The forest was silent except for the distant call of an owl and the rustling of leaves swaying in the wind. Azreal Raven moved through the shadows like a ghost, his boots making no sound on the damp earth. His instincts were sharp, honed by years of living in darkness, yet the unfamiliar wilderness gnawed at him. This was no place he had ever known.
The sky was strange too—too clear, too ancient, untouched by smog or the haze of neon. Above him, the stars glittered coldly, constellations he didn't recognize stretching across the heavens.
He had walked for what felt like hours, following the flicker of torchlight in the distance. The wall loomed larger now, carved from stone so massive it seemed impossible. Towers crowned its length, each manned by armored figures who paced with a discipline that spoke of centuries of war.
Azreal crouched low in the underbrush, his sharp eyes scanning the patrol patterns. Every step, every turn, was memorized in an instant. His assassin's mind dissected weaknesses and blind spots, though what unsettled him was how efficient they were. These weren't common guards. This was a military that had been bred to protect something powerful.
"Looks like some kind of empire," he muttered under his breath. His voice felt too loud in the silence.
He touched his chest again, fingertips brushing over the place where Kade's bullet had ripped him apart. No wound. No blood. Yet the memory of betrayal ached deeper than any scar.
Why am I here? Why now?
Azreal's jaw tightened. If there was one thing he knew, it was survival. Whatever world he had been thrown into, he would carve a place for himself, even if it meant painting the walls red.
But survival depended on patience. And patience was tested when the snap of a twig broke the silence behind him.
Azreal froze, muscles coiled. Slowly, his hand slid to the dagger strapped at his boot. He hadn't been disarmed when he awoke here—strange, but fortunate.
"Who goes there?" a voice barked.
Three figures emerged from the shadows, their armor gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Halberds lowered toward him, torches illuminating hard eyes beneath helmets. They were soldiers, their movements trained, their presence suffocating.
Azreal rose slowly, his dagger hidden behind his thigh. His smirk came instinctively, a mask he had worn countless times. "Evening stroll," he said dryly. "Didn't know I needed an invitation."
The leader sneered. "You're dressed strangely, foreigner. This forest belongs to the empire. Trespassing is punishable by death."
Azreal tilted his head. "Then I guess you'll have to try to kill me."
Before the soldier could respond, Azreal moved. He was lightning, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His dagger slashed upward, catching the halberd shaft and twisting it aside before driving his elbow into the soldier's throat. The man collapsed with a strangled choke.
The second soldier shouted and swung his weapon in a wide arc. Azreal ducked, his dagger slicing across the man's thigh. Blood spattered the grass, and the soldier crumpled with a howl.
The third roared in fury and charged, halberd aimed at Azreal's chest. Azreal pivoted, ready to strike—
But a crushing blow slammed into the back of his skull.
His vision exploded white.
He staggered, dropping to one knee. Hands seized his arms, rough and unyielding, wrenching the dagger from his grip. His head throbbed, his thoughts fogging as shadows closed around him.
The soldier he had downed spat blood and sneered. "You fight well, outsider. But even beasts can be broken."
Azreal struggled, but there were too many. They forced his arms behind him, binding them tightly with coarse rope. His breath came harsh, his teeth bared in fury.
"Where are you taking me?" he growled.
The soldier shoved him forward. "To His Majesty. The emperor will decide your fate."
Azreal chuckled darkly, even as blood trickled from the cut on his temple. "Your emperor, huh? Let's see if he's worth the hype."
The soldiers dragged him through the forest, the torches casting long shadows across the trees. The closer they came to the wall, the louder the sounds of the empire grew—the rhythmic beat of drums, the calls of men on watch, the creak of iron gates.
When they reached the towering gates, Azreal craned his neck, eyes narrowing as he took in the sheer scale. The wall was impossibly high, the wood and stone reinforced with metal bindings. Sigils he couldn't decipher glowed faintly in the torchlight.
The gates groaned open, and for the first time, Azreal stepped into the empire.
The air was thick with smoke from forges, the scent of roasted meat, the murmur of voices. Streets paved with cobblestones stretched ahead, lined with lanterns that flickered against the night. Merchants wheeled carts, even at this hour, and soldiers marched in tight formations. Everything was orderly, disciplined, and unfamiliar.
The people who saw him—bound, bloodied, dragged by soldiers—stared in silence. Some whispered prayers. Others spat curses. Azreal caught the word on their lips more than once: demon.
He smirked. "Cute. Haven't been called that in weeks."
A soldier shoved him hard, forcing him onward.
They passed through twisting corridors, deeper into the heart of the empire. The architecture grew more ornate, walls carved with dragons and phoenixes locked in eternal battle. At last, they stopped before towering double doors of blackened oak, bound in gold.
The leader of the soldiers bowed his head briefly. "Announce him to His Majesty. The emperor will want to see this one with his own eyes."
Azreal tilted his head back, his eyes gleaming with defiance. Whatever ruler waited behind those doors, Azreal had already decided one thing—he would not kneel.
Not to kings.
Not to emperors.
Not to anyone.
The soldiers hauled him forward. The doors opened with a groan, revealing a throne room vast and shadowed, lit by hundreds of flickering candles.
At the far end, seated upon a throne carved of obsidian, was the man who ruled it all.
Emperor Lee Yang.
And his gaze locked on Azreal like a blade drawn from its sheath.