Azaran stood still, unmoving, as a towering pillar of ghostly fire engulfed him.
Blue, purple, and sickly green flames danced around his body, swirling like the breath of dead gods. It didn't burn—it invaded. A presence, not heat. A whisper, not a roar.
"W-What?!" he gasped, staggering back, eyes wide. He spun, trying to escape it, to make sense of the creeping cold radiating from the fire's core.
But there was no enemy. No magic circle. No chant. No divine hand.
Only flame.
And the whispering.
Not words—a language. Ancient. Inhuman. Spoken by no tongue Azaran had ever heard. It echoed directly inside his skull, bypassing ears, crawling across the inner walls of his mind like insects.
And then the fire turned inward.
His right eye—his blind one—erupted in searing pain.
"ARGHH!!" he screamed, dropping to his knees, hands clasped to his face. "What the hell is this?!"
The agony was unlike anything he'd felt. And Azaran was a demon—he'd known pain since birth. But this? This was truthful. Real. No tolerance, no resistance. Just pure, divine suffering.
His fire—his own—was red. Crimson. Familiar. He could bathe in it, mold it, twist it into spears and walls and waves.
But this… this wasn't his.
This was fire as it should be.
Raw. Ancient. Holy. Hungry.
The gnarled scar that had lined his eye since childhood sizzled and cracked beneath the unnatural blaze. The cursed mark—the one that no potion, priest, or Veil Art could heal—began to peel away like rotten bark from a sacred tree.
And then... silence.
The flames vanished.
The whispers stopped.
Azaran gasped, chest heaving, clutching empty air.
He blinked.
And blinked again.
Then froze.
His vision was perfect. No blur. No duality. No sickly strain between his working and damaged eyes. For the first time in his life, he could see clearly—with both eyes.
He raised trembling fingers and brushed the skin around the once-blind one.
Smooth.
Bare.
Whole.
He stood up slowly, still half-expecting to collapse. His legs were shaky, his chest tight.
'The scar is gone…' he thought. 'My eye… it's healed.'
It didn't make sense.
Healing scars was nearly impossible without holy intervention, especially those linked to one's Veil Art. And Azaran's Art—[SORCERY]—was tied to fire, not healing. Not restoration. And definitely not miracles.
"How… did my Veil Art get stronger?" he whispered.
His flame flickered into his palm again, unbidden.
But it was different. Pale. Ethereal. Ghostlike.
It danced along his fingers, soft and eerie—like a candle burning at a funeral for forgotten kings.
He took a breath.
The fire calmed.
The pillar behind him faded into nothing. His long, jagged hair, once glowing with spectral flame, returned to its natural storm-blue hue.
Still dazed, Azaran looked to the sky—grey, merciless, indifferent.
"Did the gods… answer a demon's prayer?" he muttered.
No reply came.
Only the harsh, lonely howl of wind over the dunes of red sand.
He turned around.
And froze again.
Bodies. Dozens. Maybe more. Strewn across the battlefield like discarded toys. Torn limbs. Charred corpses. Eyes still wide in fear, now forever empty.
His people. His brothers. His clan.
Gone.
Ash and blood caked the ground.
His heart clenched.
Not from rage.
Not even from grief.
But guilt.
The kind that eats the soul. Quiet. Endless.
He knelt beside one of them. A young warrior named Kiren—he'd shared food with Azaran just three nights ago.
He opened his palm, summoned the ghostfire once more.
This time, it didn't lash out wildly.
It obeyed.
It swirled gently from his hand, slid across Kiren's lifeless body, and engulfed him in cold, pale light.
A sacred cremation.
Demons didn't believe in burials.
Cremation was rare—sacred, reserved only for noble blood.
But Azaran no longer cared for tradition.
They deserved rest.
Even if it had to come from a sinner's hand.
Especially from one.
Because he had survived.
And he shouldn't have.
He ran.
Ran like a coward.
Even if instinct demanded it—even if every demon would have done the same—he didn't forgive himself.
His thoughts then drifted to Armin.
He remembered the things he had said to him.
"You're not one of us."
"You're no demon."
"A human spy."
"A mistake."
And now, lying in a sea of corpses and sand, Azaran whispered the words he never thought he'd say.
"I… am as worthless as him."
His wall of pride—built from defiance, sharpened by rage—cracked under the hammer of guilt.
And from its ruin, something else emerged.
Another wall.
Not one of envy, wrath, or arrogance.
But of fire.
The ghostly flame surged again, this time from within his chest. Words fell from his lips—foreign, ancient. He didn't know them, didn't mean to say them.
Yet they came.
"Nos ignis sumus… tu novus es… superstes es… stella es."
The wind stilled. The desert listened.
And Azaran—changed—stood in silence.
- TWIN WOLF CASTLE -
Marble floors. Gold-veined walls. A throne room crafted to humiliate gods.
Two twin women stood beside the black throne, holding ivory fans. Their skin shimmered with enchantment. They smiled as they fanned the seated duke—a smile that did not touch their eyes.
The throne was massive.
Forged from obsidian.
Carved with wolf fangs.
And on it sat a shadow of a man.
Duke Romulus.
The Twin Wolf.
A monster whose very presence made seasoned warriors tremble.
The colosseum master knelt below him, shaking. His skin was pale, his spine bent low in shame and fear.
"S-Sir Romulus, please—I can explain!" the man cried.
But the duke raised a single clawed finger.
"Speak when you are spoken to," he growled, voice like stone scraping bone.
From the darkness, a hand emerged—huge, beastly. Grey-white fur lined the forearm. The nails were claws. Not shaped like them. Claws.
Romulus leaned forward. His eyes glinted from the shadows like twin silver stars.
"Why did you free so many slaves?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. It was more dangerous that way.
"A... another slave," the master mumbled, sweat dripping from his brow. "He… bought them off."
Romulus paused.
Then chuckled.
"...Hahahaha… Interesting."
The master breathed, dared to smile.
And then his head hit the floor, separated cleanly from his body.
The twin women didn't flinch.
Romulus cleaned his claws with a silk cloth, then pointed at a tall, well-dressed man standing to the side. The same one who had once dealt with Armin and the other slaves on the duke's behalf and represented the Colosseum Master.
"Take over the colosseum," Romulus said. "And keep your eye on the one you find most interesting."
The man nodded, unfazed by the corpse bleeding at his feet.
"I already have one in mind, my lord."
"Good," Romulus growled, reclining back. "I need a new minion."
The shadows behind the throne pulsed.
Hundreds of glowing eyes blinked into existence.
And watched.
-BACK IN THE CITY-
Armin's breath hitched.
A cold shiver traced his spine, sudden and sharp, like fingers of frost curling around his heart.
He paused mid-step, hand brushing the worn edge of his coat. The city around him bustled as always—noisy, restless, alive—but he felt... distant. Disconnected.
The sensation passed just as quickly as it came, but a whisper lingered in his thoughts.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.
"Another hero… of another being from the Veil, huh?" he thought, the goddess's voice still echoing in the hollow corners of his mind.
His gaze drifted skyward. The clouds loomed heavy over the skyline, veiling the sun. As if something above watched.
"Will they get something like A.S.C.E.N.D… or something different?"
The question hung in his thoughts like smoke.
He didn't know.
But he had a feeling the answer would change everything.
End of Chapter-021