"Today's the day. I finally get to end this bullshit."
Azrael's thoughts burned as his long, sweat-soaked hair lashed about under the pounding of stone fists. The golems struck from every side, relentless, their blows driving him into the dirt like a nail hammered again and again. Pain flooded him, but his jaw clenched. He wouldn't scream. He wouldn't give them that.
Then, a voice—calm, cutting, dripping venom.
"Oh my... still alive, are we?"
Azrael froze. That tone. He knew it. Hated it.
"I should've expected it. My creations always reduce their prey to corpses, but you... you're stubborn. You cling to life like a cockroach."
Marcus Quentin stepped into the dim light. Black hair slicked back, emerald eyes gleaming with cruel amusement, his physique sharpened by training and vanity alike. Everything about him radiated a predatory arrogance. A prodigy—or so he proclaimed, and so the world foolishly whispered.
"It's simple, Azrael." His voice was smooth, measured. "All it takes to end this is one sentence. Say it: Marcus, I acknowledge you as a prodigy. That's all. Three little words."
The golems stilled, parting to make way for their master.
Azrael lifted his head, blood streaming down his ruined face, and forced a grin.
"That's something I'll never say. Don't make me laugh."
Marcus's smile faltered. Azrael spat blood and added, voice hoarse but sharp:
"And just what the fuck makes you think you're some prodigy?"
A flick of Marcus's wrist.
The golem's fist smashed into Azrael's face, bone crunching as his nose shattered, his skull cracking against another strike that nearly broke his spine. He collapsed, body twitching.
But Marcus wasn't satisfied. He gestured again, and the golems obeyed. They descended, stomping his body into the ground, again and again—meat tearing, bone splintering—until at last Marcus lifted his hand and silence fell.
He strode forward, boots squelching in Azrael's blood, and crouched.
"Now. Do you acknowledge me as a prodigy?" His words came like a whisper into a grave.
Azrael's body lay mangled, barely breathing. No answer.
Marcus smirked. "I'll take your silence as yes."
He stood, turned, and snapped his fingers. The golems began to crumble to dust.
But then it hit him.
The air thickened, sharp as knives, heavy with murderous intent. It pressed against his chest, slowing his breath. Marcus stiffened. Slowly, he turned.
Azrael was moving.
Broken limbs straightening, his eyes burning with something feral. He rose, trembling, a figure carved from blood and defiance.
"My silence doesn't mean acknowledgment... you fucking bastard."
Marcus's sneer returned. "As expected of your kind. Vampires are resilient vermin, but persistence isn't power. You're still nothing."
He raised a hand, summoning a magic circle that glowed with intricate runes. "Be honoured to witness my—"
The spell shattered.
A blade of blood tore through the circle, dispersing it. Another strike hissed past his head, close enough to shear strands of his hair.
"You think your blood magic can touch me?" Marcus mocked. "Give up this pathetic—"
Another crimson streak whistled past.
He smirked—until the wet scream ripped through the chamber.
Marcus turned.
His knight was down, chest caved open, drowning in his own blood.
Marcus froze. His eyes widened, pupils shrinking. For the first time, amusement gave way to something colder.
Fear.
Murderous thoughts clawed at Marcus' mind, drowning out all reason as he spun to face his adversary. Azrael had already closed the gap, his fists clenched, knuckles dripping crimson as layers of blood magic crawled over his skin like veins of fire. The air reeked of iron and fury.
Before Azrael's strike could land, a massive fist—rough, jagged, hastily wrought from ice and bone—slammed into his skull. The blow cracked through the silence like a war drum, sending him crashing backwards, his body skidding across the stone with a sickening grind.
Marcus' breath came ragged, his fury coiling tighter with every second. His emerald eyes burned, not just with wrath but with a shadow of fear he refused to name. Temperatures plummeted; frost spread like veins across the ground, crawling up the walls. His dying knight was swallowed in a dome of translucent ice, sealed away like a relic of failure.
The chill deepened as Marcus' fury took shape. A towering ice golem materialized at his back, frost snapping from its joints, its hollow eyes reflecting Marcus' seething rage. His face was half-frozen now, patches of frostbite spreading along his cheek, but he didn't care. He welcomed it. He needed it.
This wasn't about proving himself anymore. It was about erasing Azrael—grinding him into nothing.
