The alley was icy, but Azrael no longer felt the cold.
Leaning against the damp wall, his hands still coated with the old woman's blood, he stared into the void as if the world had lost all substance. The royal festival continued in the distance—laughter drifting on the wind, lanterns still glowing.
Nothing had stopped for her.
A short, broken laugh escaped his throat. He wiped his face, leaving a dark streak across his cheek.
"Here it is…" he murmured. "This is what this world is worth."
He struck the stone wall once. Then again. Pain shot up his arm, but he ignored it. Insignificant compared to the burning in his chest.
"A pure world?" he spat. "Saved by Seraphim?"
He looked up at the black sky, hidden behind the rooftops. They still spoke of the five heroes, of their sacrifice, the divine relic, the prophecy. They said evil had been sealed, humanity saved.
A lie.
If this world were truly pure, then why did men still sell children? Why had an old woman died simply for trying to survive? Why did the crowd condemn without ever seeking the truth?
He slid down until he sat on the cold stone, hands trembling—not from weakness, but from an anger with no limits.
"This world isn't pure… it's weak."
He remembered her lying there. Her smile, fragile yet steadfast, asking him to live.
He struck the pavement with his fist.
"I've had enough."
No one would ever save him. Justice did not exist for the weak. Truth mattered less than appearances. In one second, the crowd had decided he was guilty.
Then he understood something simple.
In this world, only strength matters.
Everything else is just a story to soothe consciences.
The silence around him was heavy, thick.
Slowly, he pulled the envelope from his tunic. Crumpled. Stained. Heavy with meaning.
Ardenthal Academy.
The kingdom's elite were forged there. Fighters. Strategists. Future pillars of power. Every student faced the Trial: a forced coma, a plunge into the depths of their soul where their innate abilities would awaken.
A power.
And a curse.
Always a curse.
A cruel balance. Absolute. Inevitable.
Azrael stared at the money for a long moment.
He could have fled the city, disappeared into the outer lands, survived in the shadows like an animal, away from all eyes.
But survival was no longer enough.
He clenched the envelope until his knuckles whitened.
"No."
His voice was no longer broken. Low. Steady.
"I will never beg the world to let me live again."
He rose slowly. Muscles tense. His gaze was no longer that of a cornered boy. Hard. Calculating.
"I will enter the Academy."
Not hope.
A decision.
"I will face their Trial. Accept the power… and the curse that comes with it."
His eyes darkened.
"No matter the cost."
If he had to pay, he would. If he had to endure more suffering, he would endure it. But never again would he be powerless.
Never again dragged to the ground while the crowd screamed his name as if condemning him.
He took one last look at the alley. Here he had lost everything. Here the final illusion had shattered.
Something inside him died that night.
But something else was born.
Not a hero.
Not yet a monster.
But someone who had understood the fundamental law of the world.
Strength imposes truth.
He wiped his hands against the wall, leaving a dark mark that rain would later erase. Then he began to walk.
The night no longer swallowed him.
It accompanied him.
The Academy awaited.
The Trial awaited.
The power… and the curse.
For the first time in his life, Azrael was not fleeing his destiny.
He would provoke it.