Come and test it. I also brought your bow up from the cellar."

    Eager, Azrael was about to rush downstairs when a sudden thought struck him. He quickly approached the window and looked outside.

    "Hang the white-haired one." The familiar cry echoed again, a hoarse, powerless whisper that made his heart tighten.

    Shaking his head, he closed the window once more, a cold shiver running down his spine. "I wonder... but that can''t be. They must have drunk something by now."

    With a shrug, he followed Bartho back into the forge. There it lay, his sword, in all its glory, waiting to be wielded.

    It was sheathed in a sturdy, blackened leather scabbard, adorned with fine silver engravings. On the scabbard, the poignant inscription read: "Strength through stillness."

    "I thought that phrase would suit, to remind you not to lose yourself in your rage," the blacksmith grumbled in response to Azrael''s questioning look.

    Azrael bowed gratefully before finally approaching the sword and lifting it. "Light," was the first thing that caught his attention. The weapon barely weighed more than two pounds and felt almost weightless in his hand. Reverently, he drew the sword from its sheath.

    The blade was elegantly crafted, with a gentle curve that tapered to a fine point. It was about forearm-length and made of polished, dark steel that shimmered softly in the light. Upon closer inspection, Azrael noticed subtle patterns running along the blade, resembling the ripples of water, evoking the flow of life. The fine engravings seemed to break the light in mysterious ways, giving the blade an almost lifelike quality.

    The hilt was thin and ergonomically designed, perfect for swift and precise handling. "What is this material? It''s light, feels pleasant to hold, and looks beautiful," Azrael asked, his curiosity piqued.

    "The grip is made from the wing bones of a griffin," Bartho explained proudly. "It radiates a delicate gray color that shifts softly in the light. Look at the patterns ¨C a faintly hinted design of intertwining lines and shimmering white accents spirals around the grip. It gives it an elegant yet powerful appearance, almost as if it carries the essence of a majestic tree, its veins swaying in the wind."

    "Thank you," Azrael replied, his voice filled with gratitude and admiration, as he took in the beauty and functionality of the sword.

    Bartho, embarrassed, coughed and waved his hand. However, it was clear that he enjoyed the compliment.

    "Now, try pulling the bowstring," he said, gesturing to a bow resting on the table to his right.

    Azrael¡¯s surprised gaze shifted to the bow. It radiated a subtle elegance, but what caught his eye most was its color: deep black, as though it absorbed the very light around it.

    Eagerly, he picked up the already strung bow. It was about his size. The grip had a slightly rough texture, offering him a firm hold. The bow was slightly heavier than his sword, but only marginally. As he pulled on the string, he immediately felt the resistance. At first, nothing happened. He pulled harder, but the bow didn¡¯t give. Finally, he put all his strength into it. Slowly, the bow began to bend, but not enough.

    "I can''t do it," he said flatly.

    Bartho''s laughter snapped him out of his thoughts. "You should see the look on your face," he chuckled. "Almandin would have loved that."

    After calming down, Bartho began to explain. "This bow was made from black ash. It''s the best bowwood. Normally, you''d take a branch of the tree and carve runes into it. But Almandin wanted a bow made from the heart of the tree itself. This wood is so hard that the bowyer couldn¡¯t carve runes into it."

    He lifted the bow and admired it with pride. "The difficulty of drawing the bow increases exponentially with each additional inch. You can pull it halfway, but it gets harder the further you go."

    A broad grin crept across his lips. "But just imagine its penetration power. If you shoot at regular armor, it¡¯ll punch right through. You could even take out multiple armored targets in a row. Distance hardly matters either. As long as the line of sight is clear and your aim is good, you could shoot hundreds of meters with it."

    Azrael gazed in awe at the valuable bow. The dark grain of the wood shimmered slightly in the light, as if it were telling mysterious tales. "So, I¡¯ll need to focus heavily on strength training," he murmured, imagining himself hunting with such a powerful weapon.

    "Come on, boy, there¡¯s food. Ah, almost forgot," Bartho added, pointing to a black quiver with long, black-feathered arrows. "These are precision arrows. They¡¯re a bit longer than regular ones, perfect for piercing armored targets. Try to collect them wherever you can. Arrows of this quality are hard to replace. I¡¯ll make you some regular arrows so you can save the good ones. And later, I¡¯ll show you how to properly maintain your weapons."

    After lunch, they went together into the room in front of the forge. Bartho began the weapons maintenance. "It¡¯s important to always take care of your weapons so they serve you well. A weapon doesn¡¯t last forever, but you can significantly extend its lifespan. Two things are especially crucial: cleaning and sharpening."

    He carefully explained how to remove small nicks from the blade, maintaining the angle, and how to find the right angle for different types of weapons.

    "A steeper angle doesn¡¯t cut as well, but it¡¯s more stable and less prone to deep nicks. This is particularly recommended for greatswords or broadswords."

    His face lit up with enthusiasm as he spoke. It was clear how much he cared for this craft. Even more, he seemed to enjoy passing on his knowledge.

 chapter 13 Questions and insights

    "A shallow edge is meant for cutting. The idea is to target weak points or use it against unarmored opponents."

    Silence settled over the room as Azrael carefully sharpened a sword with deep nicks. Bartho watched him attentively, correcting him immediately at every small slip-up. Over time, Azrael¡¯s movements became smoother and more confident.

    "I have a question," Azrael began hesitantly. "Can you please explain the difference between Gifts and Blessings? The explanations in the book seemed a bit convoluted to me at times."

    Bartho paused for a moment before answering. "Hmm, the differences? The most important one is that Gifts are nearly the same for everyone, while Blessings are unique. Think of it this way: the Gift comes directly from the element itself. The Blessing, however, comes from a powerful creature that has already forged its own path."

    "So, the command in Gifts is chosen randomly and is tied to the principle of the element?"

    "Exactly. According to the Olympus theory, the commands of the Gifts stem from the short-term emotions or thoughts of the gods of the respective element. But that hasn''t been proven. There are some points that suggest it, but that goes too deep into the subject. The command of the Blessing, on the other hand, is tied to the will of the creature from which the Blessing originates. So, it¡¯s a much more personal connection."

    "Ah, I see. That means, when you take on a Blessing, you essentially inherit the legacy of a powerful creature and continue their path."

    "Exactly! That¡¯s why they say heroes embody their deity. They carry out its command, after all." Bartho paused briefly before continuing. "And there''s something else you should know about Gifts..."

    Bartho gently corrected Azrael¡¯s hand as his sharpening angle had become messy due to their conversation. Despite the slight deviation, Bartho noticed the inconsistency immediately and intervened.

    "Focus," he said calmly. "Gifts are always the same. At least, that¡¯s what most of the old books say. But that¡¯s not entirely true. A Gift is always the same at the start. More precisely, it means everyone with the Light element starts with the same abilities. From there, they take a different path. Think of it this way: at the beginning, the Gift is general. Then, it changes according to your personality or your fighting style."

    He adjusted Azrael¡¯s hand again.

    "This divergence is still relatively general. Two people who both use a sword and are aggressive will have the same ability. A defensive person, on the other hand, will develop defensive abilities."

    Azrael nodded and continued his work, focusing intently. "Thanks. I think I understand the key points now."

    "One more thing," Bartho added as he checked Azrael¡¯s progress. "It¡¯s often not explicitly mentioned, but when you gain Enlightenments, you shouldn¡¯t always make the same choice. It''s fine to focus on one area, but too much of one thing leads to an imbalance in your body."

    "By the way, when you improve your body, the amount of natural energy you can absorb increases as well. Remember, that''s the energy for your abilities."

    He spent the rest of the day working on strength training and weapon maintenance. Late in the evening, he began reading a book on various fighting techniques. However, most of it came naturally to him by instinct. Just a few minutes earlier, Bartho had assigned him a room. It was simple but cozy: a window, a well-kept bed, and a small nightstand.

    The window was directly opposite the library, and as he glanced outside, he saw the first snowflakes of the autumn gently falling from the sky.

    Exhausted, he finally fell into bed and drifted into a peaceful sleep. For once, he dreamed nothing.

    "Here we go!" Energetically, he jumped out of bed early the next morning. He felt great. No nightmares, no bad mood ¨C everything was perfect. Full of energy, he threw open the window to enjoy the fresh morning air. But what he saw made his blood run cold.

    There they were. Motionless. No sign of life. All the people who had once wanted to see him hanged lay in the snow, their limbs turning blue. Their bodies were rigid, their skin marked by the cold, and their limbs frozen at grotesque, unnatural angles.

    Azrael''s gaze fell upon their faces. Their eyes, glassy and wide open, stared into nothingness, as if they had screamed in panic in their final moments. Lips that had once cursed him with hate were now deep blue, the skin around their mouths cracked and brittle.

    Some of them had their hands clenched into fists, their fingers discolored in a grim shade of purple, while others had their arms unnaturally stretched out, as if they had tried to reach for something just out of their grasp.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    The bluish tint of their skin stretched from their toes up to their shoulders, a clear mark of the freezing cold that had permeated their bodies. Some of their coats were slightly open, as if in delirium, they had tried to remove their clothing. The first autumn snowflakes sparkled on their clothes and in their hair, gently falling onto the lifeless bodies, further enhancing the image of silence and finality.

    Dumbfounded, Azrael rubbed his eyes, unsure whether this was reality or a dream. "Dead... they¡¯re dead," he whispered, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. The stiffness of their corpses spoke volumes¡ªthe rigor mortis had already set in. No warmth, no breath. They had frozen to death in the solitude of the night.

    "I don''t really care. Let them die," he muttered, but his thoughts continued to race. "The question is¡­ where is the survival instinct? You can¡¯t just freeze to death or starve when there¡¯s a warm house with water nearby. Even if you wanted to, your body wouldn''t let you. It''s impossible."

    And yet, there they lay¡ªsilent proof of the impossible. "I need to tell Bartho."

    With quick steps, Azrael marched toward the forge, his heart pounding faster than usual. Bartho often worked early in the mornings, Azrael had heard him mention once. As soon as he spotted him in the forge, he called out, "The people outside our window are all dead!"

    Bartho furrowed his brow and looked at Azrael, confused. "Which people?"

    "Those who wanted to see me hanged," Azrael replied, a mix of desperation and disbelief in his voice.

    A soft laugh escaped Bartho. "I think you''re still not fully awake, boy. No one in this town wants you dead. Why would they?" His voice was soothing, but Azrael could hardly believe what he was hearing.

    His expression hardened. Thoughts whirled around in his mind, and suddenly, everything seemed to blur together. "An anomaly... he''s affected too... No, no, not him too..." A cold shiver ran down his spine. "Please, not again... not again." His lips began to tremble, and without warning, a single tear crept down his cheek.

    "Can we visit the gallows later?" he asked softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, as he desperately tried to maintain his composure.

    Bartho looked at him, silent for a while, then nodded. "Why not? We¡¯ll go in the afternoon."

    Each strike against the training post rang in his head like thunder, but it did nothing to quell the unease. "I need to become stronger." The thought burned in him, but it wasn¡¯t enough. It would never be enough. Sweat dripped from his face, mingling with the fury that simmered inside him.

    "What if I can''t save him?" Fear constricted his throat, his breath became shallow. Images of that time flashed before his inner eye¡ªthe screams of his parents in his dreams. Their blood on the grass. He felt the old, familiar sense of helplessness settle deep within him, like poison eating through his veins.

    "I couldn''t save them... but this time, it will be different. I won''t allow his death. No matter what. Even if I have to stop the Grim Reaper himself. He will lose. For sure."

    He struck harder, as if to shatter those memories. But they remained. The lifeless eyes of his parents, the blood that his hands couldn''t stop back then. "Not again. I can''t bear it again."

    "What if I have to kill him?" The question pierced his chest like a knife. "Could I do it?" The thought of losing Bartho, just like his parents, made his hands tremble. His muscles tightened, as if he could already feel the weight of the decision. "I won''t fail again. Not this time."

    When the afternoon came, they set out. The snow crunched beneath their feet as they walked along the snow-covered road leading to the town center. The air was clear and cold, and the first snowflakes of autumn gently settled on the ground.

    Suddenly, Azrael heard a voice from the right calling to him. "Young man, would you like a piece of sausage?" He turned cautiously toward the voice. An old woman stood there, her face lined with deep wrinkles, like scars from a hard life. Her short, colorless hair hung messily around her head, but she smiled warmly at him.

    "Sorry, dear lady, but I just ate," Azrael said politely, declining the offer.

    "She had turned me away coldly when I was looking for work. I¡¯m definitely not eating anything from you," he thought bitterly, without letting the smile fall from his face.

    They continued walking, when another voice sounded. "Young man, would you like to try my new bread?" This time it was an old man, who looked at him kindly and offered him a crispy piece of bread. Again, Azrael politely apologized and declined.

    It was strange. The entire path was lined with strangers who spoke to him. Over and over, they offered him food, drinks, or small goods for free. Their behavior was unnaturally friendly¡ªtoo friendly. Azrael felt the growing disdain in his chest. "Why now? Why all these faces that never even acknowledged me before?"

    Bartho walked silently beside him, ignoring the odd behavior of the people around them, as if he either didn''t notice or consciously blocked it out.

    ?What¡¯s going on now?¡° Azrael wondered as he walked along the path. Just a few days ago, everyone had despised him, even wanting him dead, yet now their behavior had inexplicably shifted. Kind words, benevolent gestures ¨C it didn¡¯t fit. It made no sense.

    ?I can¡¯t take this anymore. Over and over, strange situations. Everything that happens seems illogical. Nothing fits together.¡° The thought gnawed at him as he quickened his pace. The path to the gallows, which had felt like an eternity, now lay finally ahead of him.

    As the gallows came into view, he increased his speed further. His chest rose and fell in rapid rhythm. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. ?Let¡¯s see if we can find something out.¡° His eyes fixed on the old stone plaque in front of the gallows.

    As Bartho had said, the names of the condemned were engraved there ¨C people who had lost their lives in that place. Directly beneath were the reasons for their sentences. Azrael¡¯s gaze searched the inscriptions until, at the very end, he came across the date: ?August 24, 1014 Sun Cycle.¡°

    ?Bingo,¡° he muttered.

