He phased through the knight who had ended his life.
At once, Reflection responded.
Flashes tore through his vision — memories not his own, yet all-consuming. He saw rigorous drills beneath a burning sun, blades cutting air with merciless precision, orders barked in an unfamiliar tongue. Cold, calculated brutality shaped this man. But something was wrong.
Why am I only seeing his training… and the present?
Reflection was never selective. It showed everything. A full lifetime—birth to death—memories playing like an unskippable film reel. But here, something was different. Something was missing.
Then it clicked.
These weren't lives... they were products.
How in the name of Signo did Velmira create this army?
It wasn't a figure of speech anymore. These weren't resurrected soldiers, or cursed souls. They were forged—built like weapons from birth. Human monsters crafted from the ground up, shaped by hands that knew neither compassion nor restraint.
A deep sickness crept into Azriel's gut as the truth settled.
Velmira hadn't just raised an army.
She manufactured one.
Then—pain.
A jolt dragged him out of Reflection like a hook behind the ribs. He woke to searing agony, darkness, heat. Acid licked his skin, bubbling his flesh. He was inside something. No—someone.
He had been swallowed.
The warrior who consumed him erupted in a storm of guts and blackened sinew. Azriel burst through the grotesque remains, skin blistered, heart hammering.
"Fuck…" he gasped, barely upright.
But there was no time to collapse.
He fell to a knee, grabbed the dead warrior's sword—massive, heavy, foreign in design. Yet as he gripped it, something flooded into him. A torrent of technique, instinct, relentless brutality. The blade wasn't just metal. It carried memory. Will. The very rage that had driven the knight.
I'm stronger...
He could feel it.
The strength of his killer was now his own. Muscle remembered movements he hadn't practiced. His limbs moved with unnatural precision, parrying a blow before his eyes even saw it coming.
And yet—even with this power, the crisis remained.
The question clawed at the edge of his mind:
Am I still a false hero?
But now wasn't the time.
There were civilians screaming. Families pinned beneath rubble. Children clutched in trembling arms as abominations closed in. His sword moved before the doubt did.
One strike—two—seven—twelve.
The warriors fell around him in brutal succession, heads cleaved, limbs shattered, black iron clanging against stone and bone. His breath was ragged, movements fueled by desperation and something darker.
He wasn't fighting for glory.
Not even redemption.
Just survival.
And hope.
"They better be alive…" he muttered, scanning the burning battlefield, smoke stinging his eyes.
His friends—his family by choice—were still out there. Somewhere beyond the carnage.
And he was going to reach them.
Even if it meant burning through the army that killed him.
And then—he appeared.
A knight, towering above the carnage, his frame wide enough to blot out the flame-lit sky. His armor was stitched with dried sinew and black iron plates layered like jagged stone. But it wasn't just his size that made Azriel's stomach churn.
It was the aura.
This one had consumed more than the others—dozens, maybe hundreds. He wasn't just stronger. He was evolving.
A monster growing with every meal.
Azriel steadied his stance, gripping the blackened blade he'd torn from his last opponent. The reflection's strength still lingered in his limbs—but this, this was different.
He's a mountain.
Then—
Vanish.
CRACK.
Azriel didn't even see it. One second the knight stood thirty feet away—the next, he was there.
A massive gauntlet connected with Azriel's ribs.
He was airborne.
He slammed into stone, bounced, coughed up blood, rolled—and staggered to his feet.
"Tch... you're a big ass mess," he growled, spitting crimson as he wiped his mouth.
The knight let out a primal roar that shook the air, the sound like something between thunder and grinding metal. Azriel dashed toward him without hesitation. Pain throbbed in every nerve, but fear had no seat left at the table.
They clashed—
Steel met steel—
Flesh met fury—
Each of Azriel's strikes echoed with desperation, but the knight moved with unnatural grace, every counter blow rattling Azriel's bones. This wasn't just a monster. It was an experienced killer with power.
Still, Azriel didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
For every slash he threw, the knight returned two. His body screamed. Muscles tore. But he adapted. Ducking lower. Twisting faster. Exploiting the knight's size. His mind was running calculations mid-blow, each second buying him an inch of understanding.
Then he saw it.
A rhythm.
The knight always pivoted his right foot before throwing a left cleave. It left his lower ribs open. Small. Risky. But enough.
Azriel gritted his teeth, pushed off his back foot, and—
SLASH.
A clean strike through the knight's side—deep enough to expose black muscle pulsing beneath the armor.
The knight reeled back, stumbling. A moment of pain.
Then… something worse.
He smiled.
A deep, grotesque grin formed beneath the slits of his helmet. The black iron shifted, opening like bone, revealing fangs. He dropped his sword and instead lunged forward—claws outstretched.
He was done fighting like a warrior.
He was hunting like a beast.
Azriel barely dodged, shoulder scraped raw as claws tore past. He rolled, slid beneath the knight's legs, and slashed upward through the hamstring—but even wounded, the beast kept turning, chasing, relentless.
Azriel's breathing grew ragged.
His vision blurred.
And then—an image flashed in his mind. Frenel. Lucia. Lysara. Gio. Every promise. Every death. Every lie he'd been told about his life. About Signo. About what he was meant to be.
