In that gray, lifeless world—where motion no longer existed, where the sea below froze mid-wave and the clouds hung in place like strokes on a dead canvas—Azazel advanced.
Here, nothing moved. Not the air, not the light, not even thought itself unless it belonged to him. This was the domain of his ultimate art, a realm of absolute stillness where only he could act. And even for a True Depravita, every centimeter he gained exacted a price. Each step consumed his life force, eroded his soul, and left hairline cracks in the fortress of his immortal constitution.
It was a place no one should linger in for long. Normally, Azazel would have used this ability for a single, fast strike—no wasted movement, no drawn-out engagement, no preparation. But the power of the Scarlet King changed everything.