Azrael's breath came ragged, each exhale misting with the iron stench of his own blood. The puddles at his feet shivered as though alive, answering his will. They coiled upward, hardening into jagged gauntlets, cruel greaves, and a helm that swallowed his features in crimson shadow. Twin daggers, serrated and dripping, bled into shape within his hands. Behind him, a vast halo of blood spun, not divine but malignant—a crown of ruin.
Marcus gave a cold gesture. The ice golem lurched forward, the ground trembling with each thunderous stride. For its towering bulk, the creature moved with dreadful speed, a blur of stone and frost tearing through the air.
Azrael did not retreat. He surged forward, every step splashing blood beneath him, the twin daggers flashing with murderous resolve. Their collision shook the chamber—dagger met stone, flesh met ice. The result was merciless. His blades screeched uselessly across the creature's frozen hide, while the golem's sweeping arm connected with bone-breaking force. Azrael was hurled backward, his daggers cracking under the strain, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth.
The golem did not relent. It thundered after him, fist raised in an arc that promised annihilation. Azrael, spine screaming in protest, slammed his palm against the ground. A dome of blood erupted around him, the impact rattling the chamber as the monster's blow crashed down. The dome quivered, straining to hold, every vein of it pulsing with his life force.
But Azrael only smiled through the pain. The blood-like construct writhed, reshaping itself with a will that wasn't its own. Spikes burst outward, puncturing the ice shell of the golem — not clean, sharp cracks, but sickening ruptures that left the frozen giant trembling. Each puncture seeped something dark and sluggish into the creature's veins.
The golem staggered, lifted its arm to crush Azrael again… then halted mid-swing. Its massive frame shuddered, as though caught between two conflicting commands. A groan rattled through its chest — not stone, not ice, but something disturbingly wet.
Marcus barked his orders, his voice sharp with anger, but the sound fell thin in the air. The golem's body no longer looked solid. Its ice began to sag, sliding off in viscous sheets, until what stood before him was no longer a guardian of frost but a figure collapsing into a pool of thick, clotted fluid.
And the worst part wasn't the sight — it was the way the blood moved, crawling outward across the ground, pulsing as though it had veins of its own. Marcus's rage faltered, replaced by a single, alien thought that wasn't his: It's watching me.
Marcus's breath caught for a moment as Azrael stepped into the blackened puddle of the fallen golem. The liquid climbed his body like chains wrapping a prisoner, hardening into a full set of crimson armour. His shattered daggers reformed in his hands, edges gleaming wet and sharp. At the puddle's centre, a dull core pulsed faintly, like the last heartbeat of something that shouldn't have lived in the first place.
For the first time, Marcus's confidence wavered. His gut twisted—then he buried it beneath anger, forcing himself to step back, fists clenched, ice gathering at his command. He wasn't going to show weakness. He couldn't.
"I don't care what tricks you've stolen from the dead," Marcus snarled, his voice cracking with both fury and unease. "That armour won't save you. Playtime's over!"
Above him, jagged spears of ice thickened into monstrous size, their sheer weight groaning against the air. With a violent gesture, Marcus hurled them forward.
Azrael sprinted into the storm, blades flashing in arcs of red light. Shards shattered around him in bursts of frozen dust; each spear reduced to fragments before it could touch him. The relentless advance didn't slow—every step closer cut deeper into Marcus's nerves. His jaw tightened, fury gnawing at the edge of fear as he realized that for all his bluster, Azrael wasn't breaking. He was pushing forward. Marcus's hand snapped outward, ice shards swirling back under his command, cutting through the air like a storm of knives. They rushed Azrael from all sides—an inescapable kill box.
But Azrael's halo spun to life, crimson arcs colliding with the shards in rapid succession. Each impact rang out sharp and hollow, until the attack dissolved into nothing but glittering dust.
A growl slipped from Marcus's throat. Not enough. Never enough. Frost climbed his arm as mana flooded his veins, cold and merciless. With a violent thrust, he conjured a cannon of jagged ice that towered beside him. "Freeze and die!" he roared as the weapon discharged, the blast tearing forward like a glacier unbound.
The impact crushed Azrael under a tide of frost, hurling him across the arena. Marcus smirked, certain of the kill—yet the shape that emerged through the haze shattered his composure. Bloodied, staggering, but still advancing, Azrael's steps rang with grim defiance.