I was never meant to be a savior…
But I'm still here.
He clenched the sword tighter. The weight of a world pressed against his shoulders—and he welcomed it.
The knight lunged again, both hands like spears.
Azriel didn't dodge.
He stepped into the blow.
Took the hit through the gut—bit down a scream—and plunged his sword through the knight's open mouth.
Steel pierced bone.
The knight gurgled.
Twitched.
Collapsed.
Azriel yanked the blade free, breathing fire. His vision was red. Blood—his own—soaked his hands. His stomach burned with a wound that would've ended anyone else. But still, he stood.
The knight twitched again.
Azriel stepped forward, lifted the sword high, and whispered:
"This is for every name you devoured."
Then he brought the blade down.
And the mountain fell.
He couldn't hear anything, no signs of magic, no blade hitting or explosions, that simply mean't they weren't around so where the hell were they? Or where was he? He decided to just finish off every single knight first, protecting the citizens was his priority— but still lingering with doubt he pondered to himself.
Where could they have gone??
Meanwhile, the remaining citizens exhaled in unison—a breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding. Relief swept through them like a breeze after a storm.
They gathered around the bloodied figure in the center of the ruined street.
Azriel.
Someone pointed and whispered, "It's him… the one who fought the mountain."
Another added with a chuckle, "And completely naked!"
Laughter rippled softly through the crowd. Azriel looked down and blinked—he hadn't noticed. The acid burns had eaten through every piece of clothing. No wonder the wind felt so sharp.
They began calling him The Naked Hero.
Much like in Wepah, they clothed him, showered him with warmth and gratitude, offerings of bread, water, cloaks, and praise.
But all Azriel could think was:
Do I deserve this much?
I let so many die. I let that monster land a blow—and then I got swallowed like nothing.
He bit the thought down, forced it into the pit of his mind. Now's not the time for doubt.
Instead, he turned to the crowd. "Where am I?" he asked, voice still hoarse from the battle.
One villager, wide-eyed, stepped forward.
"You're in Jinah."
Azriel's face dropped.
Jinah...?
His breath hitched. "Get me a map. Please."
Minutes later, when the parchment was laid out before him, his stomach turned. He traced his finger from Heiard to Jinah.
Three cities away.
He staggered back slightly.
I resurrected inside one of those Glutton Knights and made it here...
Three whole cities... how far did they carry me?
The quiet of realization didn't last long. A murmur sparked from the crowd behind him.
"Wait a minute… that's Azriel, right? The wanted one?"
"Yeah! It is!" another voice shouted.
Faces shifted. Gratitude twisted into confusion. Confusion into suspicion. Suspicion into anger.
"He set this all up, didn't he?! Just a ploy to make us think he's a hero!"
"Yeah! You think someone that pretty could take down a monster like that?! Lies!"
Azriel's heart sank, but his expression didn't change.
He understood.
Even if everyone knew the Graces were corrupt, who would stand against their word? Their rule? Their judgement?
It would be like an ant arguing with the sun.
The crowd erupted into rage. Guns raised. Swords drawn. Rocks hurled. Screams of betrayal and fear blended into one indistinguishable storm.
And Azriel—
He just stood there, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he looked down at the dirt.
"…Yeah," he whispered, "maybe you're right."
He turned and ran, chased from the very city he had just saved. The cheers of victory turned to howls of fury behind him. He wore a mask of strength as his cloak fluttered in the wind—but inside, something deeper cracked.
They buried their fear beneath anger.
He buried his doubt beneath silence.
Can I truly be a savior, he wondered, if the world doesn't want to be saved?
Later that evening, as Azriel trudged the long road back to Heiard, the weight of it all broke him.
He sobbed.
Quiet at first. Then louder, as if every tear carved a deeper wound in his soul. The stars above offered no comfort, and the wind only reminded him how alone he was.
Why am I so weak?
The thought repeated between gasps for air.
He hated to admit it—but he was a crybaby. Always had been, in every way that mattered. And now, he didn't even have the strength to deny it.
Will I ever be enough?
That question echoed louder than the rest.
He felt selfish for even thinking it. For pitying himself while his friends were still in danger—still in Heiard. He didn't even know how long he had been dead. Didn't know what had changed, what had happened. All he knew was that they weren't here.
And he was.
Alone.
He gripped the fabric of his new cloak tighter. It felt heavier now, soaked not with rain, but guilt. Grief. Longing.
He just wanted to go back.
Back to the warmth of their fire. To Renzo's jokes. To Gio's scolding. To Lysara's quiet strength. To all of them—the only family he had left.
But that vision… it was fading. It felt farther away with every step. As if Heiard was just a memory he was chasing through a fog he couldn't outrun.
He dropped to his knees.
"Savior…" he whispered.
He laughed bitterly through the tears.
"I can't even protect my friends... what a bullshit title."
And then the forest answered with silence, as if the world agreed.
"Why now do I cry? Why now am I emotional? When did I ever... learn emotion like this?"
Azriel asked no one, his voice cracking in the emptiness.
It wasn't just pain—he'd known pain all his life.
It wasn't just fear—he'd walked hand in hand with it.
But this?
This was something deeper.
Something raw.
As if, for the first time, his soul itself was weeping.