Azriel's eyes lingered on Sophia as she stepped through the entrance, her brown hair flowing like a whirl, her poise drawing every gaze without effort. But for him, it wasn't her beauty that held his attention it was the familiarity.
Her steps were the same as years ago confident, unyielding. For a moment, I wasn't Azriel Stark, heir of the North, but the boy she once called friend…
Sophia's gaze swept the arena, then found him in an instant. A small smile tugged at her lips.
"It's been a long time, Azriel."
He leaned back slightly on the bench, returning her look with that faint, unreadable smile of his. "It has."
She closed the distance between them, graceful as always, before stopping in front of him. Lily's eyes flickered in her direction but she remained silent, sword resting lightly at her side.
"How have you been?" Sophia asked softly, lowering her voice so the words belonged only to him. "What have you been doing all these years?"
"Surviving," Azriel replied simply. His tone carried no weight, but the word itself seemed heavy enough to silence the noise around them.
Her smile faltered, and she leaned in, her voice dropping further. "I've heard rumors about your awakening ceremony. They say you couldn't wield mana… Is it true? Are you okay? Everything's good, right?"
For a moment, Azriel didn't answer. Then his lips curved, subtle and sharp.
"There's some truth to the rumors," he admitted, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement. "But otherwise… I'm fine. Don't worry about me."
Sophia searched his face, as if trying to peel away the mask he wore. Yet, like always, he gave her nothing more than what he allowed.
Before either could say more, the distant sound of heavy footsteps and voices swelled. A crowd pressed its way into the arena the next batch of examinees, buzzing with nervous energy.
And among them… he appeared.
No noble crest marked his clothes, no royal blood guarded his steps. He was just a commoner, plain in his presence compared to the heirs and scions who filled the seats. Yet Azriel's gaze sharpened instantly.
The crowd seemed to part around him without realizing, as though fate itself carved his path forward.
Azriel's smile vanished.
That face…
A memory he had long since buried forced itself into the light. The roar of a final battle, the sting of defeat, the bitter taste of the ending he had once been forced to accept.
The villain, fallen.
The hero, victorious.
A story that ended as it always does.
Azriel's fingers curled lightly over the scabbard of his new sword, a low chill running through him.
But this time…
The corner of his lips lifted again, sharper, colder.
This time, the story will change. The hero will lose for the first time.
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Just as Azriel was reliving the memory he had buried deep within his heart, a figure cloaked in dark stood silently among the crowd. His sharp gaze lingered on each of the examinees, studying the way they carried themselves, the way mana pulsed and fluctuated around their bodies. Many stood out brilliant heirs and prodigies radiating talent.
But only one stopped his eyes cold.
Bloody crimson eyes. Jet-black hair. A beauty that was both regal and menacing.
Azriel Stark.
Around him, mana did not dance or flare like the others. It bent subdued, warped pulled toward him as though even the world's flow could not resist his presence.
The figure's lips curled into the faintest smile.
"...Interesting."
And then, with a single step, he moved.
He did not announce himself. He did not need to. His ascent into the arena brought with it a suffocating weight, a pressure so great that silence fell instantly. Thousands of voices died in their throats as the figure stood before them, every gaze locking onto him.
The strongest human alive.
The man at SSS+ rank
The pinnacle of human strength
The headmaster of Astralis Academy.
The ruler of the great city of Astralis.
Richard Draven.