Marcus felt it then, an unfamiliar edge gnawing at his confidence. He raised the cannon again, forcing power into it, the strain etching lines across his face. Another iceberg ripped free, shrieking toward his enemy.
This time, Azrael didn't defend. His daggers glowed with a thin, lethal brilliance as he swung them in a cross-slash. The blades didn't cut the iceberg—they seized it. Mana snared the frost, binding it, twisting it.
The glacier dissolved into rushing water, and then—ignited. A roaring flame burst outward, lighting the battlefield in violent shades of scarlet and gold.
Marcus staggered back, pupils shrinking against the blaze. His breath hitched, just once, before rage smothered it. But the truth gnawed at him, undeniable: his opponent wasn't being destroyed. He was evolving.
For the first time, Marcus's pride faltered, shadowed by a flicker of fear.
Azrael slowed, his stride deliberate as the torrent of fire swirled toward him, bending and streaming like liquid light before sinking into his body. The flames fused with his veins, his steps heavy with their heat.
Marcus wasn't shaken. He raised his hands, voice steady and cold as frost crawled up the walls. "Ice Fortress."
A fortress of jagged frost and steel-hard ice erupted around them, sealing the battlefield in a prison of winter. From the shadows of its walls, an army of ice golems took shape, their hollow eyes glowing faintly as Marcus's will bound them into motion. With a single gesture, they charged.
The ground quaked under their assault. Azrael met them head-on, blades now burning with searing flame. His strikes cut wide arcs, shearing through golem after golem, fire bursting against frost. Shards littered the floor, the fortress echoing with each impact. Yet for every one he felled, two more pressed in, endless and unrelenting.
Azrael's chest heaved, the pull of mana growing heavier with every swing. He could feel the drain, the creeping edge of exhaustion stalking him. If he burned out now, Marcus would win—and he refused to fall in this prison. His pace quickened, his blades flashing faster, cutting a path through the tide. He would reach Marcus. He had to.
Marcus stood at the fortress's heart; lips curved in a thin grin. His trap was working, every step unfolding exactly as he'd planned. He needed only the final piece.
Outside the fortress, something stirred. A hulking construct of earth and ice, battered and broken, dragged its ruined body forward. Its core flickered dim, yet it clawed ahead with stubborn resolve. With a guttural grind of stone, it raised its arm high and drove its fist forward.
The impact thundered through the arena as the fist tore through the icy wall, shattering stone and scattering lesser golems in its path. Azrael was a breath away from striking Marcus down when the blow connected, smashing across his head and chest with bone-cracking force—close enough to brush Marcus himself as it struck.
The fortress trembled. For a heartbeat, silence followed.
Marcus staggered, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pulls. His gaze drifted from Azrael's mangled body to the frozen dome encasing his fallen knight. For a moment, he just stood there—silent, trembling.
Then it broke.
"Ahh—!!"
The sound tore out of him, raw and jagged. It came again, louder this time, edged with something far uglier than pain. Rage. Frustration. Humiliation.
His knees hit the ground with a dull crack.
"You lowlife, vampire bastard!" Marcus snarled, his voice shaking as much as it burned. His eyes locked onto Azrael's chest—on the faint, stubborn rise and fall that refused to stop. "Your putrid existence ends here."
Frost gathered in his palm, condensing into a long, jagged spear. The weapon hummed with lethal intent as he forced himself upright, every step toward Azrael heavy with purpose.
He raised the spear high.
No hesitation. No speech. Just the end.
The tip descended—
And stopped.
Not by choice.
Marcus froze.
The air shifted.
Something colder than his ice magic crept into the space, pressing down on his shoulders, suffocating, absolute. His aura—once suffocating in its own right—shrank, crushed beneath something far heavier.
A presence.
Sharp. Deathly. Watching.
Marcus's grip tightened around the spear, but his body wouldn't move. For the first time since the fight began, his anger faltered—not gone, but drowned beneath something deeper.
Something instinctive.
Fear.
A figure emerged from the shadows.
He walked forward slowly, each step measured—and with every step, the pressure in the air grew heavier.
Marcus felt it immediately.