    Azrael stared at the stone plaque as his thoughts slowly began to arrange themselves. ?I was born on August 8, 1003... The day they died was in my eleventh year, roughly a month later, so on September 8... The date on this plaque doesn¡¯t match.¡° He narrowed his eyes. ?They had already left before my parents died.¡°

    A boiling rage began to stir within him. He could feel the anger building up inside. ?It takes about two weeks to get from here to Care Brunn... That means, they arrived roughly around the time my parents died.¡°

    SILENCE.

 chapter 14 Friend?

    His breath caught as the realization hit him like a blow. ?Coincidence? No, it can¡¯t be a coincidence. I think I know now who it was. Who killed my parents.¡° The hatred rising within him was so intense that his fingers unconsciously curled into a fist, his knuckles turning white. ?I WANT TO KILL THEM. I MUST KILL THEM. I WILL KILL THEM.¡°

    Abruptly, he turned around, the urge within him too strong to resist. His muscles tensed, his thoughts consumed by a single goal: to find them. To tear them apart. To mutilate them as they had done to his parents.

    Azrael¡¯s breath came in shallow gasps as he fixed his gaze on Bartho, a look that could erupt into violence at any moment. The hatred gripped him so completely that the blacksmith¡¯s voice reached his ears as little more than a muffled echo through the dense fog of his fury.

    ?Well, did you find what you were looking for?¡° Bartho¡¯s voice was calm, without a trace of fear, yet his words cut through Azrael¡¯s turmoil like a sharp blade. It was as if the blacksmith had peered into the storm raging within his mind.

    Azrael froze mid-step, his movements halting. Slowly, he turned to Bartho. ?Is he trying to stop me? Could he be one of them?¡° Suspicion struck him like lightning as he scrutinized the man before him. His mind, paralyzed by hatred, refused to think clearly. Yet Bartho, unfazed by Azrael¡¯s dark glare, stood firm, unmoving.

    ?What happened?¡° Bartho asked seriously, his eyes steady on Azrael.

    Slowly, a flicker of clarity returned to Azrael¡¯s thoughts. The words began to form in his mind, and with them came the bitter reality: ?THEY. THEY killed my parents.¡° His voice trembled with barely restrained anger.

    ?Who?¡° Bartho remained calm, unshaken.

    Azrael let out a hollow laugh, a bitter, empty sound. ?Who else? Of course, it was my dear relatives.¡° His hands trembled with tension, his fingers curling as if to strangle an invisible foe. ?I¡¯ll massacre them. They¡¯ll suffer, and then¡­¡°

    Before he could finish the sentence, Bartho cut him off sharply, his voice direct. ?Can you kill them?¡°

    The question hit Azrael like a slap across the face. For a moment, he fell silent, the words hanging in the air, sharp and inescapable. ?Are you capable of killing them?¡°

    Azrael remained quiet, the anger in his chest giving way to a gnawing sense of helplessness. Bartho was right. ?I¡¯m too weak.¡° The bitter truth clawed at him. ?In my current state, I couldn¡¯t even take down that bitch.¡°

    Bartho nodded, his gaze serious, his voice steady. ?Here¡¯s my offer. Forget the bellows. Focus entirely on your training.¡° He crossed his arms over his chest and continued, ?When you can draw the bowstring, you¡¯ll be ready. A shot from the shadows could even take Bard out.¡°

    Azrael stood motionless as the words sank in. The wave of hatred that had overwhelmed his mind began to cool. Bartho spoke the truth. At this moment, he was too weak. No matter how much he wanted to hear their screams or see them suffer¡ªit wouldn¡¯t change anything if he acted now. The bitter realization that he needed to gain the strength first settled deeply within him.

    Finally, he managed to wrest control over his thoughts, suppressing the hatred, if only slightly. A colder expression settled over his face as he looked at Bartho. ?Agreed,¡° he said firmly. ?Once they¡¯re dead, I¡¯ll work full-time in your forge.¡°

    Bartho chuckled softly and nodded once more. ?So be it.¡°

    <hr>

    Lyren leaned against the cool wall of a nearby building, his eyes fixed on the white-haired boy standing before the gallows. Even from a distance, he could sense the unbridled fury burning in Azrael¡¯s gaze.

    ?So, that¡¯s him,¡° Lyren thought. ?The anomaly must be connected to him somehow. But how? Could he be the cause? Unlikely.¡°

    Since Amandine''s attack, Lyren had been tracking the traces she left behind, which eventually led him to Azrael. The boy had narrowly escaped that day, and that was reason enough for Lyren to observe him closely. Yet, what puzzled him most was the strange behavior of the people around Azrael. It was as though the town''s residents were reacting unnaturally to the boy. Some even died, like the figures Lyren had seen sprawled lifelessly in front of the forge, their limbs glinting with a faint blue sheen.

    ?It borders on madness,¡° Lyren mused. ?Is he merely a victim of the anomaly, or is there more to him? And what did he find here that enraged him so much?¡°

    Lyren debated whether he should approach the boy. The situation was escalating, and extreme circumstances sometimes called for drastic measures. After a moment¡¯s hesitation, he sighed and pushed off the wall.

    ?Might as well,¡° he muttered, striding toward Azrael.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    <hr>

    Out of the corner of his eye, Azrael noticed movement. Without making it obvious, he glanced in that direction. A dark-haired boy, only slightly older than himself, was approaching with light, measured steps. His clothes were worn and frayed, marked by the hardships of long journeys or battles. Two curved swords strapped to his back silently testified to the danger he carried with him.

    The boy''s cold, calculating gaze made the hairs on Azrael''s neck stand on end. A sudden unease spread through him. "He''s dangerous," Azrael thought immediately. "Maybe even more dangerous than Amandine. And once again, I have no weapons with me¡­ Stupid idiot." His inner voice turned into a whisper of self-reproach as he prepared for the impending danger.

    To his dismay, the boy headed straight toward him. Azrael cast a quick glance at Bartho, who seemed utterly oblivious to the stranger. It was as if the newcomer existed in an entirely separate reality.

    Then the stranger spoke. His voice was calm, almost casual. "Nice weather, isn''t it?" Before Azrael could even form a reply, the boy added with a cool, almost mocking tone, "And what do you think of all the charming townsfolk here? How do you like that scent of madness in the air?"

    Azrael froze. The words hit him like an unexpected blow. His face went blank, but inside, a storm raged.

    "What did he just say?" Azrael''s thoughts raced as he struggled to hide his shock. "He knows about the anomaly, about the unnatural behavior of the townsfolk? How can that be?"

    But he quickly stopped his inner questioning. These pointless musings would only distract him. Now he had to stay calm. He could not afford to show any weakness¡ªnot in front of this stranger.

    He forced a smile, as bright as he could manage in this situation. "Yes, really," he replied seemingly casually, "the weather is great today." A brief moment passed before he added with feigned lightness, "But as for what you mean by madness... no idea. Isn''t it completely normal for people to freeze like flies in front of your window?"

    The black-haired boy returned the smile, but it was cold and hollow. "You''re absolutely right," he agreed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Anyone could have that happen to them. Even poor Amandine can''t help her behavior. It happens sometimes when hunger overtakes the mind, doesn''t it?"

    Azrael felt the tension inside him intensify. "So he knows," he concluded in his mind. The stranger showed no signs of the anomaly, not even the faintest trace, unlike Bartho and the other townsfolk.

    ¡°I have to be careful. Who knows what this means. Maybe the problem with him is much bigger than I thought. But... I need allies," he mused, holding the boy''s gaze without letting on how uneasy this situation made him feel.

    "This is really strange. But apparently, he''s really unaffected," Azrael thought as he continued to study the stranger. "The previous responses clearly contradict the behavior of the townspeople. But why? Is that a good or bad sign?" This question burned in his mind, yet the answer remained uncertain.

    The black-haired boy continued without hesitation, his words direct, almost like a challenge: "Don''t you think it would be nice to rid this place of its madness?"

    Azrael responded just as quickly: "Yes, that wouldn''t be too bad. But there''s something I''m curious about. Why me?" His eyes remained sharp, focused on the other boy.

    The stranger shrugged slightly, as if the answer didn''t matter much to him. "I had a feeling," he replied vaguely. "But I can give you a useful piece of information: affected people just shut down when you bring up the topic."

    Azrael nodded, his mind racing at full speed. "Or they mock you," he added knowingly. He had already come to a similar conclusion but hadn''t been sure. A quick glance at Bartho, who smiled back at him indifferently, confirmed the boy''s words.

    "Bartho, could you go ahead without me? I¡¯ve run into an old friend," Azrael said calmly, his voice carrying a hint of a lie, though Bartho seemed not to notice.

    "Alright, see you later." Without asking any questions, Bartho waved and walked down the path. Azrael was left with the stranger, who continued to regard him with that cold smile.

    "Do you want to save him?" the boy asked, his voice softer now, almost compassionate.

    Azrael hesitated before nodding. "Yes. Unfortunately, he''s affected too. I don¡¯t know why, but the influence seems weaker on him." His words were firm, but inside, uncertainty simmered.

    "Interesting," murmured the boy thoughtfully. "I have someone I want to save too." This revelation seemed to create a fleeting bond between them, though Azrael still didn¡¯t trust him.

    "Why were you so angry earlier?"

    Azrael grimaced, his defensive posture clear. "Tsss, stalker. That had nothing to do with the anomaly."

    The boy raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Sorry, but I''d still like to know. Don''t get mad. Let me finish, at least," he added quickly as Azrael''s expression darkened.

    "You have something to do with the madness. Or maybe the madness with you, who knows. The anomaly reacts differently to you. That''s why I need to know more."

    Azrael briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Fine," he muttered eventually. Reluctantly, he began to give the stranger a brief explanation. About his parents, the murders, and the hatred that consumed him like a flame.

    When he finished, silence fell. The air between them was thick, filled with unspoken words and questions left unsaid.

    "I''m not really good at comforting, sorry," Lyren began, scratching his head awkwardly. "But there''s an interesting realization. First, you should know that this anomaly started about a year ago. Maybe earlier. But for at least a year, no one, except for me, has left the city."

    "Half a year... that means..." Azrael frowned as the thought began to form in his mind.

    "Exactly," Lyren interrupted him, "Your relatives must be special in some way."

    Azrael''s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "If you can leave the city, why don''t you get help?"

    Lyren sighed softly, as if he had already expected the question. "That was my first thought as well. After some research, I found the most likely response to such a situation: complete elimination. They would wipe out all the affected and probably even those who seem unaffected."

    Azrael scoffed bitterly and smiled coldly. "Let me guess, God wants it this way?"

    Lyren returned the merciless smile with a nearly melancholic expression. "I see, you¡¯re aware."

    A brief, heavy silence fell between them. The world around them seemed to fade into the background as they scrutinized one another. They understood each other in a grim, wordless way.

    "By the way, my name is Lyren," the black-haired boy finally said, as if it was meant to serve as some bridge in this strange alliance.

    "Azrael," he responded briefly.

 chapter 15 Practise Fight

    They both shook hands firmly, a brief moment of trust between them. "You really don''t slack off in your training, Azrael," Lyren remarked, giving him an approving look.

    Azrael shrugged with a confident grin. "Neither do you. How old are you, anyway?"

    "Eleven," Lyren replied. "I''ll be twelve next July. And you?"

    "Also eleven," Azrael answered. "But I''ll be twelve in August. That means we still have a while to go."

    Lyren nodded and grinned lightly. "Looks like it. So, how would you proceed from here?"

    Azrael paused for a moment before answering. "Since we''re now two, I think it makes sense to go after Amandine. She knows me, even paid me a visit once. Plus, I think it''s worth trying to get some information from her."

    Lyren raised an eyebrow and nodded in agreement. "Sounds reasonable. How about we test our abilities? A duel. We need to know what the other can do."

    Azrael thought for a moment and then agreed. "Alright. We can head to Bartho. He''s a blacksmith. If I ask nicely, he''ll probably give us some practice swords."

    Lyren grinned. "Deal. Let''s go."

    With a slight smile, they walked side by side toward the forge. Both were eager for the upcoming fight, excited to test their skills and find out who among them was the stronger.

    As they walked through the village, the townspeople continued offering Azrael free goods. Lyren raised an eyebrow, watching the people''s behavior with growing skepticism.

    "They really seem to have taken a liking to you," Lyren joked.

    Azrael grimaced and replied, annoyed, "Only recently. Before that, they''d have preferred to see me hanging from the gallows."

    "Everyone shows affection in different ways," Lyren quipped playfully.

    "How about I prove my trust in you by hitting you with a club for a change?" Azrael''s tone was challenging.

    "Go ahead, give it a try," Lyren teased with a playful grin.

    After some back and forth, they finally reached the forge. Without hesitation, Azrael approached Bartho and received three practice swords: two dull sabers and a short sword.

    Without exchanging many words, they left the forge through the back door and entered the garden. It was larger than one would expect at first glance and well-maintained. On the right side stood two raised beds, where ripe tomatoes and various herbs grew, releasing the scent of sun and earth. Wild thyme climbed up small wooden stakes between the beds, and here and there, insects could be spotted buzzing around the plants.

    In the middle of the garden was an open space marked by short-cut grass and well-trodden earth. Perfect for training duels or heavy work. A weathered wooden wash tub stood beneath an apple tree, its leafy crown casting shade over the simple but sturdy device. The tree seemed to have seen many summers, its bark rough and deeply furrowed. To the left of the wash tub was a small wooden shed with half-open doors, offering a glimpse of gardening tools and a few old crates.

    A gentle breeze swept through the garden, causing the leaves to rustle softly, while the sun bathed the greenery in warm light.

    Azrael swung his sword through the air several times, feeling its weight and balance. "It could be better, but it will do the job," he murmured with satisfaction.

    Lyren nodded silently, his eyes flashing with approval. He saw it the same way as Azrael. The weapons might not be perfect, but they were adequate for their fight.

    Azrael could feel the slightly heavier weight of his sword compared to what he was used to. It sat more heavily in his hand, but the difference wasn¡¯t large enough to truly bother him. It was a challenge he was eager to accept.

