Azriel watched Mirius writhe on the ground—panting, gagging, making sounds like a cat struggling to hack sothing out of its throat.
Mirius turned his head, blood spilling freely down his lips, and smiled.
"That gun..." he rasped.
"So you’re the madman who paid ten billion velts for it..."
A harsh laugh broke from him before it dissolved into bloody coughs.
"I can see why now..."
His hand clutched the gaping wound in his abdon. In re seconds, Mirius had already pieced it together. He knew now how a re soul weapon had been able to harm him. He understood—it was chargeable.
"Had you dodged left, right, even ducked... I’d have pierced your skull. But your instincts saved you. Jumping upward threw off balance. Made dizzy. Made miss my chance to kill you."
He sighed, his expression was with genuine disappointnt.
The three cadets stared, their faces drained of color. They couldn’t believe it.
Prince Azriel Crimson—an Expert—had just injured a Master.
Still panting, Mirius’s voice ca hoarse, yet it was edged with excitent, as he looked at Azriel.
"That vial... What... what did you do to ? It feels like my insides are lting..."
Azriel raised a brow, then another.
"It’s poison."
"...Poison?"
Azriel nodded lightly.
"One of those powerful figures you always hid from happens to be an alchemist. Alchemy here, unlike in our world, is far more practised. That particular alchemist developed a poison so lethal it could kill anyone below level three who so much as breathes the gas it releases. That vial—if dropped—would have filled this village with death."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice turning low, almost playful.
"Now imagine what it does to a Master who just consud the entire thing."
He raised a hand to his mouth, struggling to suppress the smile tugging at his bloodied lips.
"I bet that precious regeneration you Masters cling to will be overworked tonight. As it keeps repairing those lted organs of yours."
Mirius coughed, body convulsing as his fingers dug harder into his wound.
Azriel’s eyes glinted with sothing cold.
Just like Azriel had [Eidolon Flesh], a Master possessed their own version of monstrous regeneration. Not a skill—just their nature. Healing at speeds beyond human comprehension. In fact, far better than Azriel’s own... at least for now.
But that regeneration, now slowed, shackled by poison, gave Azriel sothing priceless.
A step closer to winning.
But winning against whom? Mirius?
Of course, defeating Mirius was part of Azriel’s plan. A crucial step, yes—but still only part of a far greater strategy. No, his true adversary was the scenario itself.
Azriel was currently at a devastating disadvantage. He had lost three entire months.
If there was any human alive who truly understood the rules of the Theogonies, it was Azriel Crimson. He alone comprehended just how crippling this three-month gap in knowledge was.
He recalled clearly the warnings he had received, back when the panels flashed in his soul realm, back when the scenario had first begun.
[Consequences:]
– Death in the Scenario = True Death
– Failure to act = Erasure from the Record
The first consequence was straightforward enough—die in here, and you die permanently. No second chances, no retries. But the second consequence was trickier. Azriel doubted many fully grasped its true aning.
Record.
Azriel knew exactly what that ant. When the scenario finally concluded, every surviving participant would return to their soul realm, be evaluated, and then rewarded accordingly—based solely on their performance. From there, they would return to their world, as humans who had conquered the first trial of the gods.
But who exactly conducted that evaluation? Who, precisely, determined how generous or cruel the rewards would be?
It wasn’t the ’Twelve Scenario Tyrants of the Divine Court’. Certainly, they created these elaborate death gas, these twisted divine scenarios—but their role ended there.
As Pollux had explained, the scenarios were no different from plays in a theater, or shows on a grand cosmic stage. The participants were re actors, and the gods were the audience. And every actor’s true worth, their ultimate value, was decided by how much their audience adored them.
The more popular the actor, the greater the reward.
The sa rciless logic governed the Theogonies. Azriel, by circumstance, had beco a character whose "screen ti" was limited exclusively to other participants’ viewpoints. He never directly showed up in the gods’ feed. And ironically, this granted him a perfect advantage: the gods had absolutely no idea what to expect from him. As terrifying as the unknown might be, it could also be irresistibly thrilling.
Ultimately, the gods themselves would cast their votes at the end of this scenario. Unfair, perhaps—but fairness was never promised. Azriel’s only chance at truly entering the Record hinged on being noticed by at least one participant.