His instincts kicked in. He shifted aside, tightening his grip on the ice spear as his aura flared back to life. His eyes locked onto the approaching figure, trying to read him, measure him—
—but finding nothing.
The man stopped beside the ice dome.
Then—
He vanished.
"Shit," Marcus muttered, his stance breaking as his eyes snapped in every direction, searching.
Too late.
A hand seized his neck and lifted him clean off the ground.
Marcus's body tensed instantly, his grip tightening around the spear—but it didn't matter. The man held him there with effortless strength, his golden eyes fixed on Marcus's face. There was no anger in them. No pride.
Just cold, quiet evaluation.
Like Marcus was something to be assessed… and dismissed.
Then, just as suddenly, he let go.
Marcus dropped hard to one knee, coughing, his breath uneven as the pressure lifted just enough for him to move.
The man had already turned away.
He walked past Marcus as though he didn't exist.
Azrael's body lay broken—but not still. Faint signs of recovery were already there.
The man crouched beside him, expression unchanged as he began pulling parts of his body back into place with practiced familiarity.
"Fucking idiot," he muttered under his breath.
"You just had to have fun after the mission…"
"You!" Marcus snapped, forcing himself upright. "You're—"
"Hans," the man said flatly.
Marcus's jaw tightened. "I know who the fuck you are. What I don't know is why you're here… meddling." His aura flared again, sharper this time. "This is personal!"
Hans didn't look at him.
"You're right," he said calmly. "This is personal."
He lifted Azrael's body with ease.
"Which is why you should consider yourself fortunate… surviving against him."
Marcus's expression twisted. "What? Surviving against him? I am far—"
Hans paused.
Not fully turning—just enough.
The air shifted again.
"Then again…" Hans said quietly, "…if my brother had died…"
The pressure returned—heavier this time. Not explosive, not wild—
Just absolute.
"…I would have killed you. And that half-dead knight of yours."
Marcus's knees gave out.
He hit the ground, his aura collapsing entirely. The strength that once defined him felt distant—unreachable. His breathing slowed, shallow, as his vision blurred at the edges.
For the first time in his life—
He felt small.
Hans adjusted his hold on Azrael and walked past him without another glance.
Then he was gone.
Silence settled over the broken battlefield.
Two fights.
One of strength.
One of will.
Marcus had barely survived both.
He stared at the ground, his thoughts hollow, his pride fractured.
For the first time in his life…
Marcus Quentin didn't feel like a prodigy.
Not a gem.
Just—
A grain of sand.
Light bled slowly into Azrael's vision as his eyes cracked open.
His head throbbed. Every breath felt wrong—air slipping through injuries that hadn't fully closed yet. His body was still putting itself back together.
"…Good. You're up. Was starting to worry."
The voice came from nearby—calm, familiar.
Azrael tried to sit up, pushing himself against the tree behind him. His muscles twitched in protest, refusing to cooperate. He exhaled sharply and gave up halfway.
"…Who am I talking to?" he muttered.
A pause.
Then—
"Your brother, idiot," came the reply. "You always make it sound like I've got a split personality."
Azrael let out a dry breath that almost turned into a laugh.
"Well… it's hard to tell sometimes, with what lives in you… Theo."
Silence lingered for a second.
Then Azrael added, more casually:
"Anyway… you got anything edible on you?"
Theo shifted slightly, rummaging through his pack. "All I've got is jerky."
He tossed it over.
Azrael caught it—barely—and bit into it without hesitation. "That'll do."
For a moment, the only sound between them was chewing and the faint rustle of wind through the trees.
Then a thought crossed Azrael's mind.
A faint grin tugged at his lips.
"Hans," he said.
Theo didn't respond immediately.
"I still don't get why you picked that name," Azrael continued. "Sounds a bit… west-central. Don't you think?"
Theo let out a quiet chuckle. "Says you."
Azrael raised a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Micheal?" Theo shot back, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
Azrael clicked his tongue. "It's a common name."
"For a vampire?" Theo replied. "I doubt it."
Azrael smirked faintly.
"Vampires usually have all those long, noble-sounding names," Theo added. "And somehow… Micheal doesn't quite fit that image."
Azrael leaned his head back against the tree, closing his eyes briefly.
"…Yeah. That's kind of the point."
The wind passed between them again, quieter this time.
No tension.