    Bartho had also given them simple protective gear, covering their heads and the most vulnerable spots¡ª more of a rough precaution than real protection.

    "Shall we just get started?" Azrael asked, his eyes already fixed on the upcoming battle.

    Lyren only smiled and nodded, not uttering another word. They took their positions, standing across from each other, the air between them suddenly charged with tension. They extended their swords until their tips gently touched. A traditional sign of mutual respect.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    When the brief moment of reverence passed, both stepped back at the same time. The ground beneath their feet was solid, offering no room for error. Azrael brought his left hand forward, ready to block, as he held his sword horizontally, the tip pointed directly at Lyren. It was a defensive stance that preserved his mobility.

    On his left hand, he wore a cut-resistant chain glove, offering extra protection. Lyren, on the other hand, held one of his swords in an inverted grip, the blade pointing backward, while the other sword was held forward. An unorthodox style that piqued Azrael''s curiosity.

    The stillness of the garden enveloped them, with only the faint rustling of leaves in the wind breaking the silence. For a brief moment, they paused, studying each other''s stance, gauging the distance. Then, without warning, Lyren moved in a blur. His left foot shooting forward. The blade in his right hand flashed toward Azrael.

    His left sword sliced down from above, the metal flashing in the sunlight. Azrael instinctively sidestepped slightly. The air swept coolly past his face as the sword whooshed dangerously close. With a swift, precise motion of his free hand, he deflected Lyren''s strike outward.

    Clang.

    Steel against steel. The vibration ran through his hand as he redirected the curved sword and immediately followed up with his short sword. Lyren, momentarily caught off guard, jumped back. But Azrael gave him no respite. His blade came crashing down, aiming for his head.

    With a fluid, circular motion, Lyren parried the attack, his stance remaining solid. The second sword shot forward like a snake. Azrael ducked, lunging forward directly at Lyren, who barely had time to react.

    With a powerful thrust, Azrael''s left fist slammed into Lyren''s stomach. Hit.

    Lyren gasped and was sent stumbling backward, landing with heavy breaths. But a fierce grin spread across his face. In the movement, he managed to graze Azrael¡¯s chest with his blade. Only a touch, but it made Azrael feel the cold steel.

    "You¡¯re damn good," Lyren gasped, his eyes flashing.

    "Likewise," Azrael replied. Without hesitation, he charged forward again, his steps faster, more determined. His muscles tightened, every strike sharper, stronger. The fight had turned serious.

    Lyren seemed to be giving his all now. His movements became more powerful, faster, and more precise. In the heat of the battle, it seemed they had forgotten that this was only a training fight.

    Lyren struck with one sword. The blade aimed at Azrael''s head while the other moved toward his throat. Azrael feigned a block, but at the last moment, he fell backward. He pushed himself up with his left hand and simultaneously delivered a wild kick that knocked Lyren mercilessly off his feet.

    With a swift leap, Azrael jumped up, charged forward, and continued his assault as Lyren tried to regain his balance.

    Clang.

    The blades collided as Lyren spun around. "Close," a brief thought flashed through his mind as he crouched down and aimed a strike at Azrael''s legs. But at the last moment, he changed direction and aimed for his lower body.

    Azrael, surprised, jumped upward. "I can''t dodge!"

    He pulled his knees in, as if performing a somersault. The steel cut through the air and grazed his rear leg, a light, meaningless pain surged through him, but he knew he had to keep moving. The hit gave him enough momentum for a backflip. Still in mid-air, he struck Lyren''s hand with his sword, causing him to recoil in surprise.

    With a dull cry, Lyren dropped his left sword. Azrael grinned menacingly, the tension between them palpable. But at the moment of impact, another sword sliced through the air in a swift arc toward Azrael''s head. A victorious smile spread across Lyren¡¯s face. But then, he froze.

    Azrael suddenly dropped into a split, his sword flashing through the air. With a skilled move, his blade shot forward and rested against Lyren''s throat.

    Lyren had lost.

    "Who would do a split in a fight?" he laughed incredulously, as they shook hands.

    "Quite effective, actually," Azrael grinned cheekily in return. He was pleasantly surprised. Lyren was no slouch in combat. He now seemed much more relaxed. Not as dangerous as when they had first met. They were alike. Lyren had been through a lot, too.

    Azrael recognized that immediately.

    "I think we''ll make a good team. What¡¯s your weapon of choice?" Lyren asked, interest in his voice.

    "Yeah, this will be fun. I prefer the bow, along with either a slim longsword or a shortsword. However, it will be a while before I can use a real longsword in battle. I¡¯m also fairly good at hand-to-hand combat. My build is just a bit of a hindrance," Azrael replied.

    "Bow? That''s good! That gives us ranged options as well. How about we stick together from now on? Training together should definitely help us both," Lyren suggested.

    "Lyren seems honest," Azrael thought hesitantly. "I think I¡¯ll trust him. At least mostly."

    "Alright. Should I ask Bartho if you can stay with us tonight?"

    "That sounds like a good idea."

    On the way back to the house, they discussed their fight in more detail.

    "You can tell you¡¯re skilled in hand-to-hand combat, too. It¡¯s really unique how you incorporate it into your fighting," Lyren commented.

    "Yeah, I''ve thought a lot about my fighting style. What to include, what not to, and how to be the most flexible. There¡¯s nothing more interesting than that. The technique you asked about, I developed it like this:"

    "I¡¯ve thought about dodging. I¡¯ve simulated battles in my head. The problem with dodging is that the opponent¡¯s sword is still dangerous. He could change its trajectory and hit my leg. So, the sword has to be neutralized. That can also lead to a brief moment of distraction..." Azrael rambled, his eyes burning with intensity.

    "He''s crazy about martial arts," Lyren thought inwardly. "I like it; having a lunatic like him by my side is pretty motivating." Lyren, on the other hand, saw it all as more practical. Martial arts were simply a means to take down opponents.

    "Your way of fighting is also quite fascinating. You focus on unpredictability. Sometimes one weapon attacks alone, sometimes both at once, and other times one weapon draws attention. Very interesting, really interesting."

    Lyren listened with glassy eyes. "A perfect summary. He understood my fighting style after just one encounter. What a monster."

 chapter 16 Prelude

    Late in the evening.

    Weary, Azrael sank onto his bed, the mattress yielding beneath him, enveloping him like a soft embrace. Outside, there was silence, only the faint creaking of the floorboards under Bartho and Lyren¡¯s weight could be heard. Thoughts swirled through his mind. Images of their training, the laughter, and the clash of swords that cracked in the air.

    Lyren was in a room next door, and the memory of his ambitious eyes when he spoke of his mother wouldn¡¯t leave Azrael. The desire to help her burned inside him, mingled with the crushing certainty that they all suffered from the anomaly.

    To protect himself, Azrael had placed a kettle on a knife in front of his door, as though this small barrier would shield him from the unknown. His sword, the one he had received from Bartho, lay within reach, the blade barely visible in the dark, just as he wanted it.

    Fatigue spread through his limbs, and finally, he succumbed to the darkness. His eyes closed, and with each breath, the room grew quieter.

    Early in the morning.

    As soon as he woke, an unease crawled up his back. His gaze immediately fell on the kettle in front of the door. empty! "What the..." he muttered, the shock making his heart race. The knife was gone. An uncomfortable feeling crept up inside him.

    The door creaked open softly, and Bartho stormed in, followed by Lyren, who stood with tense shoulders and drawn swords. Their eyes were wide, and the air was charged with electric tension.

    "What happened?" they called in unison, their words rushing from their mouths as if they were desperate for an answer.

    Azrael sprang to his feet and pointed at the empty kettle. "Someone must have come into my room. The kettle''s empty, and the knife is gone too."

    His heart raced wildly as the thought of an intruder in the darkness of his room loomed over him like a shadow.

    Lyren held his breath, as if the tension were tangible. His eyes nervously scanned the room while his fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword. Bartho, on the other hand, seemed unfazed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as a reassuring smile crept onto his face.

    "Everything is fine," he said in a calm voice. "I think you''re sleepwalking. Last night, I saw you in the kitchen. Your were eyes closed. You had a knife in your hand. After putting it back, you went back to sleep. See? Everything is fine."

    Azrael stared at the floor, his stomach twisting. "Sleepwalking?" It sounded so simple, so harmless, yet a suffocating feeling grew within him. He had never sleepwalked before. Even more unsettling were the constant gaps in his memory. It just didn¡¯t add up.

    The faint morning light filtered through the window, casting strange, restless shadows on the walls that moved ever so slightly. Azrael rubbed his forehead as if trying to wipe away the thoughts that kept pushing into his mind.

    "The problem is," he whispered, his voice nearly choking, "I have no idea what really happened."

    An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Everything felt oddly still, almost too still. The few sounds from outside, the distant clinking of tools, and the rustling of the wind, suddenly seemed unnaturally distant.

    Lyren looked at him, his eyes narrower than before. He recognized the desperation in Azrael''s face, one that went deeper than just the thought of sleepwalking. But he remained silent. There were moments when words were unnecessary. And this moment felt exactly like that.

    <hr>

    "I''m sorry, Aria, but your noble title has been revoked. You should have listened to Father. You should have married the Baron of Griene. At least then, your life would have had some purpose."

    Aria let her brother''s words wash over her. She felt nothing. No anger, no sorrow, no disappointment. Her eyes remained cold and unmoved as she looked at him. It was as if she had lived through this countless times before. The words meant nothing to her anymore.

    "Finally. I thought I would have to endure your face a little longer." Her voice sounded almost casual, the provocation more of a habit than a feeling.

    Vendil raised his eyebrows and smiled mockingly. She was a toy to him, she knew that. She always had been. In his mind, he had already written her off, and the title now belonged to him.

    He might miss seeing her suffer¡ªa game that had entertained him for years. But that could wait. A new thought, dark and sweet, began to form in his mind: "Maybe I could frame her for a crime. Then I would have permission to keep her as a slave."

    But that would have to wait. First, he had to take over the house once and for all. Without another word, he tossed her a letter and left.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Aria caught the letter without really looking. Indifferently, she opened the envelope and skimmed through its contents.

    Revocation of the noble title.

    Aria is stripped of the Nightshade surname.

    From now on, she was just an ordinary citizen.

    She was instructed to pack everything from her room and leave the Nightshade estate by this evening.

    In the outskirts of the city of Lanea, she was assigned a house at number 3 on Mandrets Street.

    "That was to be expected," she murmured softly, letting the letter fall. No anger, no surprise. It was just another step on a path that had long been predetermined. "That''s fine. At least I''ll be rid of my ''family.''"

    For the first time in a long while, she felt a spark of relief. Not happiness, not joy. Just the gentle sensation that the chains that had held her captive for so long were beginning to loosen.

    "But the matter isn''t over." Her fingers clenched around the letter. "I will kill Vendil with my own hands. Just like he killed Tapsel."

    Tapsel. One of the few peoplewho truly loved her. The dog her father had given her to keep her calm. No one else had ever cared for her, except Tapsel and one other Person. But Vendil had murdered him, just like that. Because he could.

    She gazed out the window, though she didn¡¯t truly see the world outside. Her voice barely more than a whisper as she said, "The world won''t miss Vendil."

    She had already packed the most important things from her room. Everything was ready. Ready for the departure she had longed for. Clothes, three throwing knives, a rapier, and some money. She owned nothing else. But that was more than enough for her.

    She had packed everything into a brown backpack. This backpack was specifically designed for survival in the wild. It was large and spacious. With the pack slung over her shoulder, she left her room.

    She walked down the long, familiar corridor, passing the old wall paintings, heading towards the exit. She glanced to the right. Through a large, elongated window, she saw the vast garden. The flowers had already faded. Autumn had drained them of their vitality. Thoughts of how her brother had beaten her wandered through her mind. His spiteful smile as he loomed over her.

    Her fists clenched tightly. "He will regret it. All of it."

    <hr>

    "I think it''s about time," Azrael said as he sat next to Lyren.

    A month had passed since their first meeting. The days had passed in a steady rhythm of intense training. Strength, flexibility, endurance, and endless sparring. Their movements were now so in sync that they almost seemed like reflections of each other. It was time to take on the next challenge. Hunting Amandine.

    "You''re right," Lyren agreed. "But how are we going to catch her? I can''t think of a way to lure her out."

    Azrael grinned. "Who says we need to lure her out? We just walk through the front door and take her down."

    Lyren stared at him for a moment, before a wild grin spread across his face. "That''s crazy!" He leaned forward, his eyes flashing with excitement. "But I like it. No big theatrics, no detours. We just march right in. And the other people? They won¡¯t even bat an eye, after all, you¡¯re the one causing the trouble."

    Azrael''s smile widened, almost mischievously. "Exactly. Tomorrow afternoon. No more training until then. We need to be in top shape."

    "Agreed." Lyren nodded, his eyes glimmering with eager anticipation. Finally, something was happening. A change in the situation. No more just watching. Now it was time to act.

    Next day

    "Do you have everything?" Lyren asked, looking at Azrael, his voice low but firm.

    "Yes," Azrael replied, his hand resting on the hilt of Antaroth. "No time to waste."

    Before them lay Amandine''s house. Azrael unconsciously ran his fingers over the hilt of his sword. Antaroth. Named after a murderer whose name still rang in his ears. His parents had told him that Antaroth killed his enemies with a single strike, and this sword was meant to do the same.

    "Let''s go," Lyren said with a serious expression, stepping toward the door. Two quick, forceful kicks, and the lock shattered with a loud crack. They entered.

    The interior of the house felt oddly familiar, almost like a bad copy. The long hallway before them was adorned with wall paintings. The same images of Solaren that Azrael had seen at his relatives'' house. But here, something felt wrong, distorted. The light was too dim, the shadows too long.

    At the end of the hallway stood Amandine. She wore a simple cooking apron that seemed entirely out of place in this scene. In her hand, she held a kitchen knife, from which blood dripped slowly but steadily, leaving dark stains on the floor. The metallic smell spread through the air, sharp and heavy.

    "Ah, my guests have finally arrived," she said, her voice almost too friendly, as if she were simply planning a cozy evening. "The food is ready." Her smile was twisted, mad. "Please, take off your shoes before entering."

