It's been 3 months since he left Anna. He is in Eliseum right now. A western continent. Relatively colder but warm region.
The air of Eliseum's western coast brushed against the poorly built tavern, making the wooden shutters creak now and then. It was night. The smell of cheap liquor and burnt meat floated in the air.
Azel sat at the corner of the dim bar, nursing a mug of sour ale. His face was hidden under a coarse hood, his messy hair now dyed a dull blonde. His normally sharp eyes, changed to a deep blood-red, glowed faintly beneath the hood's shadow.
The ale tasted like shit, but he drank it anyway.
He didn't speak. He didn't move much either. Only sat there, the ale in his hand, a hollow ache filling his chest. His mind wandered to Anna — was she crying right now? Searching for him?
He knew she would. She would search every mountain, every frozen path. She would wait, with the same bright, foolish hope she always carried when it came to him.
He made a wide scale barrier on the coast of entire continent. Only Anna can't go through it.
He took another gulp, forcing the bitterness down.
The door of the tavern slammed open. A raucous group of men entered, dragging the cold air with them. They wore leather coats, belts heavy with knives. Their leader — a wiry, thin-faced man with greasy black hair — grinned as he shoved past tables.
Loman Vincent.
Azel had heard the name murmured once or twice during his travels. Nephew of Thomas Vincent, a patriarch who ruled these parts with crooked hands and a heavy coin purse.
Loman wasted no time. His gang split up, hooting and laughing, grabbing at the terrified dancer girls who worked at the tavern. One girl yelped as Loman grabbed her breast, squeezing hard enough to make her cry out. Others tried to shove the men away, but it only earned them leering laughter and sharper touches.
The tavern's owner, an old dwarf, kept his head down. No one here would interfere. Not against Vincent blood.
Azel watched, swirling the ale in his mug. His fingers tapped absently against the wooden table. He wasn't a saint. Not a hero. He wouldn't risk his life and identity for strangers.
This was the way of the world.
Still, the scene was ugly.
The girl Loman held was sobbing now, her eyes darting around the room — searching for someone, anyone, to save her.
A new figure stepped ahead. A man — slender but tall, his hair golden, his clothes simple but somehow giving off a dangerous aura.
He walked forward with slow, deliberate steps. Calm. Unbothered by the tension in the air.
"Let them go."
The blond man said. His voice was clear, unshaken, cutting through the drunken shouts and laughter.
The room quieted for a moment. Then Loman snorted, dropping the girl to the floor.
"And who the fuck are you, pretty boy? Lost your way to the brothel?"
The blond man smiled, as if genuinely amused.
"I said let them go."
Loman laughed and motioned to his men.
"Break his legs."
They never got the chance.
In a blur of movement, the blond man closed the distance. His fist crashed into Loman's jaw with a sickening crack, sending the man sprawling across the floor. Loman screamed, clutching his dislocated jaw, tears springing to his eyes.
The thugs hesitated — shocked — but the blond man didn't. He moved like water, like smoke, dodging their clumsy attacks, hitting pressure points with brutal, almost lazy precision.
Within seconds, the men were all down, moaning and cursing on the ground.
The blond man dusted his hands off casually, then glanced at Azel.
Their eyes met across the smoky room.
The man tilted his head slightly, then jerked his chin toward the door.
Azel narrowed his eyes. Suspicious. But something in that look made him curious.
He finished his ale, threw a few coins on the table, and left the tavern.
The cold hit him immediately.
The blond man was waiting outside, hands tucked into his coat pockets, looking at the cloudy sky.
"You're Azel right?"
Azel stiffened. His right hand instinctively moved to cast spell.
Forbanna's voice hissed inside his mind.
"Kill him now. The cover is blown."
But the man raised his hands in a slow, non-threatening gesture.
"Relax. I'm not here to fight. Name's Clad."
Azel said nothing, simply watching him with guarded eyes.
"I'm a demon. Look!"
A horn emerged out from his forehead. This was the first time he saw. Why couldn't Anna do it?
Clad chuckled.
"Don't worry. I'm on your side. I've been following you since the port town. Took a while to confirm it. You're good at hiding."
"You're not making your case better."
Azel said flatly.
"I could've sold you out a dozen times by now but I didn't."
Fair point.
"Why are you following me?"
Clad stepped forward, his expression serious now.
"Because you're special. You fought Hakugo — the Third Cardinal of the Church of Saint Heron — and lived. Because the world fears you. I want you. I want to tear the church all down. The Empires. The Holy Orders. All of it."
Azel said nothing. His heart was thudding harder now.
"I'm building a rebellion. An army of criminals, demons, outcasts. Anyone who's been crushed under the Church's boot."
He looked Azel straight in the eyes.
"And I want you to join."
Azel almost laughed.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Yes!"
Azel stared at him.
Forbanna, silent till now, finally muttered inside his head:
"What will you do?"
"You have the power. The world already calls you The Foul One. Why not live up to it?"
'The Foul One? What a repulsive name!'
Azel stayed silent for a long time. The cold wind howled around them. Azel thought of Anna's sleeping face. His goodbye.
Of the Church's endless hunt.
Of the men like Hakugo who would never stop until he and everyone like him were ash and dust.
Maybe it was time.
Time to stop running.
Time to become the nightmare the Church whispered about in their cathedrals.
Slowly, Azel lowered his hand from his dagger.
"Fine. I'll join your damn rebellion."
Clad smiled.
"Good, welcome to the beginning of the end."