No pressure.
Just a brief moment of stillness—rare, but not unwelcome.
A moment of quiet passed between them.
Just the soft rhythm of chewing, the distant chirping of birds, and leaves shifting in the wind.
Then—
"Oh, and speaking of nobles…" Theo said, glancing over. "What was your deal with Marcus earlier?"
Azrael's jaw tightened.
He bit down harder on the jerky, the motion sharp enough to sting. What little mana he'd recovered flickered faintly beneath his skin, veins rising slightly along his arm.
"My deal?" he muttered. "You mean what's his deal?"
Theo said nothing.
That was enough.
"Since the mission started, that asshole's been on my case," Azrael continued, irritation bleeding into his voice. "Always running his mouth—'acknowledge me,' 'recognize me.'"
He scoffed.
"Who does he think he is… some kind of Roman Reigns or something?"
Theo blinked once, brow lifting slightly.
"…I'm sorry, who?"
Azrael paused.
The tension in his body loosened almost immediately, like the anger had nowhere left to go.
"…I don't know," he said after a second. "Just slipped out."
Theo watched him for a moment longer—but didn't press.
"Anyways…" Theo began, rummaging through his pack again. "…Think you can walk back to the shop?"
He pulled out a few items—clothes, a dagger, a cup, and a worn wallet.
Azrael's eyes—glowing a sharp, blood-red—snapped toward him.
"Fuck no," he said flatly. "I'm not walking twenty-seven milia back to the shop. Not in this form."
"Thirty-one milia, actually," Theo corrected.
Azrael blinked. "…What? Why?"
"There's only enough money for us to use the gate," Theo said. "Not enough to get there comfortably."
Azrael's expression dropped. "I should've brought more cash…" He paused, then looked up. "Wait—can't you just teleport us?"
"And give everyone there a heart attack? No," Theo replied dryly. "Besides, if I could, we'd already be there."
Azrael clicked his tongue. "Then what—want me to shift and fly us there? Dragon, griffin, whatever?"
"And get shot down the moment you're spotted?" Theo shook his head. "Hard pass."
Azrael exhaled sharply, then gestured weakly toward his back.
"Can't shift anyway. Not with the extra restrictions on the seal." His voice dropped, more impatient now. "So… remove them already."
Theo didn't even look up.
"Relax. I'm getting to it."
He set the dagger and cup down in front of him.
"Stay still."
"I am still—"
Theo smacked him lightly on the head.
"Stay actually still."
Azrael muttered something under his breath but didn't move again.
Theo picked up the dagger and sliced across his palm in one clean motion. Blood welled instantly, dripping into the cup in slow, steady drops.
Then he looked at Azrael.
"Nyuthri giri."
The words settled into the air—and something responded.
Azrael's body tensed.
For a brief moment, it felt like something thin and invisible cracked across his back—like glass under pressure.
Then it gave way.
Revealing what lay beneath.
Carved into Azrael's back was a six-tiered seal—concentric pentagrams layered with precise, almost surgical accuracy, each inscribed within its own circle and nested perfectly inward toward a single center. Every ring bore distinct runic patterns, no two alike, forming a deliberate system of restriction, suppression, and stabilization. The outer layers were broad and unyielding, while the inner ones grew tighter and more complex, all working in unison to contain something volatile at the core.
Theo's gaze lingered on it for a moment.
"…Still intact."
"Just do it already," Azrael said, impatience slipping into his voice.
"Shut up and stay still," Theo replied, his tone sharpening. "One mistake and I could ruin the entire structure."
He dipped his index and middle fingers into the cup again, letting the blood coat them fully this time.
Taking a slow breath, Theo steadied himself.
Then he began.
His fingers pressed against Azrael's back, tracing along the lines of the seal with careful precision. The blood spread across the markings, slipping into the grooves as if the seal itself were drawing it in.
His voice followed—low at first, then shifting into something older, heavier.
"Ku thyer eni… agonyo cing peri man… agonyo kud I lanyuth eni."
The air stilled.
The fire nearby dimmed slightly, as if the space itself was listening.
Seconds passed.
Then—
Nothing.
Azrael frowned. "…You sure you did it right?"
He shifted slightly. "'Cause I don't feel any different."
Theo didn't answer immediately.