    Memories flooded Azrael¡¯s mind, like a cold, relentless storm. Images flashed. Amandine, tearing apart her own son, her insane laughter that had burned itself into his memory. A lump formed in his throat, but unconsciously, he heard himself ask, "What¡¯s for dinner?"

    Amandine''s answer came like something out of a bizarre nightmare, her smile sweet and utterly out of place. "I just slaughtered my neighbor," she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "He was well-fed. This will be a feast. A real banquet." Blood continued to drip from her blade, as if to emphasize the truth of her words.

    Lyren shot Azrael a meaningful glance, his eyes full of tension. Azrael nodded almost imperceptibly. No words were needed. In perfect harmony, they drew their swords. They stood side by side, blades ready, like predators waiting for the perfect moment.

    Azrael charged forward, aiming a precise thrust at Amandine''s left side. But she was faster than she appeared . The kitchen knife blocked his strike with astonishing ease. Yet Azrael grinned. It was going exactly according to plan.

    Lyren, barely noticed by Amandine, took advantage of her one-sided focus on Azrael. He slipped effortlessly past her and suddenly stood behind her. In that narrow hallway, she had no way to escape.

    Azrael continued to distract Amandine, delivering more blows that she effortlessly deflected with her knife. Her eyes stayed locked on him, entirely focused, as if Lyren didn''t even exist. Then, in one fluid motion, Lyren lifted his sword and brought it down. It struck her left elbow with brutal precision.

    Amandine¡¯s arm fell to the floor, blood spraying onto the wall. But her smile. That eerie, nerve-rending smile, didn¡¯t fade. She didn¡¯t even seem to feel the pain. Her attention was still entirely on Azrael, while Lyren remained unnoticed.

    Lyren raised his sword once more, ready for the next strike. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Amandine would fall soon, that was certain.

 chapter 17. Taster

    As if the loss of her arm meant nothing, Amandine charged forward. Her eyes burned with madness, a dangerous blend of fanaticism and frenzy. Azrael, already savoring the triumph in his mind, grew careless. He realized too late the threatening kick that struck him hard, sending him tumbling backward.

    Before he could regain his footing, Amandine was already on him. She moved with terrifying speed. As though she felt no pain, as if she were no longer human. Lyren followed her with wide, disbelieving eyes, too stunned to react immediately.

    Azrael''s heart raced. "Calm down," he told himself as the blade of the kitchen knife shot toward him with deadly speed. There was no escaping. In a desperate reflex, he twisted his torso to the side. But the knife found its mark. A searing pain exploded in his shoulder. The knife sank deep. His sword slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor.

    With a scream, half from pain, half from rage, Azrael slammed his fist into Amandine''s stomach. The impact caused her to stagger back briefly, but that maddening smile never left her lips. Her eyes sparkled with manic joy. "Die, die, die!" she gasped hoarsely. "Solaren wants it... HE wants it!"

    Suddenly, two curved swords pierced her body. One blade protruded from her chest, the other from her abdomen, and the horrible smile froze. Her eyes widened with the last spark of life as Lyren appeared behind her, breathing heavily but determined.

    Azrael breathed shallowly, his shoulder throbbing with pain. For a brief moment, there was silence, broken only by the irregular drip of blood from Amandine''s blade onto the floor.

    "We can''t contain her. It doesn''t matter if we sever her limbs. She''s completely consumed by madness," Lyren''s voice came from behind the twitching Amandine, who was still impaled on the swords.

    "Solaren wants it. He''s with me... You must die. For him... HE wants it," Amandine croaked. Saliva uncontrollably dripped from her mouth, while fresh blood streamed down her body, pooling on the floor in a dark red stain. The metallic scent of iron hung heavy in the air, sharp and unmistakable.

    Suddenly, she tore herself free, as if propelled by an invisible force. With a crazed leap, she launched herself forward, her eyes wide open, fixed on Azrael. She had long forgotten the knife¡ªnow it was purely her instincts driving her, her teeth bared, ready to bite, to tear apart.

    "Just like I remembered you," Azrael murmured coldly. Without hesitation, his sword sliced through the air, severing Amandine''s head from her body. The head rolled with a dull thud across the blood-soaked floor, while her lifeless body crumpled. "As if I¡¯d be careless twice. I learn from my mistakes."

    Inside, he felt a sense of relief as he retrieved his sword once again.

    A confident smile spread across his lips. He cautiously nudged the lifeless body with the tip of his boot to make sure. No movement. Finally, she was truly dead.

    "Shame we didn¡¯t get any information," Azrael remarked, wiping the blood from his blade.

    "Not necessarily," Lyren intervened, rubbing the blood from his hands. "We could search her house. Maybe we''ll find something interesting."

    Azrael nodded curtly. "True. Let¡¯s split up."

    While Lyren went into the living room, Azrael entered the kitchen. He quickly rummaged through the cabinets and drawers. Lyren¡¯s voice called from the next room: "Just a few coins here, nothing else."

    Azrael''s gaze fell upon the kitchen table, and suddenly his stomach churned. There lay the aforementioned neighbor, lifeless, grotesquely displayed. A large chunk of flesh was missing from his rear. Now simmering in a steaming pot on the stove. The biting smell of roasting human flesh and the sight of blood slowly dripping from the table sank deep into Azrael¡¯s senses.

    A wave of nausea rose in Azrael, and he staggered backward, his face twisting in disgust. "This abomination..." he gasped, bending forward as he retched onto the kitchen floor. The acidic remnants of his last meal burned in his throat. The thought that someone had consumed this... it made him shiver.

    Still queasy, he forced himself to search the room as quickly as possible, suppressing the nausea with every movement.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    They systematically searched every room of the house. The bathroom, the clothing room¡ªnothing. No matter how thoroughly they searched, there was simply nothing to find. Only one room remained. The bedroom.

    As Azrael and Lyren stood side by side, a strange feeling of discomfort overtook them. With each step toward the door, the nauseating stench grew stronger. The smell of decay was so intense that it constricted Azrael¡¯s throat, making him gag. It was a sickly, rotting odor that reminded him of spoiled meat and wrapped itself like a heavy veil over his senses.

    "Decay," Azrael murmured, a shiver crawling down his spine. He nodded curtly.

    Lyren gave him a brief, meaningful look. "I opened the front door. I¡¯ll gladly leave the first step to you," he said with a smile, though the expression seemed less than genuine. The tension in his eyes was unmistakable.

    Azrael hesitantly approached the door. The smell had become unbearable, and he felt the urge to vomit again. He took a deep breath, trying to fight off the rising nausea. With a loud bang, the door flew open as he kicked it with all his strength, determined not to touch it.

    The musty stench of decay enveloped them like a thick blanket, so overpowering that their throats involuntarily tightened. It was as if death itself was seeping from the walls. The smell of rotting flesh, mixed with something metallic, hit them full force. Their stomachs rebelled. They clearly didn¡¯t want to find out what lay hidden in the room.

    The skeletons hung on the wall. They were not merely attached but impaled, their bones pierced by long, rusty nails driven through their joints with cruel precision. The creaking of the wooden wall seemed to echo with each step they took closer, a faint reflection of the madness that had once ruled here.

    On some bones, decaying scraps of flesh clung. Tinged green and gnawed away by bites that were unmistakably human in origin.

    Azrael forced himself to focus on the words above each of the skeletons, written in disturbingly childish script with dried blood smeared across the wall.

    ¡°Leon. Fatty meat. Good for roasting. Especially delicious are the thighs.¡±

    The words echoed in Azrael¡¯s mind, their meaning searing into his thoughts. The notion that someone had carefully written such a gruesome note with the meticulousness of a cook made his skin crawl. His breath became shallow as he continued reading:

    ¡°My son. Perfectly bred. Tender muscle meat.¡±

    A gagging sound escaped his throat. He could no longer bear the sight, his eyes squeezing shut as he turned his head away, the air growing thin. The horrifying certainty that madness had not only claimed one person, but also children, weighed heavily on him.

    But Lyren''s voice pulled him back into the hell of the room. ¡°Look at this,¡± he murmured, his voice faltering. He pointed to the opposite wall, where another message, clearly more incoherent and desperate, was scrawled in deep red lines.

    Azrael swallowed hard, his hand trembling as he forced himself to decipher the scrawled letters:

    ¡°Hunger. Kill. White hair smells so delicious. Not yet. Not the time. Stay calm. Be nice. HE wants it this way. Soon, soon we will feast. Soon.¡±

    The words dripped with madness, each one seeming to speak of a mental abyss that Azrael could scarcely imagine. The uncontrolled handwriting, the feverish haste with which it had been smeared onto the wall, left an echo of madness hanging in the air.

    Lyren said nothing, his eyes wide, his hands clenched around his sword. The thought that this place was not just a site of murder, but of complete mental decay, made the horror nearly unbearable.

    Azrael felt his hands grow damp and cold. The stench, the sight of the skeletons, the words ¨C it was more than he could bear. The madness that had reigned in this room was palpable. It lingered in the air, in the walls, in every piece of rotting flesh.

    The two boys stood there in silence, the oppressive atmosphere of the room heavy on their shoulders. Azrael and Lyren exchanged a wordless look, both feeling the unrest stirred by the recent events. ¡°It seems our fear is true,¡± Lyren began quietly, his voice serious and thoughtful. ¡°Soon something big will happen.¡±

    Azrael¡¯s gaze hardened. He nodded. ¡°The word ¡®we¡¯ implies the others are holding back as well. The question now is: why? What is the trigger? What is the reason?¡±

    Lyren snorted softly. ¡°That¡¯s what we need to find out. Did you notice during the fight that she didn¡¯t use any abilities?¡±

    Azrael thought for a moment, the memory of Amandine''s frenzied attacks coming to mind. ¡°Yes, strange. Her agility and strength were above average, but she didn¡¯t use any abilities. It¡¯s as if she couldn¡¯t.¡±

    Lyren nodded. ¡°Seems so. We shouldn¡¯t complain, but it raises questions.¡±

    Silence stretched between them as they cautiously moved through the room. Azrael¡¯s eyes darted around, his senses on high alert. Something made him pause, his attention drawn to the bed.

    Carefully, he crouched to look underneath ¨C and froze. Glassy eyes stared back at him, vacant and dead, yet still penetrating. A chill ran down his spine, his heart raced as he recoiled in shock. For a moment, he felt as if he were staring into the soul of the lifeless figure.

    ¡°Just another dead one,¡± Azrael whispered to himself, as though trying to calm his own nerves. His grip on the sword tightened, and with a swift motion, he slid the blade under the bed. A dull thud sounded, and a skull rolled out. His eyes scanned the bone, and there he noticed something unusual. Tiny, barely legible letters etched into the surface of the skull.

    ¡°08. August. 1015,¡± he read aloud, his voice thick with astonishment.

    Lyren stepped up beside him, his brow furrowed. ¡°Do you know what this date means?¡± he asked, his tone now insistent.

    Azrael continued staring at the inscription, unable to tear his gaze away. Then, he felt a wave of shock wash over him. ¡°Not really... but¡­ that¡¯s my birthday.¡±

 chapter 18. Departure

    <hr>

    Aria walked through the narrow streets, her small, delicate steps barely audible on the dusty ground. The voices of the children mocking her faded somewhere into the background, far from her thoughts. "Witch" and "Outcast" ¨C they had shouted these words so many times that they had long lost their meaning. To Aria, they were nothing more than sounds, like the chirping of birds or the rustling of the wind.

    "I have to decide whether to go into the house," she thought, her brow furrowed slightly. She appeared focused, yet inside, everything was cool and calculating. The old house might not be the safest place. "My brother could find me there... or worse, someone could be watching."

    The thought quietly crept into her mind, but her steps remained steady. "They fear me because of my talent. What if they decide to get rid of me?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, but her pace remained unbroken.

    A stone flew toward her. She heard it, almost felt the air accompanying it. With a slight movement, she tilted her head, and the stone flew past, as if it had never existed. She didn''t give a glance to the children who had thrown it. "Why should they matter?" she thought coolly, her shoulders remaining relaxed.

    Her clothes were dirty, her hair messily tied in a knot, but she didn¡¯t care. Appearance mattered only among the nobility.

    The houses around her grew darker, the shadows stretching longer. Aria felt the chill of the evening, but it didn¡¯t bother her. Everything within her was focused on one thing: revenge. "One day, they will pay," she whispered to herself, without allowing the thought to distract her from her goal. The world around her seemed foreign, almost like a game set up by others for her to play.

    She knew she was still young ¨C too young for what was boiling inside her. But that didn¡¯t matter. Patience was a weapon, and she knew how to use it. Even at eleven, she understood that rushing into things was pointless. The time would come. And when it did, they would all know what it meant to have underestimated her.

    Aria heard the voices of the children, but she paid them no mind. They had nothing of importance to say. When three stones flew in her direction, she only felt a hint of annoyance.

    ¡°They¡¯re starting to get on my nerves.¡± With a smooth movement, she spun on her heel, catching the stones in midair without even blinking. For a moment, she stared into the astonished faces of the boys, their wide eyes filled with shock. ¡°Worthless street rats,¡± she thought coldly, with no trace of surprise.

    The stones she had caught flew back. It only took the briefest of moments before the children''s screams shattered the silence of the street. Without a glance over her shoulder, Aria continued walking.

    Twilight settled over the city like a heavy cloak, and the shadows lengthened. Soon, it would be dark, but she didn¡¯t feel rushed. Her breath remained calm, even, as if nothing had happened.

    Then she heard the rumble of wooden wheels on the cobblestones behind her. A carriage, drawn by two black stallions, was approaching. The horses were magnificent, their muscles rippling beneath their glossy coats.

    The carriage itself was adorned with golden ornaments, glittering in the fading light. The driver threw her a long look before shouting something unintelligible toward the back.

    Aria sighed deeply. ¡°This too.¡± She rolled her eyes as her steps slowed. ¡°Some pompous nobles.¡± Her mind drifted through the possibilities. Someone in the carriage was probably either going to mock her or... use her as a plaything.

    ¡°Maybe they want to make me a concubine,¡± she thought with icy indifference. The thought didn¡¯t fill her with fear, but with disgust.

