The father continued, " it's high time for you to learn all this now. But anyway, I have a mission for you."
As soon as he heard these words, Azael instantly locked his eyes with his father and glared at him.
Victor gulped and continued.
"I've acquired a magical artifact from the Phoenix Mage Tower, but since the transaction isn't officially sanctioned, I cannot receive it directly. Moreover, the mages are forbidden from crossing the Kaligon region without legitimate cause."
There are five principal regions in the world, each named after the legendary clans that saved humanity during the Great War between humans and demons, known as the 'Demon Cycle'. These clans now govern their respective territories under the terms of a long-standing peace treaty. Together, they preserve balance across the land and rise to defend the people in times of crisis. The regions are:
Argus
Mennel
Kaligon
Tapas
Vana
These clans do not involve them with the others and confine themselves to their homelands and are not allowed to cross the borders unless without a legal reason. The clans each comprised numerous sub-clans, every one entrusted with its own unique duties and responsibilities.
The Phoenix Mage tower is an organisation that exists within the Mennel territory which is located on the North side of the map. Meanwhile, the Argus Clan, to which Azael belongs, is situated in the southern region.
" All you need to do is bring that material to me. You will depart early tomorrow morning since it is a long journey. I will provide you with armour from the storage."
Azael nodded.
Of course, everything the father said was a lie. The true plan is to assassinate Azael the moment he enters the forest lying between Argus and Kaligon-the domain of the Elves.The Argus Clan has coveted that forest, seeking to drive out the Elves and claim the land solely for themselves.
Azael retreated to his room, his mind still echoing with his father's words. The rest of the day, he could do little else but replay their conversation, a foolish smile tugging at his lips. He believed at last that this was his chance to prove his worth. With that thought warming his heart, he lay down and drifted into sleep.
THE NEXT DAY,
Azael bid farewell to his sister and set out from his homeland with only a single third-rate guard at his side. His armor was old and worn, his sword on the verge of breaking, and his journey began astride a weary horse.
The journey had been calm and uneventful. Until Azael reached the road leading to their neighboring land, Kaligon. The path ahead was strangely silent, devoid of even a bird's song or a traveler's shadow.
"Why does everything look so suspicious?"
Azael was a bit surprised to find out one of the busiest roads was eerily silent. A drop of sweat passed through his eyebrow and fell on the ground. But, why does he have to worry about all of that when he had a skilled swordsmen walking behind him. Isn't that right? Mr.swordsman?
Azael turned around, but the swordsman was nowhere in sight. He glanced left, then right-still no sign. A chill crept down his spine as realization struck. Instinctively, his hand moved to the sword at his belt, ready to draw and defend. But before he could unsheathe it, a brutal blow struck his head. The world spun once-and then went dark.
The searing pain in Azael's head and stomach forced a low groan from his lips. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could simply die and be free of it. Every nerve in his body throbbed, making it impossible to open his eyes. But after drawing a shaky breath, he forced them open and tried to sit up.
It was then he realized-he was moving. In his haze, he hadn't noticed it before, consumed as he was by pain and confusion. Ignoring the ache that gripped his body, Azael pushed himself upright, his back pressing against something cold and rigid.
Bars. Iron bars.
"What the hell? I'm in a cage? When did I get here?"
Azael's voice trembled as he looked around, trying to piece together the fragments of his fading consciousness. His armour and sword were nowhere to be found. His gaze fell upon a hand pressing a blood-soaked cloth to his stomach. The crimson stain spread wider with every heartbeat.
"When did I become this ignorant?" he muttered to himself, the thought cutting deeper than the wound.
In truth, when pain and fear strike, a human's world shrinks to the barest instinct. In such moments, all else-loved ones, ambition, even emotion fades into nothing. Some pray for death, others simply for the pain to stop. Such is the measure of humanity.
The hand belonged to a woman in the cage beside him. She was asleep, her dark green hair spilling over her face in soft waves-an unfamiliar sight to Azael. Gently, he lifted her hand from his abdomen and glanced down at the wound beneath the blood-soaked cloth. A gaping hole stared back at him.
For a moment, despair crept in. Could he even survive this? He just wanted to see the swordsman again-to understand what had happened.
Then, as if pulled from a vivid dream, the woman's eyes snapped open. Startled awake, the woman gasped and instantly chastised herself for dozing off. Turning sharply toward Azael, she asked, "Wait, how far have we come?"
Azael blinked at her, confusion clouding his eyes.
"I don't even remember getting hurt, let alone how I ended up here. How would I know where we're headed?"
The woman pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, her expression tightening with regret.
She instantly got on her knees, and Azael's eyes widened as he noticed a deep gash across her shoulder, fresh blood seeping through torn fabric. For a moment, his own pain dulled, replaced by curiosity and concern.
"How di–" he began, but the woman swiftly interrupted.
"I am Noir Mohong of the Mohong Clan," she said, her voice steady despite the strain.
"Our clan was sworn to serve the heirs of Argus as their stewards. I, Noir Mohong, am the personal attendant of Princess Kelly Argus. It seems you don't know me-but that can wait. Right now, we need to focus on escaping. I'll explain everything once we're safe."
The woman's eyes darted rapidly, scanning their surroundings with sharp precision. Then, she edged closer to the bars and whispered, her lips almost brushing his ear.