His fingers were still resting against the seal, unmoving.
"…I did it right," he said at last. "Exactly the way Aunt Cynthia does it."
Azrael let out a short breath. "Yeah… exactly the problem."
Theo's hand stilled.
"She's the one who made the seal, remember?" Azrael continued. "So yeah… maybe what we need is her blood."
Theo slowly pulled his hand away.
The markings on Azrael's back flickered faintly—then settled, unchanged.
"…Maybe," Theo muttered.
But his gaze lingered.
Not on the whole seal—
On the inner layers.
"…Or maybe it's something else," Theo said, more to himself than to Azrael.
"Like what?" Azrael asked.
"I don't know. But there's no way she'd design something only she could use—especially not something this important."
Azrael scoffed lightly. "Speak for yourself. I still can't get past her door knob." He paused, then added under his breath, "Probably keyed to her mana signature."
Theo's head tilted. "What'd you say?"
"What?"
"…No—after that."
"The part about her mana signature?"
Theo's eyes sharpened. "That's it."
He moved quickly, wiping the residual blood from Azrael's back with the edge of his sleeve, clearing the lines of the seal.
"So what—we need Aunt Cynthia's mana signature?" Azrael asked.
"Not exactly," Theo said. "Whenever the seal is placed or adjusted, we're all present. We channel our mana through the blood—with her as the conduit. That leaves our signatures imprinted on the structure."
Azrael blinked. "I'm… not following."
"Sit still," Theo said. "And pour whatever mana you've got left into me."
Azrael frowned, then nodded. "Fine."
He closed his eyes, drawing from what little remained. A thin current of energy moved from him to Theo—unsteady, but enough.
Theo took it, merged it with his own, then dipped his fingers back into the cup. The blood reacted immediately, clinging tighter, darkening as the mixed mana settled into it.
He exhaled once.
Then began again.
"Ku thyer eni… agonyo cing peri man… agonyo kud I lanyuth eni."
The air tightened.
The seal flickered—faint at first, like a dying ember catching a breath of wind.
Then it steadied.
A moment passed.
Nothing.
Azrael opened one eye. "…Still don't feel anything."
"Give it a second," Theo said, though his gaze didn't waver.
Another second.
Another.
Azrael pushed himself up, irritation creeping back in. "Look, this clearly isn't—"
"It's going to work," Theo cut in, calm but firm.
Azrael turned to argue—
—and his words caught.
"A—and when is it—"
His voice slipped.
The strength drained from his legs all at once.
He dropped.
Theo caught him before he hit the ground.
"Azrael—"
The seal ignited.
Not red.
Gold.
Light surged across his back, each concentric ring blazing to life in sequence—outer to inner—until the entire structure shone with a sharp, controlled brilliance.
The air pressed inward.
Theo's grip tightened as he felt it—the shift.
Not release.
Recognition.
"…There it is," he muttered.
Azrael's body tensed in his arms, breath shallow, as the first layer of the seal pulsed once—bright and deliberate.
Unlocked.
Then—
A burst of energy tore outward from Azrael.
The shockwave slammed into Theo, hurling him back as the ground split beneath them. Trees bent, snapped, and were ripped from the earth, flattened in a widening radius as the force carved a shallow crater into the land.
And just as quickly as it came—
It was gone.
Silence followed.
Dust settled slowly through the air.
Theo pushed himself up from where he'd landed, shaking off the impact as his eyes scanned the crater's center.
"Hey…" he called out, a hint of concern slipping into his voice. "You okay?"
A groan echoed from below.
"I will never… ever get used to that sensation…"
Theo exhaled lightly. "I'll take that as a yes."
He stepped closer to the edge, looking down.
"Now get up here and get dressed, idiot."
A pause.
Then—
"I'm sorry," Azrael's voice came back dry and unimpressed, "did something get in your eyes?"
Theo raised a brow.
"I'm in a crater," Azrael continued, "and I'm butt naked. Just toss the clothes down here."
Theo stared at him for a second.
"…Fine."
He tossed the bundle down into the crater.
"Thank you," Azrael said.
"Are these the old man's clothes?" Azrael asked, confusion lacing his voice.
"No," Theo replied. "Why would you think that?"
"Because it's exactly what they'd wear."
Theo scoffed. "That's all I could grab before we left. And they're yours."