    It was only then that she truly noticed her surroundings. The street was wide, large enough for four carriages to drive side by side. It was one of the main roads, with no hidden alleyways or narrow paths that could have served as an escape route.

    ¡°No way out.¡± She felt the tension in her neck spread. A confrontation had become inevitable.

    Her cool facade remained unchanged. Emotions had no place in this moment; they would only hinder her. With one more deep breath, she mentally prepared herself for what was to come.

    Aria sighed one last time, murmuring, ¡°I¡¯ll serve the bastard, and then I¡¯m gone from this city.¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Her steps slowed as the carriage came to a stop beside her. As expected, the door opened, and a narrow wooden staircase was elegantly lowered. A servant stepped out and unfurled a red carpet to her feet, his mouth incessantly forming words.

    ¡°Greetings. My Lord, the honorable son of the Baron of Friedfall, warmly invites you to join him. He cannot bear the thought of a beautiful lady like yourself enduring such a fate.¡± The servant spoke with the servile politeness that Aria despised.

    ¡°Friedfall,¡± she thought, her lips twitching slightly. ¡°Not a grand house. Lucky for me. That makes things easier.¡± Friedfall was an insignificant noble family with little power. Her cool demeanor, however, betrayed none of these thoughts.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she began with a sweet but distant smile, ¡°but I must regrettably decline the generous offer.¡±

    The servant paused, visibly irritated. ¡°Forgive me, but I fear you are underestimating the consequences. You are, to put it bluntly, no longer a noble. Your station does not permit such an invitation to be refused.¡±

    Aria met his persistent pressure with a forced smile. ¡°I believe you¡¯ve misunderstood me.¡± Her tone became deliberately soft. ¡°I would be more than happy to accept your master¡¯s offer.¡± She paused briefly, noting the fleeting moment of triumph in the servant¡¯s eyes before continuing.

    ¡°But today is unfortunately not possible.¡± She raised an eyebrow. ¡°The letter from House Nightshade, which I received today, clearly states that I must enter the house assigned to me today. Duties, you see?¡± Her words were sweet and flattering.

    "Tell your master that I will be happy to come for lunch tomorrow," Aria winked at him, as if making a private promise. "Then I will make sure to look presentable."

    "That''s fine," came a voice from the carriage, and a boy stepped into her view. He was at least four years older than her. Aria couldn¡¯t help but direct her gaze to his "well-kept stomach," which bulged prominently beneath the fine fabric of his clothes. She inwardly wrinkled her nose at the sight.

    The boy was simply put, fat and unattractive. His brown hair hung in greasy strands over his chubby cheeks, which were dotted with freckles. A repulsive grin twisted his lips, making Aria feel as though she might vomit.

    "I¡¯ll expect you for lunch tomorrow. Make sure you show up properly," he said, winking at her lewdly.

    "Of course, my lord," she replied, curtsying slightly while forcing herself to suppress the disgust rising within her.

    "Disgusting scum. Useless. Depraved. Filth," she cursed inwardly, watching his face stretch into a slimy grin. On the outside, however, she smiled demurely to mask her loathing.

    "Come, servant! Let¡¯s go!" he commanded, and the servant standing next to the carriage promptly replied, "Yes, my lord."

    The servant threw her one last glance before the carriage slowly pulled away. Aria could feel the gaze of the two boys on her. Disgusted, she wrinkled her nose.

    "I think the situation is clear now. I have no choice anyway." A bitter smile crept across her face. "Tonight, I will disappear."

    The darkness around her seemed to close in, and the urge to escape became overwhelming. She was determined to leave this place behind, along with everything it represented.

    Inside the shabby house, Aria paid no attention to the dreary surroundings. The walls were crumbling, with plaster falling in dirty flakes, while the musty scent of the neglected rooms clogged her nose. It looked so ugly that it was almost absurd. Another humiliation from the nobles who had confined her to this wretched dwelling.

    With an internal sigh, she pushed the thought aside and began some stretching exercises. Who knew what would happen tonight?

    She knew there was always scum that would take pleasure in a young lady, especially one who once had noble blood and looked good. She pushed such thoughts away for the moment, using them to help pass the time until dusk.

    Her movements were fluid and precise, a testament to her training. Her body had to be ready for whatever might come.

    She thought back to her childhood. Training had been important to her since she could remember. She was constantly teased by other nobles. Unfortunately, she had no trainer¡ªshe had to teach herself everything.

    At the thought of the annoying nobles and how they lay in the dirt, she couldn¡¯t help but smile. She had beaten all of them except for her brother.

    As night finally fell and the darkness settled over the world like a heavy curtain, she rose and whispered to herself, "Enough waiting. Time to leave. Away from the cursed schemes, from the noble brats, from my brother."

    The hated face of her brother flashed in her mind, and for a moment, a sharp sting of anger pierced her. She shook her head to banish the thought. "Doesn¡¯t matter, the question now is: where to?"

    She briefly considered the left direction, which led to Lindell¡ªa decent choice. But she knew she couldn¡¯t make it too easy for her pursuers. Whoever might be after her would likely expect her to head there.

    Instead, she decided to go right. Her temporary destination was a village called Lenos. It was known for its excellent alcohol¡ªwine and beer were their specialties.

    Though Aria didn¡¯t drink herself, she saw this place as the perfect refuge. From there, there would be various ways to escape and come up with a new plan.

    With one last glance at the filthy house she was leaving behind, she set off. First, she would have to travel about 80 kilometers to reach her destination. The thought of the upcoming journey made her heart race. It wasn¡¯t just the desire to escape, but also the yearning for freedom that drove her forward.

    Aria slipped quietly out of the house through the kitchen window, which creaked slightly as it opened. She refrained from using light; now was not the time to be discovered. Taking a detour, she walked through the narrow, shadowed alleys toward the edge of town. Her dark brown cloak wrapped around her like a second skin, and the hood hung low over her face, concealing her feminine form.

    Suddenly, she heard a sound ahead. An irregular tapping on the cobblestone signaled someone¡¯s approach. She pressed herself against the cold wall of an old stone house, holding her breath as her heart raced.

 chapter 19. Master

    A man came into view, stumbling awkwardly with a wine bottle in his hand. He was drunk, she could tell immediately, but something felt off. "Hic, again. They keep throwing me out," he mumbled in slurred words as he staggered slowly past her.

    Aria felt a queasy sensation stir in her gut. "Shit, I don¡¯t smell any alcohol," she thought, noticing that his cheeks weren¡¯t flushed. Her hand instinctively moved to the knife hidden under her cloak. Another sound made her pause. A firm hand suddenly pressed her against the wall.

    "Well, what do we have here? Not a little princess, I hope," the man laughed, his face cloaked in featureless darkness. It was clear as day that this guy was after her.

    The urge to drive her blade into his flesh surged within her, but she remained calm, her eyes cool and unimpressed. "You¡¯ve got the wrong person. Would you please let me go? I¡¯m on my way to, well, my boyfriend," she murmured, feigning an embarrassed look. Her voice was high-pitched and squeaky. She made a great effort to appear frightened and surprised on the outside. She was a skilled actress.

    His gaze faltered briefly but quickly regained its firmness. "Aria, I know it''s you." The man''s voice cut through the silence of the dark alley. His grip on her arm tightened almost imperceptibly.

    The damp chill of the night seeped through her dark cloak. Her heart began to pound louder. "A little boy¡¯s upset with you for turning him down today. I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s it for you. I know his habits. You¡¯ll probably end up his sex slave. Well, not my problem." His sack of coins clinked as it jangled, a soft, mocking sound that heightened her fear.

    ¡°He¡¯s too strong. What should I do?¡± she thought desperately, as the shadows of the alley closed in around her. The man¡¯s firm grip and his presence made the chance of escaping seem almost nonexistent.

    The damp, stale air felt suffocating. The man in front of her was tall, perhaps a soldier, and his grip was like an iron band around her arm. She was still just a child, not even twelve years old.

    A desperate smile twisted her lips, and for a moment, she felt trapped in a nightmare. ¡°But I¡¯d rather die. I¡¯ll never be a slave.¡± Determination flashed in her eyes. She would not give in without a fight. The thought of biting off her tongue crept into her mind, an option she couldn¡¯t shake.

    ¡°Dying from blood loss shouldn¡¯t be too cruel,¡± she murmured, a shudder passing through her body. The tremor wasn¡¯t just from the cold of the night; it was the gnawing fear of the impending death. Memories of her childhood, of carefree days, flared up.

    She stood on a jagged cliff, the cold wind tearing at her black hair and whipping it into her face. In her memory, the image of her brother, Tapsel, and her dog¡¯s death burned before her eyes. A scream of horror had forced its way from her throat as he, with a devilish smile in his eyes, snapped the neck of the loyal animal. The rage and grief had dug into her heart like a slicing knife.

    She had sought help from her father, but the coldness of his reaction struck her like a blow. The death of the dog seemed to leave him unmoved; irritated, he waved his hand as if swatting away a bothersome fly. No hint of compassion, no words of comfort¡ªjust the unbearable emptiness that surrounded him.

    The cliff beneath her feet felt unstable, and her thoughts spun in chaos. In that moment, she didn¡¯t want to live anymore, but the thirst for revenge flared inside her, hot and wild. These two emotions clashed within her, a storm that almost tore her apart. No matter how it would end, she would reach her goal.

    After what felt like an eternity, her decision was made, as firm as the rock beneath her. ¡°Revenge.¡±

    "It seems like it wasn¡¯t meant to be," she whispered, tears born from hatred and despair flowing down her cheeks, leaving wet traces on her clothes. Her hard facade cracked for the first time in a long while.

    "Cheer up, princess. I''m almost starting to feel sorry for you. Don¡¯t cry now," he taunted.

    But like a wild torrent, the tears kept coming, soaking her clothes, as the feeling of helplessness grew within her. "I have to kill them. For Tapsel." Her eyes sparkled with such cold fury that even the man in front of her raised an eyebrow in surprise.

    "Good grief, get lost. You¡¯re unbearable," he grumbled suddenly. The grip on her shoulder loosened, and then he abruptly let her go, as if he had touched something filthy.

    Aria stared at him in disbelief, her thoughts spinning. "You could at least give me a tip," he added playfully, swinging the wine bottle as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

    "Why?" she asked, caught off guard. The words came out more instinctively than thoughtfully. Her chest rose and fell quickly, the tension not yet fully gone.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    He waved the bottle again, a sarcastic smile curling his lips. "No, not that. Why are you letting me go?" She couldn¡¯t hide the unease in her voice. Suspicion gnawed at her, but also confusion over his unexpected behavior.

    ¡°What should I say¡­¡± He scratched behind his ear, as if searching for an excuse that would seem believable even to himself. ¡°You just look¡­ creepy. Gives you nightmares.¡± His laugh sounded forced, almost nervous.

    She knew immediately that he was lying. His eyes darted away from hers, his movements restless. But she chose not to press further. The man had his reasons¡ªreasons he clearly wasn¡¯t willing to share with her. So she let it go. A chance was a chance, and she wasn¡¯t in a position to turn it down.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said softly, her voice trembling with both tension and relief. ¡°I¡¯ll repay you sometime.¡±

    He raised an eyebrow theatrically, as if her gratitude were a performance. ¡°I¡¯d prefer a small donation.¡± Then he suddenly laughed, an empty, almost desperate laugh.

    ¡°Oh!¡± he exclaimed, smacking his forehead as if a crucial detail had just occurred to him. ¡°If I come back without you, they¡¯ll execute me.¡±

    Aria froze, her heart skipped a beat. ¡°What?¡± she whispered.

    ¡°Yeah, worse than that,¡± he continued, nervously tugging at his hair. ¡°They¡¯ll execute Lena too. Damn! What am I supposed to do now?¡± His voice was filled with real desperation now, his loose facade crumbling completely. His hands trembled as he tried to grasp the situation.

    Aria watched him silently. Suddenly, she understood. This wasn¡¯t about pity or mercy. The man had his own problem, one that in a way mirrored hers. He, too, was bound by chains.

    ¡°Why am I even worrying about it? If Lena finds out I¡¯ve betrayed you, she¡¯ll kill me.¡± He smiled sadly, as if he had finally accepted his fate. The exhaustion weighed heavily on his face, as though every bit of hope he had ever held had been swept away in an instant.

    ¡°At least I don¡¯t have to save money anymore,¡± he muttered darkly, his tone sarcastic. ¡°I can drink away everything today.¡± But Aria could feel the deep sadness hidden in his words, even as he tried to mask it with cynicism.

    ¡°Do you mean... Lena of Lineburg?¡± she asked hesitantly.

    His brows furrowed at the mention of her name. ¡°Oh, you know my wife?¡± His smile twisted into a bitter grimace, something that scarcely resembled humanity.

    Aria nodded slowly, her voice heavy with memories. ¡°Yes... She was the only one who was kind to me.¡± Her words came quietly, almost whispered, as if they were too painful to say aloud. ¡°I used to sit outside her room and talk to her. She was the only one who got angry when... when Tapsel was killed. She was...¡±

    He suddenly grabbed her hard by the shoulders, his fingers digging deep into her coat. ¡°Why do you keep saying ''was''?¡± His voice trembled with a suspicion he was too afraid to voice.

    Aria didn¡¯t look away from his gaze. She only lowered her head slightly, tears welling up in her eyes. ¡°They killed her. She was poisoned. It all happened in secret.¡±

    For a moment, it felt as though the world around her stood still. The man before her, who had seemed so bitter and resigned just moments ago, went deathly pale. ¡°Ah...¡± A sickly smile twisted his face. ¡°I see... That¡¯s why, that¡¯s why I couldn¡¯t see her...¡±

    Then, an insane laughter erupted from him. A laugh that had nothing to do with joy but with utter despair. ¡°Now my chains are gone,¡± he said between laughs. ¡°I¡¯ve longed for this day so badly... but not like this. Not like this...¡±

    Aria reached for his hand, her fingers trembling slightly. ¡°Um, Mister Vrael.¡±

    He looked up, and the maddened laughter that had echoed through the alleys just moments before died away. In the darkness of his eyes burned something cold, almost unpredictable. But also a clarity she hadn¡¯t expected.