Azael couldn't help but be awed by her quick thinking and composure. Following her silent cue, he nodded and began to sing loudly-his voice echoing through the confined space.
Their prison was a large, moving cage wagon composed of twelve separate cells-six on the lower level and six stacked above, arranged neatly in three rows and two columns. Azael's cell was positioned at the far corner, directly behind the driver of the horse-drawn carriage pulled by four steeds.
An hour later, the wagon rattled to a stop. The driver climbed down and walked toward Azael, dragging him across the floor and locking him in the cage directly opposite the driver.
Just as Noir predicted, the driver acted with detached calm and methodical precision-never flustered, always calculating. Earlier, Noir had shared little information, but gave Azael clear, calculated instructions. Be as irritating as possible to the driver, a man known for his unshakable composure and tendency to overthink. She had anticipated his reactions perfectly-her intuition uncanny.
Now, the moment had arrived. Azael's task was to use a fixed-blade knife given to him by the woman to open the wagon's lock, escape the cage, and flee to safety. Anywhere but his own homeland.
The restriction puzzled him. Why avoid seeking refuge in Argus? Still, trusting Noir's judgment, and knowing she was sent by his sister, Azael resolved to follow her plan without question.
Azael worked the knife slowly around the wagon's lock, careful not to make a sound. Freedom was within reach, he cut the lock, yet as he glanced back at Noir, a wave of guilt washed over him. Could he really leave behind the person who had tried to save his life, abandoning her to an uncertain fate? It went against every fiber of his being.
Defiant, Azael set to work on the iron bars between Noir's cage and his. She tried to stop him, her voice urgent as she insisted she could handle the danger alone-that she had a mission from her master, Princess Kelly, and could not risk failure. But Azael had already stopped listening, his mind set.
Minutes dragged by as he sawed at the upper bars, then moved to the lower ones. Suddenly, the blade snapped with a harsh klank, the sound ringed out ominously .
The wagon jerked to a halt as the driver stormed over to the cages. He hesitated, then placed a hand on his forehead, eyes cold with annoyance.
"You're making far too much trouble for a rat I spared in hopes of extra coin," he sneered, hefting his long sword above his shoulder.
"It seems I need to get rid of you after all."
Sensing imminent danger, Azael gripped the broken knife. With sudden speed, he jabbed it into the driver's foot and yanked it free. As the driver recoiled in shock and pain, Azael struck again, driving the blade into the man's kneecap. The shout that followed was thick with agony.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Azael wrapped his arms around the driver's waist and shoved with all his strength, toppling the man out of the wagon. The long sword clattered to the ground by the wheel as Noir reached desperately through the bars, trying to grab Azael and pull him back to safety.
The driver caught his breath and, with a sudden surge, struck Azael's back-using his elbows and hands together to break free. In an instant, he channeled his Aura, folding his hands and landing a brutal jab to Azael's face. The force hurled Azael several meters. Blood splattered as he crashed to the ground.
Dazed and barely conscious, Azael's vision blurred. Blood seeped from his stomach, and his strength faded as the driver advanced, intent on delivering a final blow. In that moment, clarity returned- a memory surfaced. The wound in his stomach was from the swordsman tasked with protecting him. Noir had intervened, fighting fiercely, but was ultimately overpowered. Their captors had thrown both into cages to be sold as slaves.
Just as despair swallowed him, the tables turned. The driver collapsed-Noir had bent the nearly cut bars and launched herself at him, pinning him to the ground. She looked to Azael, urging him to seize the fallen longsword and finish the ordeal.
Summoning his last reserves of strength, Azael staggered to his feet, determined not to waste the chance Noir had given him.
The driver rallied, channeling his Aura into a single fist and unleashing it straight into Noir's stomach. The force overwhelmed her, and she slumped to the ground-unconscious.
Rising to his feet, the driver prepared for one last move. But in that instant, Azael sprang into the air, brandishing the longsword. He spun in a full circle, the blade whistling through the air and with one decisive strike, the driver's head was severed.
Azael landed, staggering as exhaustion threatened to pull him under. He turned hazily toward the wagon, his vision blurring, cold sweat and blood mingling. His eyes faded, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.
Azael hurried to Noir's side, gently rousing her from unconsciousness. She stirred weakly, coughing up blood as she tried to sit.
For a fleeting moment, relief flickered in their eyes-until the unmistakable sound of horses drew near. They dared to hope the newcomers might offer help, but dread quickly crept in.
The riders drew closer, their shouts ringing through the place.
"There they are! Those bastards killed our companion. Kill them this instant!"
Azael could only mutter under his breath, "What kind of shitty luck is this?"
Despair clouded Azael's mind as he confronted the six approaching adversaries. Helpless and uncertain, a surge of jealousy swept through him-why did misfortune cling to him so fiercely? Yet, in that moment, something changed. Energy pulsed from every corner of his being, mind and heart igniting together.
Azael let out a wild cry, the force reverberating through the clearing and sending startled birds scattering into the sky. His eyes glowed with an emerald light. He felt his core awaken, and all he wanted, more than anything-was for the imminent threat to simply disappear.
Grasping his fist, Azael summoned the winds, drawing green aura into his hand until six blazing spheres materialized around him.
With a powerful motion, he released his fist. The spheres shot forth, streaking through the air and striking each rider squarely on the forehead-swift, precise, and irresistible.