Azrael stepped out of the crater.
"You're a terrible liar."
The change was immediate—impossible to miss.
His posture had shifted, straighter now, more grounded—like his body had finally settled into itself. He stood taller too, matching Theo at a clean six-two. His skin had darkened slightly, losing its earlier pallor, while his long black hair had turned stark white, falling loosely around his shoulders.
But it was his eyes that stood out most.
Gold.
Not as sharp or radiant as Theo's—but unmistakably different from the crimson they once were.
Azrael closed the distance between them in a few quick steps.
"These are your clothes," he said flatly, gesturing at himself. "Look at me—I look like a monk."
The outfit hung loosely on him.
A weathered, off-white tunic crossed over his chest, worn but durable, layered over a darker inner lining. A wide leather belt pulled it tight at the waist, lined with small pouches and metal loops—practical, not decorative.
His trousers were dark and loose, tucked into tightly bound wraps around his ankles, built for movement and endurance rather than style.
Nothing about it stood out.
And that was the point.
It was the kind of outfit worn by someone who didn't care to be seen—
Only to survive what came next.
Theo gave him a once-over.
"…It fits."
"Who cares—"
"I care," Azrael cut in. "I never wear stuff like this. Jinhai's going to notice."
"That's not my problem," Theo scoffed.
"I hate you," Azrael muttered.
"Anyway…" Theo reached up and pulled off his wig, revealing his real hair—deep blue, like the depths of the ocean, dark and rich even in low light.
He dug into his pack again, pulling out a thin strip of cloth and tossing it over.
"Fix your hair."
Azrael caught it mid-air, raising a brow. "You carrying fashion advice now?"
"Just do it."
Azrael clicked his tongue but didn't argue.
He ran a hand through his hair first—long strands of white slipping between his fingers—before gathering it loosely at the back.
The texture still felt… off.
Lighter. Smoother.
But heavier in a way that had nothing to do with weight.
"…Still weird," he muttered.
He tied it into a low hold, not tight—just enough to keep it in place. A few stubborn strands fell forward, framing his face.
Practical.
Unrefined.
But it worked.
Azrael rolled his shoulders, settling into himself.
Theo gave him a quick glance.
"…Better."
Azrael smirked faintly. "Don't sound so impressed."
Azrael paced in slow circles, testing his body.
He stretched his legs, rolled his shoulders, flexed his arms—then twisted at angles that looked almost unnatural, joints bending with disturbing ease before snapping smoothly back into place.
Theo watched for a moment before speaking.
"Well… damn." He let out a short laugh. "You keep talking about what's inside me, but you should look at yourself right now."
Azrael smirked faintly, rotating his wrist until it cracked back into place.
"What can I say?" he replied. "I'm just flexible. You already knew that."
Theo shook his head, slinging his pack over one shoulder.
"Anyway," he said, "how exactly are we getting to the portal?"
"We fly there," Azrael answered casually.
Theo blinked.
"…What?"
His expression flattened into open confusion.
"You literally said we'd get shot down if you turned into a dragon," he said. "So what do you mean by 'we fly there'?"
Azrael slowly turned toward him.
Then grinned.
"Oh, Theo…" he said, hunching slightly forward. "You sweet, big dumb baby."
Theo stared at him, unimpressed.
"There are other ways to fly besides turning into a dragon."
A pulse of energy rolled off Azrael's body.
Then—
Something tore through the back of his clothes.
Two massive pairs of white-feathered wings erupted from his back, unfurling with enough force to stir the trees around them.
The upper pair stretched nearly twenty feet wide, broad and powerful, while the lower pair spread beneath them at a slightly smaller span, layered like the wings of some celestial predator.
Loose feathers drifted through the air.
Against his darker skin and white hair, the wings looked almost unreal.
Not holy.
Not natural.
But beautiful in a way that felt dangerous.
Theo stared at him for a long second.
"…You could've mentioned that sooner."
Azrael's grin widened.
"Where's the fun in that?"
"Really?" Theo said, irritation creeping into his voice. "'Fun?' Let's just get out of he—"
"Ting malo" Azrael muttered.
"What was tha—"
A violent gust of wind exploded beneath Theo, launching him skyward.
"ASSHOLE!" he shouted as the ground vanished beneath him.