    ¡°She told me...¡± Her voice was fragile, but she continued. ¡°If I ever ran into you, I should tell you something.¡± She swallowed hard before she went on. ¡°Live as you wish. Do what you want, and move forward.¡±

    The words seemed to momentarily freeze the world. He fell silent, and in his clear blue eyes flickered a cold but focused hatred.

    ?You want to take revenge on your family?¡° He chuckled softly, but it wasn''t a joyful laugh. ¡°No, it doesn¡¯t matter.¡± He stood still, but his words suddenly became sharp, precise. ¡°Do you want to become my student? I¡¯ll accompany you wherever you want. I¡¯ll teach you everything I know.¡±

    Aria stared into his eyes, fascinated and yet uncertain. They were as clear as the sky, yet within them lay depths. He was a man in his forties, with unruly black hair streaked with some white strands.

    His short, rough beard framed a face marked by the traces of a hard life. Yet his build was solid, the muscles under his worn doublet revealing the strength of a soldier.

    But it wasn''t his muscles or his experience that led her to her answer. It was his eyes. There was no greed, no mockery, only determination. No hatred to distort everything, but a quiet resolve.

    Aria slowly sank to one knee and placed her clenched fist in the open palm before her chest. ¡°I accept your offer,¡± she said, her voice quiet but firm. ¡°Please, teach me, Master.¡±

    The alleyways were silent. Only the distant sounds of the city and the whispering wind accompanied her words.

    Vrael nodded gravely, the weight of the situation momentarily visible in his gaze. ¡°So be it,¡± he said with a hint of solemnity, before grinning and adding, ¡°We should drink to that.¡±

    Aria shook her head, dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events. ¡°Drunkard,¡± she muttered softly, looking away.

    "Where are we actually going?" he asked, as if they were on a leisurely stroll.

    "We''re going to Lenos," she answered, still a bit thrown off by his behavior.

    "Not a bad choice," he replied with a thoughtful nod. "Our pursuers will probably expect us to head toward Lindell. And we will definitely be followed. You know the three roads to Lenos, right? You''re planning to take the middle one, aren''t you?"

    Aria blinked, completely stunned. Her chin nearly dropped. "How do you...?"

    "You''re too easy to read," he explained, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "If you were alone, I''d give you maybe half a day before they''d find you. They don''t need more than that to catch you. If that."

    Her cheeks burned with offended pride, and her voice was slightly irritated as she asked, "So, what do we do?"

    "Isn''t that obvious?" His eyes gleamed with challenge. "We go through the forest."

 chapter 20. Enemys

    "Through the forest?" Aria asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. The thought hadn''t even crossed her mind. The stories about the creatures there still echoed in her thoughts. But she quickly shook them off. "Won''t that... be complicated?"

    Vrael smiled calmly. "The forest may be a bit uncomfortable, that''s true. But it''s the best option. Besides, it''s not just for us. Our pursuers will hardly be thrilled about it either."

    Aria shot him a skeptical glance before giving a short nod. She didn''t have much faith in the forest''s safety, but compared to what she was being pursued by, the path through the trees seemed like a smaller risk.

    Before Aria could respond, Vrael continued. "Let me go ahead. I know these alleys like the back of my hand. I also have a little hideout. That''s where my emergency pack is."

    Aria followed him wordlessly, relieved that she no longer had to travel alone. As they twisted through the narrow, dark alleys, the smell of urine and refuse grew stronger.

    To her, it was a good sign. No one would find them easily here. They were far from the wealthy districts, where the streets were clean and well-lit.

    After a while, Vrael stopped and kicked firmly against an unremarkable wall. With a dull crack, it broke open.

    Behind the wall, a hidden compartment revealed not only a backpack but also three large broadswords. These were two-handed weapons, their massive blades securely stored in dark, matte leather sheaths. The sheaths were simple, durable, and functional, showing little embellishment except for a few worn scratches and dents, a clear sign of frequent use.

    The grips of the broadswords, however, were finely crafted. They were long enough to be held with both hands but light enough to be wielded one-handed. The crossguards curved slightly downward, while the pommels at the ends looked heavy yet elegant, as though they could easily serve as a blunt instrument in combat.

    Runes spiraled around the grips, etched into the dark metal, lending the swords a mystical aura. Upon closer inspection, Aria noticed one sword without any runes.

    "What do you need with three swords?" Aria asked, her brow furrowing slightly.

    Vrael gave a crooked grin. "A weapon is one of the most important things out there. And you¡¯d better not rely on just one."

    "Who exactly are you?" Aria glanced at the swords leaning against the wall. Their blades were wide and perfectly forged. Definitely high-quality weapons. Nothing a mere soldier would own.

    The fine runes winding around the grips promised power and history. The price of even one of these broadswords would have easily surpassed a thousand gold coins.

    "You already know that," Vrael answered with a brief laugh.

    "How did you come to take orders from such bastards? Who were you before?"

    "So many questions," he complained. "We''re fleeing right now, and that''s all you can think about?"

    "I''m sorry," she apologized, feeling down.

    "Ask me again later, once we''re in the woods. But only when we rest."

    Aria nodded and followed him as they weaved through the narrow alleys. The smell of urine and refuse grew stronger the further they ventured into the shaded corners of the city. The houses stood close together, their walls made of crumbling bricks and rotting wood. Shutters hung askew, and the plaster was peeling off.

    The creaking of wood under their feet and the rustling of rats were the only sounds in the oppressive silence.

    After half an hour of wandering, they finally reached the city wall. It was tall and imposing, its gray surface covered with moss and lichens, signs of decades of decay. In the distance, the main gate of the city was visible, guarded by dark shadows that blended with the dimming light.

    "Almost there," Aria murmured, a hint of hope in her voice. "We''re almost out."

    "Well, well, where are you going, Vrael?" Two figures emerged from a narrow alley beside them, their silhouettes blending with the faint light of the city. It seemed they had been waiting for them. The first was large and broad-shouldered, wearing heavy leather armor that creaked with every movement. In his hand, he held a long spear, its tip gleaming dangerously.

    The second was even more imposing, surrounded by an air of authority. He wore heavy plate armor, making him appear almost immovable. On his head was a helmet with two distinct horns. In his hand, he wielded a greatsword, its blade straight and full of nicks. One side of the blade was entirely missing a tip, emphasizing the brutal force he could wield with this weapon.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    "Admiral Fellas and Admiral Milram, what are you doing here?" Aria recognized them immediately. They were two of the most powerful leaders in her father''s army and among the strongest individuals in this city.

    "Seems like your father wants to get rid of you now!" Vrael remarked flatly, his gaze flickering between the two men.

    "Right on the mark," Admiral Fellas replied, his voice deep and menacing as he playfully scraped the spear across the ground.

    The tension in the air was palpable. Aria felt her throat tighten. The protective shadows of the alley, where she had once felt safe, now seemed to turn against them.

    Aria stared at the two admirals with wide, frightened eyes. "But why?"

    "It''s nothing personal," Admiral Milram answered almost sympathetically, his gaze carrying a trace of regret. "It''s about your brother. As long as you live, he won''t find peace. He should be focusing on the succession, not on you."

    "Vrael," she spoke firmly, her heart pounding wildly. "This has nothing to do with you, go now."

    "Nice last words," Admiral Fellas sneered. His smile was thin and cold, as though he was savoring her misfortune. There were enough stories about his cruelty on the battlefield. The darkness around them seemed to deepen with his anticipation as he turned toward her.

    "Hey Aria, how about it? Want to learn how to handle broadsword from me?" His tone was unabashedly teasing, and a challenging glint flickered in his eyes.

    "Don''t you understand, you''re supposed to..." But he cut her off.

    "Watch me closely." He dropped his backpack with a dull thud that echoed through the quiet alley. Slowly, he took one of the broadswords in hand and drew it from its sheath. He fastened the others to his back. The blade, silver and flawless, reflected the faint light from the street lamps, seeming to glow even in the darkness.

    His fingers wrapped around the hilt, and for a brief moment, the space between them crackled with electric tension. Aria felt her breath catch as an unsettling sense of foreboding spread within her.

    Once he held the sword, his hands seemed to grow paler, as though the strength was draining from him. The silence around them grew thick, and the looming danger hung like a shadow over them.

    "I thought we''d never have to fight," Fellas'' voice cut through the stillness, dripping with aggressive anticipation. "Lucky for me, I get to rip someone apart."

    "Don''t underestimate him," Milram warned, his expression stern.

    Milram, heavily armored, stepped forward with determination, while Fellas flanked him. Earth particles swirled up, gathering around the massive sword Milram wielded. Dust formed a swirling storm as the blade grew in size, absurdly reaching 2.5 meters in length.

    Around Fellas'' feet, transparent vortices materialized, giving him a menacing aura. Vrael stood still, waiting, ready for whatever would come. His calm was unshakable. A solitary rock in the storm.

    Aria stood at a distance, watching. Her breath caught in her throat, and a cold shiver ran through her hands. The thought that Vrael might die tightened her chest. Memories of his wife, the only one who had ever been kind to her, flashed through her mind.

    In a fleeting instant, the monstrous sword crashed down onto the ground. The impact was immense; the earth trembled, and the stones shattered under the force. But Vrael narrowly avoided the blow with a swift spin, while a spear from Fellas hurtled toward him with terrifying speed. Vrael let the blade slide harmlessly off, as if the attack were nothing more than a feeble attempt.

    He launched a counterattack just as the massive sword came rushing at him again. Instinctively, he ducked, but the spear struck his leg. Fellas grinned triumphantly.

    Milram stomped hard on the ground, causing the fighter to stumble briefly. That was enough for the furious spear. Without resistance, it plunged into his chest.

    "Master!" Aria screamed, her voice frantic.

    Fellas grinned in satisfaction, but the smile froze on his face when he suddenly felt a presence beside him. Vrael stood there, his sword raised high to the sky, the blade gleaming in the pale light. A soft, deadly hum sliced through the still air. Fellas flinched. His eyes wide with panic, as the sharp blade rushed toward him.

    He reacted too late.

    The sword slashed his nose, a burning pain searing through him. All he could feel was the hot sensation of blood streaming down his face. His vision blurred in a red mist. Barely had he taken a breath before he felt the next strike. Vrael was relentless, giving him no moment to recover. His sword came crashing down directly on Fellas'' neck.

    But before the blow could reach its target, the blade was deflected. A  greatsword had effortlessly blocked the attack. Vrael was thrown back, his boots sliding across the rocky ground as he tried to regain his balance.

    ¡°I told you, don¡¯t underestimate him!¡± A deep voice cut through the tension.

    Fellas wiped the blood from his eyes, his face contorted with rage. ¡°You¡¯ll regret this,¡± he growled, his voice trembling with fury.

    Vrael raised an eyebrow, smirking. ¡°With that pitifully wielded toothpick? Ridiculous.¡±

    ¡°You bastard!¡± Fellas exploded with anger, lunging forward with a wild yell. But suddenly, a powerful arm held him back. The larger man had stopped him.

    ¡°Calm down,¡± came the quiet but firm voice, one that brooked no argument.

    Vrael gritted his teeth and glared at the bigger man. He was the real threat. None of his provocations seemed to have even the slightest effect on him.

    ¡°Don¡¯t underestimate Blessing Bearers!¡± the man repeated, his tone as cold as ice.

    Fellas¡¯ breathing slowly steadied. Suddenly a strange weakness crept into his limbs. It felt as if he had been fighting for hours, even though the battle had just begun.

    "Hey, I just noticed that..." he began, but fell silent abruptly as Vrael appeared before them like a shadow. His eyes widened as Vrael¡¯s sword shot toward him. One strike, deadly precise, aimed directly at Fellas.

    However, Milram was quicker. Without hesitation, he positioned himself between them. But before he could block the strike, Vrael dissolved into mist. A cold breeze swept through the air. Milram instinctively sensed that the next blow would come from a different direction.

    This time, Vrael stood behind him. The blade already raised. Milram barely had time to react. In a desperate reflex, he froze the earth particles around his body and reinforced his armor. The earth creaked and solidified like stone, absorbing the impact.

    Boom.

 chapter 21. Long Jouney

    The sword struck with unyielding force against his back armor. Even the hardened earth couldn''t withstand the full strength of the blow. Milram was shoved forward. A crack split the stone surface of his armor. The blade had pierced through his defenses.

    A long, burning cut formed on his back, but the damage was less than it could have been. All thanks to his earth reinforcement.

    However, a fleeting sense of unease gripped him. A trace of weakness crawled into his limbs, like an invisible weight suddenly pressing down on him. His muscles felt heavier, the pain pulsed lightly after. It wasn¡¯t enough to hinder him seriously, but just enough to throw him off balance.

    Grinding his teeth, Milram reinforced the earth layer further. His armor growing thicker and heavier, as though he sought to push the inexplicable sensation away. The earth particles tightened around his body like a second skin, protecting him from further attacks.

    Before Vrael could make another strike, Fellas suddenly stood at Milram''s side. His spear thrust forward. The tip slicing Vrael''s cheek and leaving a bloody trail. But Vrael did not retreat. He moved toward Fellas immediately, with the grace of a predator stalking its prey.

    Fellas, now visibly unsettled, began to retreat. But Vrael''s broadsword gave him no room to escape. A quick slash, and another cut appeared on Fellas'' arm. Blood dripped onto the ground. A feeling of losing control began to stir within Fellas.

    "Dammit," Fellas cursed quietly, as the weakness continued to rise within him. His muscles felt sluggish, as though he had already been fighting for hours. A heavy pounding began in his head. Despite having landed a hit with his spear, that should have increased his speed further.

    Milram spun around, the sword gripped tightly in his hands. With a thunderous crash, his blade struck the ground. The impact sent a shockwave through the street, making the ground beneath them tremble. It threw Vrael brutally against the nearby wall of a house.

    Stones shattered as Vrael hit the wall. Fellas saw his chance. A vortex of air formed around his spear. The rumbling hum in the air signaling the immense power he was gathering. With all his strength, he hurled the spear. The weapon shot forward like a lightning bolt. Vrael, still dazed, could barely react. The spear thudded deep into his stomach with a dull impact.