Of course, being noticed alone wasn’t enough. Being seen ant nothing if the viewer was never themselves seen. The gods didn’t watch every minor character’s actions. They craved drama, thrill, and spectacle. They sought out the main protagonists—the heroes and villains who drove the scenario forward. Anyone less exciting beca invisible, forgotten.
Azriel doubted figures like the Ten Gods watched these scenarios at all—or at least he hoped not. And even if they did, the truly powerful divine entities would focus on more thrilling, unpredictable scenarios unfolding elsewhere—those starring titans like Joaquin Crimson or Freya Selene.
Azriel’s scenario was small-scale in comparison. Yet his sudden appearance here, dramatically challenging four participants who’d bored the divine audience senseless by remaining hidden away in this village, was bound to snatch attention.
He could practically feel it now—every divine gaze, every unseen cara shifting, adjusting, and zooming onto his bloodied figure. Even better, one of the strongest participants, Master Ranni herself, had accompanied him here. To the gods watching, Ranni’s acknowledgnt of Azriel as her strongest cadet was a tantalizing detail, the perfect narrative buildup.
And now, Azriel was facing another one of the strongest participants in the scenario. This battle—this raw, visceral confrontation—was exactly the explosive spectacle the divine viewers hungered for.
Every action Azriel took, every breath, every calculated step was no longer unseen or unnoticed.
Now, every single god watching this scenario had turned their full, unwavering attention toward one man alone:
Azriel Crimson.
Interesting.
Amusing.
Unpredictable.
Unknown.
Fun.
Soone who forced a High Commander to flee.
Master Ranni’s strongest cadet.
Soone who died within a dream dozens of tis.
Destroyer of the Forest of Eternity.
Prince.
Young Hero of CASC.
Supre Archon.
Among other deeds he had already achieved, it was as if Azriel was chaos itself given human form.
Yet, despite all that, the gods knew nothing about him. To them, it must have seed as if ’the Fourth Authority’ was intentionally withholding Azriel’s story just to tease their curiosity—and it worked perfectly.
Mirius suddenly began to shake his head, his laughter manic even as blood gushed from his mouth.
"No! No! No!" He cackled hysterically, his eyes going wild.
"Amazing! I finally get it!"
Azriel watched silently, blood still trickling steadily down his face. Mirius’s grin widened further.
"You’ve been lying from the very start!" he shouted.
Azriel blinked slowly.
"You missed on purpose!"
The three bound cadets froze in shock, their eyes wide in astonishnt at his words.
"You wanted to fight you this entire ti, didn’t you?" Mirius’s voice trembled with excitent, madness, realization.
"But why go through so much trouble? If it was just a battle you desired, I would have gladly accepted! So what is it you’re truly after?"
Slowly, Mirius rose to his feet, wiping fresh blood from his mouth as his smile vanished completely.
"I had forgotten sothing crucial—that it’s only the underestimated ones who manage to surprise you. You’ve reminded well. I won’t repeat that mistake."
He stared intently at Azriel, his smile fading.
"Ah," he sighed softly, "I see it now."
The smile returned, but this ti it held neither humor nor amusent—only a bitter coldness.
"You know who I really am."
Azriel remained silent.
A suffocating silence fell between them. The three cadets held their breath, feeling as though even the air itself had frozen under the crushing weight of the mont. Neither man moved; crimson eyes faced a cold blindfold, locked in a battle of unseen tension.
Then, sudden footsteps broke the oppressive stillness. All eyes turned to see a figure erging from the shadows, dressed in flowing black robes, beautiful blue hair dancing gracefully in the wind.
For an instant, Mirius’s composed expression fractured.
"You truly prepared for everything, didn’t you...?"
Ranni walked forward calmly, her gaze fixed firmly on Azriel. Azriel remained utterly emotionless, and Mirius’s face quickly returned to cold neutrality. Yet, to the cadets, Ranni was like a goddess descended, a beacon of hope among the madness here.
She paused directly before Azriel. Then, in a voice so soft and unexpectedly concerned that even Azriel was taken aback, she asked:
"Does it hurt?"
’Hurt?’ Azriel frowned slightly.
’Does what hurt?’
Then he realized—of course, he was injured. He’d nearly forgotten the blood staining his face.
