The morning began with the same weakness that now defined him: bones that ached before he even moved, lungs that felt too shallow, and a mind sharper than ever but chained by useless human flesh. Azrael forced himself out of Kai's sheets anyway. He had no interest in "work" or the pitiful life waiting behind Kai's old phone. His only focus now was the Tower.
But to enter it, this world required things he had never once needed: papers. Rules. Registration.
The "Adventurers' Guild" they called it—mortals trying to make sense of survival, drawing up contracts and rankings while pretending their lives had weight. For Azrael, it was a mockery. But if the Tower was their doorway, he would kneel to their rules only in appearance.
The Guild building loomed at the center of the district—a broad stone hall lined with banners, buzzing with human voices. Groups of fighters in mismatched armor crowded the entrance, boasting of hunts, showing off bruises like medals. Merchants peddled weapons and charms across the steps, calling out to anyone who would listen. To Azrael, it was chaos, undisciplined and painfully small compared to the legions he once commanded.
Inside, the noise grew worse. Adventurers pressed around tables, trading stories, clutching quests clipped to the board. The air smelled of sweat and spilled ale, heavier than the clean chill of the streets. Azrael's expression stayed cold as he pushed through, Kai's slim shoulders disappearing against the crowd.
A desk waited at the front, staffed by a young clerk with round glasses and a practiced smile. She gestured him forward.
"Name?" she asked, quill poised.
Azrael's mouth almost curled at the absurdity. A king reduced to declaring a name to a mortal with ink. Still, he breathed the words out flatly: "Kai."
Her quill scratched. "Age?"
"Twenty-five."
"Combat experience?"
A pause. His mind surged with memories of a thousand wars, cities split open under his shadow, heroes turned to ash. The weight of countless screams burned at the back of his skull. He glanced down at the trembling pale hands he now owned and muttered, "Little."
The clerk barely looked up. "Magic affinity?"
His shadows stirred at her words, hungry, aching to show themselves. He could have blanketed the entire hall in darkness with a twitch. But instead, he let Kai's shoulders sink, forcing weakness into his tone. "…Basic. Nothing worth note."
She nodded briskly, jotting it down with no suspicion. "You'll start at Rank F then. Low-level dungeons, basic contracts."
Rank F.
Azrael had been called King, Overlord, Eternal Shadow. But this world, blind to him, had labeled him F. His teeth ground as the word seared like mockery, but he swallowed it down. This was the mask. This was survival.
The guild clerk handed him a card—a flat square of etched crystal and numbers. His identification. His leash.
Azrael turned the card in his hand with quiet contempt. "Chain me with trinkets," he whispered under his breath. "Soon you'll choke on them."
And still, he slid it into Kai's pocket.
He left the desk but didn't make it far before a voice called to him, bright and warm, cutting through the noise.
"Hey! You're new here, right?"
Azrael turned sharply.
She stood there—light brown hair tied back loosely, healing staff resting against her shoulder. Her eyes carried the kind of brightness he'd long forgotten existed—a softness born not from power, but from kindness so natural it felt out of place in this hall of hustlers.
"I saw you at the desk," she said, stepping closer without hesitation. "First registration? You should probably get a party right away. Going alone in the Tower is… well, dangerous."
Azrael stared. Kai's body made him look unimpressive, so her assumption was genuine—not an insult, but a human's concern. Yet the way she said it, so casual, as if he needed protection, as if he—the Demon King—required anyone, twisted something sharp inside his chest.
Still, he narrowed his eyes slightly. "I don't need—" he began flatly.
She cut him off with a laugh, not cruel, but soft. "Everyone says that at first. Trust me, missions are easier when you're not alone. And you looked kind of… lost."
Azrael's jaw tensed. It was true. He had been drifting through the hall like a shadow out of place.
She extended a hand, smiling. "I'm Lina. Healer. If you want, we can try teaming up sometime."
Her openness irritated him. Not because of her words, but because deep inside, something about her presence wasn't repulsive. It stirred faintly against the coldness he clung to. She reminded him of sunlight—weak compared to flame, but steady, insistent, refusing to be ignored.
He almost dismissed her outright. Almost walked away without a word. But her hand stayed there, offered, refusing to tremble even under his sharp stare.
He hesitated, then placed Kai's frail hand into hers.
"…Kai," he said slowly, as if swallowing the humiliation.
Her smile widened. "See? Not so bad."
Azrael pulled his hand back quickly, annoyed at how warm her palm had felt.
Later, when he stepped back onto the streets, the card heavy in his pocket, her voice lingered more than the clerk's questions or the rank burned into his record.
Lina. Healer. Glowing too bright for this gray world.
Annoying. Dangerous.
And yet, Azrael couldn't shake the thought: perhaps—just perhaps—she would be useful.
To be continued...