    Vrael vanished. A mist swirled around the spot where he had stood, and as the fog cleared. He was standing just a few steps away, with a deep cut along his side. Blood slowly dripped onto the ground. Fellas¡¯ face brightened when he saw the hit. The pain in Vrael¡¯s eyes gave him a brief spark of hope.

    Milram seized the moment. With a loud battle cry, he charged at the wounded opponent, sword raised high. He brought the blade down on Vrael''s body. A brutal strike that seemed to split him in half. But once again, Vrael¡¯s form faded, dissolving into nothing.

    "What the..." Milram froze, as he suddenly saw Vrael standing next to the grinning Fellas. Fear flickered in Fellas¡¯ eyes as he recognized the danger. But it was too late. A grinding sound sliced through the air. With a sickening crack, his left arm fell to the ground.

    "Argh!" A bone-shaking scream tore from Fellas¡¯ throat. The excruciating pain distorted his face. Tears welled in his eyes while he fought to keep control of his body. Blood sprayed onto the ground, and the world around him began to sway.

    Instinctively, he sprang toward Milram, his legs trembling under the strain. But he stumbled. His body suddenly felt heavy, and a paralyzing weakness spread through his limbs. His gaze grew hazy, the colors of the world began to fade as he sank exhausted to his knees.

    Fellas¡¯ gaze shifted to Vrael''s wound. A strange flicker surrounded the cut. Then it dawned on him. This sword... it drained life force. The energy that had been taken from him flowed directly back into Vrael. Suddenly, he understood why his hand had turned pale at the start. If Vrael doesn''t harm anyone, he loses strength.

    Fellas opened his mouth to shout a warning. But before a sound could escape his lips, the fatal blow struck. A broadsword sank effortlessly into the back of his skull. The blade pierced through his open mouth, teeth splintered, blood sprayed onto the ground. But Fellas felt none of it. His body collapsed, lifeless.

    Vrael drew another broadsword, but this one did not glow. It looked... normal. No special aura, no distinctive patterns.

    "See, Aria?" he said calmly, never taking his eyes off his new opponent. "That''s why you need multiple swords."

    Aria stood a few steps away, her eyes wide in disbelief. She could barely comprehend what she had just witnessed. The old man... he had single-handedly destroyed two admirals. How was that even possible?

    But as she looked closer, she noticed something behind the cold facade. Exhaustion crept into his eyes, his movements slowed. He must have expended immense amounts of natural energy to keep going for so long.

    Milram was in a similar state. His breath came heavy, the tension in his muscles slowly fading. The strength of both fighters seemed to be waning, and the outcome of this battle was far from decided.

    Vrael''s free hand slowly moved toward a third broadsword. It was pitch-black, starkly contrasting with the bronze-colored runes that spiraled around the shaft.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Vrael prepared himself. "I need to finish this quickly."

    "I don''t care anymore. I''m out. You won," Milram called out, raising his hands to signal his retreat.

    Vrael didn¡¯t want to risk another conflict and simply nodded. Their goal was to escape; there was no need to fight to the last drop of blood.

    "Come on, Aria, let¡¯s go."

    Milram slung the body of his comrade over his shoulder and turned without further words to leave. The broadsword detached from his grasp as if by ghostly hands, clattering to the ground.

    With a satisfied smile, Vrael sheathed his sword once more. "Let''s go," he called out to his still-wondering pupil. "Questions about the fight will have to wait. We¡¯ve made too much noise. Soon, more people will arrive."

    They quickly approached the gate. Two guards stood there, their bodies tense, ready for whatever might come.

    "Stop!" one of the guards shouted, waving his halberd threateningly.

    But instead of reacting, Vrael quickened his pace. The determination in his eyes made the poor soldiers flinch.

    Aria could hardly believe that despite his injuries, Vrael was capable of such speed. The panicked guard quickly pulled a whistle from his pocket. Vrael struck the ground with a forceful step. A small stone was sent flying, and he caught it with a skilled motion. In the next moment, he hurled the stone with all his might. It struck the guard, knocking the whistle from his hand.

    The man''s eyes widened in fear, but Vrael gave him no time to react. A powerful punch sent him into darkness. The second guard attempted to flee, but he too failed. Another strike, and he was also sent into an uncomfortable slumber.

    Behind them, torches flared up in the distance. At least a hundred lights burned, like angry eyes following them.

    "The last obstacle is a steel gate," Aria murmured nervously.

    "We need to reach the battlements to open it," Aria reminded him hastily.

    With a determined look, Vrael turned around and drew the third broadsword. It was pitch-black, darker than the night itself, and seemed to merge with the darkness.

    Blood dripped from his right arm, running down the blade. The red droplets formed blood-red runes on the surface of the sword. The glowing red against the black background gave the weapon an eerie, captivating appearance.

    He struck. The door was easily sliced through. "Move, quickly!" he commanded urgently, sheathing his sword and running ahead. Soon, the dark forest came into view. Suddenly, an arrow lodged itself in the ground beside them. More followed, like a deadly salvo.

    Vrael drew his regular broadsword and saw another arrow racing toward Aria''s back. At the last moment, he sliced the arrow in mid-air with a precise strike.

    "Hold them off!" bellowed an authoritative voice from behind. The sound of hooves signaled reinforcements approaching. Just as they reached the forest, Vrael whispered, "Straight ahead."

    They ran and ran until the sun began to rise slowly on the horizon. Then, Aria finally collapsed, her stamina completely drained.

    "You sure seem confident we lost them all," Vrael teased, trying to lighten the mood.

    Aria, however, was so exhausted that she couldn''t even respond.

    "Well, looks good. You might want to get your umbrella ready," he added with a crooked grin.

    Slowly, she propped herself up into a sitting position as the sky indeed darkened rapidly.

    "I don''t have one," she murmured, exhaustion clearly evident in her voice.

    "Bad luck, huh? Oh, I don''t have one either," Vrael replied, and a mischievous gleam flashed in his eyes.

    "Is this really the right time for jokes?" Aria asked, eyeing him skeptically.

    "You''re right. Let''s toast to our successful escape," Vrael replied seriously, and actually pulled a bottle of wine from his backpack. She rolled her eyes.

    With a wide grin, he then pulled out a tarp from his gear. "Always remember what''s important out here. Warmth, water, defeanse and shelter are clearly top priorities," he lectured her, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

    He stretched the tarp low over the ground between two trees, securing it with some rope.

    "Why are you setting it up so low?" Aria asked, confused.

    "Think about what happens when the wind comes from the side."

    "We''ll get wet, because the rain is coming from the side too?"

    "Exactly! The result of rain and wind is hypothermia," Vrael explained, his tone serious. "If it were already dark, I''d say snow. That would be better for us. But we''ll likely get sleet. Well, tough luck. It couldn¡¯t get much worse."

    A sense of gratitude rose within Aria. In the midst of danger, he still managed to teach her something. Maybe that¡¯s exactly what they needed right now: a clear head and a plan.

    "Do you think we lost them?" Aria asked, looking anxiously around the darkening forest.

    "I think they''ve pulled back. Soon, three hunters will likely track us down. The rain will give us some time. But it''s quite possible they''ll still find us," Vrael replied, thoughtfully scanning the dense tree canopy around them.

    "Would you win against them?"

    "Fifty-fifty. In a direct fight, I win. But if the assassination is well executed..." he left the sentence unfinished, and Aria felt an unsettling sensation spread in her stomach.

    "Would you have won against Admiral Milram?"

    "My word. You''re suddenly quite talkative," he replied, a brief, amused glance flickering across his face. "We¡¯d probably both be dead. He from my sword, and I from exhaustion, blood loss, and lack of strength. But back to my question: Do you want to learn how to fight with the broadsword?"

    "Yes, I''m ready to learn from you," she replied respectfully. A sense of determination filled her. In that moment, she knew she would give everything to not just survive, but to fight and win.

    "A toast to your will," Vrael said, taking a deep drink from the bottle. "Ah, that hits the spot. But we''re not going to Lenos. I¡¯ve just changed my mind."

    "Why''s that?" Aria asked, looking at him confused.

    "Well, our secret escape wasn''t exactly secret. Your father is probably very angry," he replied with a slightly amused undertone. "And there''s something that seems odd. Why go to such great lengths just for you? I would have expected more indifference."

    "I see. So where are we going then?"

    "As you might know, we''re currently on the outskirts of the Fagorn Forest. To the north lies the Manos Mountains, which are also part of this forest. We''re heading northwest. In about 300 kilometers, we should reach a huge trading city called Tanaroth. It''s the last major human trading city in the north. There are other beings who live further north, and they, of course, have large settlements as well."

    "300 kilometers? That will take us months! Isn''t that a bit much?"

    "No, it''s the safest option for us. If we take this route, we¡¯ll leave the kingdom of Tanerien after about 100 kilometers. As you know, your father is one of the three high counts. They¡¯re only subordinate to the King of Tanerien. On this journey, I¡¯ll train you. I¡¯m fairly familiar with the paths. So we have a good chance of survival."

    "Can I finally know who you are?" she asked, looking at him intensely.

 chapter 22. Rain Clouds

    He sighed deeply and let his gaze wander into the distance, as if searching for answers in the memories of the past. "To make it short and simple, I was one of the King''s guards. To be precise, I was their trainer."

    "Then how did you end up like this?" Aria couldn''t quite hide the hint of irritation in her voice.

    "I served in the guard for 15 years, as agreed. Afterward, I asked for a piece of land to settle down with Lena. After all, my best years were behind me. But the King ordered me to serve another 10 years. I refused."

    His face darkened as he continued. "Angrily, he handed my wife over to the House of Nightshade. That¡¯s how I became their servant, their slave." The last sentence came out as an angry whisper.

    The memories burned in him like a furious fire. He hated the King for taking his freedom, and the desire to kill him gnawed at him like an unrelenting shadow. In his despair, he had begun to drown his pain in wine, which brought him temporary relief but did nothing to quell the anger inside.

    Aria couldn¡¯t think of a comforting word. Her loneliness had never acquainted her with such things. As she thought about how she could help him, she realized the weight of his memories.

    "Master," she began firmly and sincerely, "when I¡¯m strong enough, I¡¯ll cut off his head with your sword technique."

    "Focus on your own goals!" he replied, but the gleam in his eyes revealed that her words had touched him.

    "My only goal is revenge. If another revenge is added, it doesn''t change much," her voice sounded resolute.

    Suddenly, the first raindrops began to patter on the ground. Aria felt the air become damp and cool.

    "If it rains heavily, we''ll still get wet despite the tarp. After a while, the moisture will flow into our camp in little streams," he observed, watching as the drops danced in small puddles on the ground.

    He then drew a simple work knife from his belt and tossed it to her. "Cut a branch and sharpen the end. The shape should resemble a blade. When you''re done, dig a trench around the tarp. Fifteen centimeters deep will be enough."

    "Why me?" she complained, holding the knife as if it were a symbol of her unfairness.

    "Because I''m the master," he replied with a hint of humor in his voice.

    "What are you doing while I work?" she asked, heading off to find a branch.

    "I''m tending to my wounds," he said, pretending to take a deep swig from the wine bottle.

    Displeased, she set to work.

    By early afternoon, Aria sat, dirty and completely drenched, under their makeshift shelter. The rain had relentlessly poured down on them, spreading a cold that seeped into her bones. Vrael had used the time to tend to the wound on his side.

    He pulled a small vial from his pouch and let a few drops of the transparent liquid fall onto the wound. The sharp pain at the touch made him flinch for a moment. Then he carefully wrapped the wound with a bandage.

    "What was that liquid?" Aria asked curiously, watching him.

    "Since you left the city, you''ve really become chatty," he replied, a hint of mischief in his voice.

    She shrugged and smiled faintly. "I have to learn something, after all."

    "I think I need more wine. Or maybe I should try something stronger," Vrael muttered, looking up at the sky as if searching for an answer.

    Aria shot him a reproachful glance. "Drinking is unhealthy. It harms muscle growth, the absorption of carbohydrates, and..."

    "Yes, yes, I get it. For heaven''s sake. The liquid destroys bacteria. You don''t even seem to know anything about basic alchemy," he interrupted.

    "That''s true. I have no idea. Can you teach me?" Aria looked at him hopefully, the rain continuing its monotonous drumming on the tarp above them.

    "Any other requests?" Vrael shook his head as though trying to lighten the air around him.

    "Let me think... You could..."

    "I get it, I¡¯m already doing it. But not today."

    "Why not?" Her voice sounded a little disappointed as she stared at him with questioning eyes.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    "Don''t feel like it. Let an old man have some peace."

    She shot him a reproachful glance, momentarily forgetting the seriousness of the situation.

    "Just a joke," he muttered, but a slight smile tugged at his lips. "We¡¯re going to sleep now. When dusk falls, we¡¯ll move. We need to cover distance quickly."

    "Then why did I have to do this annoying work?" She snorted in annoyance and pulled her knees to her chest.

    "So I could have some peace. Just kidding. We need a good rest. We¡¯ve burned a lot of energy. You need to think long-term on a long journey. Remember that!" His voice had an earnest undertone, reinforcing the importance of his words.

    "Understood, Master." Aria nodded.

    "Can''t you be a little more relaxed?"

    "No, Master." Her answer was firm, but there was a trace of conviction in her tone. She believed that a master deserved respect¡ªeven if he was a drunkard.

    "Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?" he sighed resignedly, letting his gaze fall to the dirty ground. "I think I''ve sighed more today than I have in my entire life. Now I really feel old."

    After their conversation, Aria had laid down.

    He cast a gentle glance at the sleeping Aria. Her body trembled slightly. He shook his head. "And she wanted to survive out here," he had to grin. "Acts like she''s an adult, but still a child."

    Then he pulled a sheep¡¯s pelt from his bag and covered her with it. The soft fabric enveloped her, providing comfort and warmth. Vrael himself settled for a thick, lined coat that reached down to his knees, shielding him from the cold.

    His gaze fell to the ground. They had hastily placed some pine branches underneath. While they pricked a bit, they offered insulation. A good balance, he thought.

    "Aria, wake up!" He shook her gently, his voice calm but firm.

    "What is it?" she grumbled sleepily, her eyes opening reluctantly and squinting against the light.

    "The weather has improved. We''re moving on now. Get up and pack your things."