Azriel shook his head slowly.
"I don’t feel anything."
Ranni’s gaze lingered on him for a long mont, genuine worry evident in her eyes. She then turned her attention briefly to the bound cadets, assessing their conditions swiftly, before looking back at Azriel.
"The entire village has been evacuated," she said quietly, allowing herself a faint, relieved smile.
"I ran into the village chief as I ca here. He was shedding tears of gratitude, all thanks to you."
’Huh..?’
Azriel’s expression didn’t change.
"He has no reason to be thankful. I ripped his arm off."
"But you also saved his life—and the lives of everyone in the village," she replied firmly.
"That note you slipped him gave him the chance to warn the villagers and evacuate safely into the tunnels."
That was true. Azriel had indeed warned the chief—not because he was insane or reckless, nor to impress Mirius. When he’d knocked at the cabin door, leaned close to the trembling chief, and whispered threats of consuming his mana core, Azriel had discreetly passed him a simple note. Luckily, the village chief was smart enough to read it and play his role perfectly—even though losing an arm had likely not been part of his expectations.
The note had contained only one simple instruction:
Play along.
When I give you the chance, run.
Evacuate your people imdiately to the underground tunnels.
Azriel sighed, his expression unreadable, his gaze fixed back on Mirius, whose expression had now darkened considerably upon realizing how thoroughly he’d been deceived.
"If he feels grateful, there’s nothing I can do about that," Azriel said simply.
Ranni followed his gaze, eyes widening as she noticed Mirius’s grievous wound.
"You... injured him?" Her voice was filled with astonishnt.
"I apologize for starting the fun without you, Instructor," Azriel said casually.
"I saw an opportunity and simply couldn’t resist."
Despite the approaching midnight hour, Azriel did not feel that Ranni was late—in his eyes, she had arrived exactly on schedule.
"Did you finish what you needed to?"
Ranni smiled softly, as though with fondness.
"Your threat made the caretakers far more cooperative. They’ve agreed to report themselves to the village chief, step down, and invest the money they stole into renovating the orphanage and placing capable leaders in charge."
Azriel nearly smiled at that.
"Good," he said quietly.
Though, truthfully, only ti—and their own survival—would tell if things would truly change.
"Can I ask you sothing?" Ranni asked suddenly.
Azriel’s lips twitched slightly. Mirius, clearly ignored, visibly simred with annoyance.
Ranni didn’t even glance at him. Instead, she continued calmly,
"I took the liberty of reviewing the notebook on my way here, and sothing didn’t add up."
Azriel avoided eting her gaze.
"You noticed."
Ranni nodded, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at Azriel.
"There was no one nad Mirius Gibbler listed in the number 64 spot."
Mirius tilted his head in confusion, then realization spread across his face in slow horror, and finally, dark amusent. Before Azriel could answer, Mirius himself spoke up, his voice rich with bitter irony.
"Of course not," he chuckled.
"You’ve been deceived, Master Ranni—just like everyone else. After the little princess failed to recognize —even though it hurt my pride, given I knew her father when he was rely an infant—I held no hope that soone called the ’unworthy prince’ could possibly figure it out. Yet, here we are—I was wrong."
"What...?" Ranni frowned deeply, anxiety starting to creep into her voice.
Azriel dismissed Atropos’ Elegy with a tired sigh, his next words spoken in a dark, low voice:
"The man standing before you isn’t ranked number 64, Instructor. He’s far more dangerous. A monster from the top twenty-five."
Ranni’s eyes widened. She hurriedly retrieved the notebook, her gaze darting rapidly over its pages. When her eyes reached the right line, her face drained of color, and her mouth opened in horror.
Azriel spoke again, each word pushing her deeper into shock:
"Number 22: Corven Draumirius Zevrak, sword of the forr Dusk King. Among the first twenty humans to beco a Master in the First Void Generation. Once a Commander of the Dusk Army—nicknad the Monarch Slayer for allegedly slaying approximately ten Monarchs in a single month. Presud dead under unknown circumstances shortly after the death of the First Dusk King..."
Azriel paused; his voice was chillingly calm, and his eyes were like sharpened ice.
"As you can clearly see, Instructor, he’s very much alive—and now a mber of FreeWings."
User Comments
0 comments from readers