Silence.
Ahhhh—
"It hurts! It hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS!"
A guttural, distorted roar tore through the chamber as Azareal's body convulsed violently. His hands clawed against the ground, his veins bulging and blackened.
Then—two eyes, blood-filled and trembling, snapped open.
"What… am I?"
The words slipped out, fractured, desperate.
"What am I? What am I? What am IIIII???"
The echoes overlapped, his own voice twisting against itself until it no longer sounded human.
"I–I–I can't understand," he stammered, his pupils dilating in horror. "I thought I was cursed by a fallen angel… I was told I had no powers. So what—what just happened?"
His breaths came out sharp, uneven. His body twitched, as if something inside him was trying to crawl out.
"I–I–I can't—"
He froze.
"What happened to that man? The one who touched my body? Don't they see this? Don't they notice?"
He gripped his head, screaming into his palms, his teeth gnashing as his thoughts collided like shards of glass.
"The pain—! I don't understand—AHHHHH!"
Then, all at once, stillness.
His trembling eyes lifted upward…
And there she was—
the sacrifice, her limp body hanging by divine bindings, her dead eyes wide open and fixed right at him.
Azareal's breath hitched.
The world around him blurred into a distorted hum — muffled whispers, confused murmurs, and faint gasps echoing through the ceremonial hall.
And that was when he realized—
He had been screaming through the Offering of the Sacrifice, before the altar of their god.
Every eye in the temple was now on him.
The nobles, the priests, the slaves, the children — all silent. All watching.
Even the air seemed afraid to move.
A single priest, adorned in dark violet robes, leaned toward a figure standing among the acolytes. His lips barely moved, yet his words struck like knives.
"Put your dog on a leash."
The man he spoke to — Gareth — did not reply immediately. His expression was cold, his gaze hollow. Slowly, he turned his head toward Azareal.
And in those empty eyes, devoid of light, was not anger… but disgust.
The kind that sees not a person — but a mistake.
Azareal felt his body tremble again, his throat tightening as if invisible chains coiled around his neck. His blood still burned, his heart still pounded, and the whispers around him began to grow.
The dead girl's eyes still didn't close.
They kept staring.
And somewhere deep within him, beneath the panic, beneath the confusion, something whispered back—
"You were never meant to be saved."