    Reluctantly, she sat up, and the two quickly broke down their camp. With each step they took into the forest, the terrain became more difficult. The underbrush thickened, and the ground became uneven. The further they went, the harder it was to make progress.

    Suddenly, Vrael gave Aria a shove. She tripped over a root and landed roughly on the ground, a surprised expression on her face.

    "What was that for?" she complained, rubbing her sore arm.

    "I slipped." He shrugged, but there was a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

    "Yeah, right, that was on purpose!" Her face was a mix of irritation and anger.

    "Well, serves you right. Here''s a tip: if you don''t stop moving, you won''t fall." His laughter echoed through the forest. He was starting to enjoy teasing the far too serious girl.

    Aria shook her head, but a smile couldn''t quite be suppressed. "That''s not funny."

    "It''s important to pay attention to your surroundings. You need to learn to automatically notice potential obstacles. A steady stance will help you in many situations." His serious tone left no room for argument.

    He extended his hand to her. Still grumbling, she reached for it, but she grabbed nothing. Without the usual support, she collapsed again.

    "Always expect the unexpected," Vrael remarked, grinning.

    She wasn''t going to take that lying down. She grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it at him. But to her surprise, she suddenly found herself standing in front of her master, and the dirt hit her square in the face.

    "Well, well. Didn''t see that coming," he said, laughing.

    By the end of the day, her face was completely covered in dirt, just like her clothes. Over and over, she was tripped, a stick was shoved between her legs. Vrael seemed to be testing both time and her patience with every little trick.

    Her whole body burned from the exertion, and each breath felt like it was only tiring her further. The shadowy forest around her was still. Only the occasional rustling of leaves in the gentle wind reminding her that she was not alone. Aria closed her eyes for a moment to ease the pressure on her mind, but the constant struggle to stay focused offered no rest.

    "Enough with the little annoyances for today. Let''s talk about the proper use of a broadsword," Vrael said.

    With a small exclamation of excitement, she straightened up. "Finally!"

    But just as she began to gather her thoughts, she felt a sudden jolt. With an abrupt "oomph," she landed hard on the ground.

    "Never let your guard down!" Vrael leaned over her, giving her a teacher''s stare.

    "Damn," she cursed, trying to shake herself off. The ground was uneven, and the mud clung to her clothes.

    "Back to the sword. If you look at the shape of a broadsword, you''ll notice that the blade is widest near the guard. Why do you think that is?"

    "I don''t know. Doesn''t that reduce the power of the strike?" Her brow furrowed as she thought about the question. The forest around them seeming to close in, as if the trees were eavesdropping on their conversation.

    "Somewhat, but it allows for more precise control of the sword. Now think about this: Which part of the sword do you think is most stressed during a fight?"

    "The part near the guard?" Aria''s voice sounded uncertain. Her gaze drifted to the curved sword in his hand, which gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the canopy.

    "Exactly. That means our broadsword is particularly well-suited for two things: First, parrying other weapons. Second, striking hard against enemy armor. Armor or a shield won''t bother us."

    Vrael let his gaze drift across the shadowy underbrush. "With a rapier, for example, it''s completely different. There are two types of broadswords: one-handed and two-handed. I prefer the two-handed. Can you guess why?"

    "You said it''s about breaking armor. With two hands, you can strike harder." Her voice sounded more confident now as she straightened up and met his eyes directly.

    ?Correct. Well thought out.¡° Satisfied, he gave her a gentle shove, and though she wobbled, she managed to stay on her feet. A broad smile spread across her face.

    But Vrael was faster. With a swift motion, he slipped a foot between her legs.

    ¡°Don¡¯t get too cocky!¡± he reminded her, as she stumbled again and fell to the ground.

    ¡°You could have just let me have the win,¡± she grumbled.

    ¡°Nope. What about thrusting?¡± Vrael casually sat on a fallen tree trunk, his expression serious, as though he were testing her.

    ¡°I think it''s quick and effective.¡± Aria took a deep breath, trying to sort her thoughts while the damp earth beneath her still smelled of the morning rain.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because the center of gravity is close to the hand.¡± Her gaze shifted to the longsword, gleaming in the light of the setting sun. The thought of the strength she would soon possess filled her with anticipation.

    ¡°Correct. However, when thrusting, you must aim for weak points. A thrust won¡¯t penetrate armor.¡± He admonished her. ¡°The only way through would be with the right gift or blessing.¡±

 chapter 23. Invasion of the Brownies

    ¡°Which is better, blessing or gift?¡± Aria felt her heart race. The idea of being equipped with such abilities in battle was both thrilling and exciting.

    ¡°That depends on the situation. Often, a blessing is superior when fighting humanoid creatures. Gifts are relatively predictable, while the drawbacks of a blessing are harder to detect.¡±

    She thought back to the fight when Vrael dominated their enemies with his strange abilities. A shiver of respect ran through her, and she nodded in understanding.

    ¡°Now, what you clearly lack is strength. Right now, you wouldn¡¯t be able to do much with broadsword.¡± Vrael let his gaze drift over the trees, as though weighing the challenges of the journey ahead.

    ¡°We can set aside endurance training for now. During the journey, you¡¯ll naturally develop enough stamina, so that will improve on its own. For now, we¡¯ll focus on your strength and¡­¡±

    With a sudden swing, he swept her legs out from under her. Aria found herself crashing to the ground, a brief shock overtaking her.

    ¡°¡­and your balance.¡± A mischievous grin spread across his face as he leaned over her.

    ¡°Understood, Master.¡± She squinted her eyes, trying to hide the indignation on her face. ¡°I¡¯d like to know, how long do you think this journey will take?¡±

    ¡°If we manage ten kilometers a day, we¡¯ll make good progress. We¡¯ll need at least a month. With training and unexpected events, it¡¯ll probably take two months.¡± He sounded thoughtful as his gaze rested on the dense trees that closed in around them like sentinels.

    The next three days passed without incident, but that meant little rest for Aria. Her body was scraped from the constant falls, her muscles aching from the relentless training Vrael imposed on her. Every evening, strength training followed the long hikes until her legs trembled under the strain.

    Despite her increasing vigilance, Vrael managed to throw her off balance time and again. Sometimes she caught the twitch of his feet, but it didn¡¯t change the fact that she found herself once more in the dirt.

    ¡°What about creatures around here?¡± she finally asked, the question casual, though her interest was piqued.

    Vrael gave her a measured look before answering. ¡°I think we¡¯ll encounter some soon. Beasts usually avoid larger towns because they¡¯re hunted. They fetch a good bounty, so they¡¯re often wiped out within the vicinity of bigger settlements.¡±

    Aria nodded. ¡°And terrors?¡± she asked, her tone revealing neither fear nor particular expectation.

    ¡°Terrors are more difficult.¡± Vrael¡¯s voice grew a touch more serious. ¡°They¡¯re more unpredictable. While beasts are dumb and follow set patterns, horrors possess a kind of cunning intelligence. They adapt, understand their environment, and sometimes even their opponents. Strategies that work on beasts are useless against them.¡±

    Aria raised an eyebrow slightly. ¡°So, a problem that can¡¯t be solved beforehand?¡±

    ¡°Exactly.¡± Vrael nodded curtly. ¡°So you¡¯ll need to learn to pay attention to your surroundings and act flexibly.¡±

    ¡°As always.¡± Her response was cool, almost indifferent. She adhered to the motto, what doesn¡¯t kill me makes me stronger.

    ¡°What beasts are we most likely to encounter?¡± Aria asked, not taking her eyes off the uneven forest landscape. Her voice was calm, but beneath it was a faint curiosity.

    Vrael shot her a brief sidelong glance. ¡°Since we¡¯re in the forest, we can narrow the beasts down to woodland creatures.¡± His voice had that instructive tone she was now well accustomed to. ¡°Beasts can generally be split into two categories: weaker beasts that live in larger colonies, and stronger individuals that tend to be loners.¡±

    ¡°So which beasts are we talking about?¡± Aria pressed, her tone now more urgent.

    ?Since we''re still on the edge of the forest, it¡¯s likely weaker creatures. We''ll see what comes our way.¡± Vrael grinned slightly, as if it were hardly worth mentioning. ¡°Come to think of it, we could use them for your training.¡±

    Before Aria could reply, he drew one of his broadswords from its sheath. The metal gleamed dull in the subdued light of the forest. ¡°This is a simple broadsword. It has neither runes nor any special properties. I kept it as a reminder of earlier times.¡± He held it out to her, his gaze expectant. ¡°From now on, you''ll carry it with you.¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    Aria hesitated before taking the sword, its weight heavy and unfamiliar in her hands. ¡°And what should I do with it?¡± she asked, though she knew the answer wouldn''t take long to come.

    ¡°Every time we stop, you¡¯ll swing it,¡± Vrael explained calmly. ¡°Strike straight down from above, then pull it back and thrust forward. Repeat that until you can''t anymore. Then keep going.¡±

    Aria snorted quietly, but she gripped the sword more firmly. Her fingers searched for the hilt, finding the right grip as she mentally ran through the first strike. Sure, it would be exhausting, but by now she was used to it. She nodded slightly, saying nothing, and mentally prepared for the upcoming training.

    ¡°Understood, thank you, Master,¡± Aria said, accepting the sword with a slight bow.

    Vrael raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "We''re not at court anymore, you don''t need to bow."

    Aria barely shrugged. "Understood," she murmured, her voice cold and distant.

    The next two weeks passed in deceptive calm. Her body slowly adapted to the grueling exercises, but the monotony of the movements left space for her thoughts to wander back to earlier times. The forest around them, still and ominous, was a welcome distraction.

    Suddenly, a faint hiss broke the silence. Something shot through the air, aimed directly at Aria''s neck. Before she could process what was happening, Vrael was already beside her. His hand moved with lightning speed. A soft whistle ringing out as he intercepted the projectile. When he opened his hand, a small, feathered arrow lay within it.

    "Alright, Aria," he said calmly, as though he had been expecting this. "It¡¯s time. The attackers are brownies. They''re weak, but don''t underestimate them. Their weapons are poisoned, and they prefer ambushes. Don¡¯t get hit."

    Aria¡¯s gaze immediately followed the trajectory of the shot. Her eyes narrowing as she focused on a point in the trees. There it was. A small brownie, nearly invisible, holding a blowpipe about a meter long. Her heartbeat remained steady, and her fingers tightened around the hilt of the broadsword. No room for fear. No room for hesitation.

    "How many?" she asked quietly, never taking her eyes off the enemy.

    "Three more arrows shot through the air. Aria swiftly dodged to the side, but the unfamiliar weight of the sword hindered her. One of the arrows nearly struck her leg, but she managed to deflect it with the broad side of the sword. Her breath was shallow. "Whew, that was close."

    Without hesitation, she dropped her backpack and glanced over at Vrael. "Master, should I attack?"

    "No," he replied in his usual nonchalant tone. "Better find out how many arrows you can dodge."

    "Understood," she muttered, getting used to the sarcastic undertone in his voice. She ran diagonally towards the opponents, her gaze firmly fixed ahead. The sword in her hand felt heavy. A solid anchor for the upcoming battle.

    "So reckless," Vrael called after her. "You should''ve listened better."

    "What¡¯s he talking about?" she wondered, her focus slipping for a moment. A hissing sound came from behind her. An arrow, this time from behind. Aria sensed the danger at the last second and leapt to the side. She brushed past a thick bush, just as a bony blade shot out from it.

    "Shit," she cursed as the blade came at her.

    "And death," Vrael suddenly said, appearing next to her. With a casual movement, he grabbed the blade as if it were just a twig and shoved it back. A startled scream rang out as Vrael effortlessly lifted the wriggling opponent from the bush. The small body thrashed wildly, but Vrael held it firmly, his expression unchanged.

    "As I said," he remarked dryly, "listening is an art."

    The Brownie that Vrael had effortlessly lifted was gaunt, its bony limbs hanging limp. It had a human-like body covered in green fur. Its head resembled a mix of a monkey with a touch of sloth.

    Pain flickered in its greenish eyes until its life force ultimately faded. Aria glanced at it briefly, almost casually, before shrugging. "They''re even smaller than me," she remarked, surprised.

    Her voice sounded relaxed, perhaps even cheerful at not being the smallest anymore. Hardly had she finished her sentence when the next arrows zipped toward her.

    Aria reacted instinctively, the weight of the broadsword still heavy on her arm, but she raised it, blocked one arrow, and dodged the others to the side. "Thanks, Master," she said with a smile, quickly grabbing the lifeless enemy and using it as a shield. For a moment, she glanced at Vrael, who watched her with a raised eyebrow.

    "Quite cheeky for someone who''s just died," he replied dryly.

    Her eyes scanned the forest as more enemys emerged from the underbrush. Two dozen, if not more. Their movements were uncoordinated, hissing and baring their teeth. But their eyes unmistakably showed: They were hunting.

    The damp forest floor beneath their feet made a soft squelching sound, and the smell of rotting leaves mixed with the acrid stench of the foes. It felt as though the forest itself was breathing harder, as if it could sense the danger.

    "So many..." Aria whispered.

    "They probably want to go drinking with you. Ask them. I''ll be waiting back there in the tree. No alcohol for kids," Vrael replied with a smirk.

    She knew that Vrael would help her. She trusted him one hundred percent. So, she could train undisturbed.

    "Although, I think they''re more likely to invite you to a cozy meal by the campfire."

    Vrael sat down on a thick root, stretched out lazily, and let his head fall back as though it was the most natural thing in the world to rest in the midst of a potentially deadly situation. "Do your best, my dear pupil. Wake me when it''s over." He closed his eyes, as though he actually intended to sleep.

    The attackers seemed to avoid him, as if they had instinctively realized that he was not someone they should mess with. Their attention was fully focused on Aria. They surrounded her, their drooling mouths open, growling as if ready to strike at any moment.

    Aria lifted the sword, its weight still uncomfortable. But the past few days had helped her adjust. "Could it be that they want to eat me?" Her voice was calm, almost indifferent, yet her eyes kept a sharp focus on the movements of the opponents.

    Vrael didn''t answer. Instead, a loud, deep snore came from him, making Aria roll her eyes briefly.