Zatiel studied the boy in silence, his sharp gaze dissecting every flicker of expression. Even with one eye gone and his body battered to the brink of collapse, the child forced himself upright, lifting his chin to meet Zatiel's stare without flinching.
A faint gleam of respect sparked in Zatiel's mind. What an immense will…
In his current state, most humans would have long since broken. Even some Magi—creatures who prided themselves on intellect and composure—would have surrendered to despair. Yet this boy's gaze carried something unyielding, a raw determination that refused to bow to circumstance.
Definitely a good seed, Zatiel thought. With the materials I've collected, I could help him. Judging by that willpower, he'd survive the ritual… but better to be certain.
He continued to stare, testing the boy's resolve. A full minute passed in silence, the air heavy with unspoken challenge. The boy never looked away.
Finally, Zatiel spoke, his voice flat and unreadable. "I am no saint, but you've made an impression on me. Since helping you won't hinder my plans, I'll give you a choice. I can heal your wounds—but your body is so damaged that you'll live the rest of your life as a cripple. Or…" He set the boy gently on the ground, his eyes cold. "…I end your suffering right now."
In a world where life was cheap and the weak were discarded, many would have chosen death over a lifetime of disability. The boy's eyes widened at first, but the shock faded quickly. That same fierce will returned, steady and defiant.
Zatiel's lips twitched. "Truly impressive. Even knowing your life will be hell, you still choose to live. Tell me—why?"
He adjusted the boy against a large rock to keep him upright. The boy took a slow, painful breath before answering, his voice no more than a whisper, yet clear.
"I… want… to be… free."
The simplicity of the statement caught Zatiel off guard. For an instant, a memory—old and sharp—rose unbidden.
A lone figure stood atop a mountain peak, cloaked in darkness. Around him lay a battlefield of corpses—demons, devils, dragons, titans, leviathans—all slain. Power radiated from him, but his eyes were not fixed on his victories.
"I will break every shackle that exists!" the figure roared to the uncaring heavens. "I will become so powerful that nothing can restrain me. I will tear away every blindfold and see the universe as it truly is. I will reach the highest peak… and I will be free."
A deep, genuine laugh escaped Zatiel's throat. "Hahahaha! Good… very good!" His grin widened, excitement flashing in his eyes. "From this moment on, you are my subordinate. Together, we will search for true freedom. What do you say?"
The boy blinked in surprise. He couldn't understand why someone so strong would want a crippled child as a subordinate. Yet, after a heartbeat's thought, he nodded.
Some might argue that serving another was the opposite of freedom. But to the boy, the choice itself was the freedom he had never known.
Without wasting time, Zatiel retrieved herbs he had collected before the assault on the camp. While they lacked the miraculous properties needed to regrow a limb or restore an eye, they would heal wounds, purge infection, and stabilize his condition.
He ground the ingredients with precise, practiced motions, creating a thick, bitter-smelling paste, which he mixed with a small amount of clean water into a crude potion. Supporting the boy's head, he helped him drink it.
"Rest here," Zatiel instructed, settling him back against the rock. "I have much to do before the ritual begins. Don't worry about your body—when I'm finished, regrowing a hand and an eye will be nothing more than a warm-up."
The boy's gaze lingered on him, silent but watchful, as Zatiel turned away and began dragging the unconscious bandits into a single pile.
Ever since Ezequiel could remember, he had been a slave. Sold as an infant, he grew up in a slave warrior camp—an environment where survival came only through strength and obedience. From the moment he could walk, he was trained to fight. Brutal drills, merciless sparring, and constant competition meant most children didn't survive their first year. Those who did were shaped into killers capable of feats that would terrify normal soldiers.
Ezequiel's small frame belied a lethal agility, and so he was trained as an assassin. Each day brought new tests—missions where failure meant death. He completed them all, his talent undeniable. His masters rewarded him with food, shelter, and occasional comforts, but these were hollow prizes.
The only joy he found was in watching birds. Whether perched on a wall during training breaks or lying in the grass after a mission, he would watch them wheel and dive, their wings cutting through the sky with perfect freedom. It was a freedom he could never touch.
His last mission had been to kill the Captain of a bandit group who had murdered the son of a wealthy and influential man. The plan was simple: join a mercenary group hired to attack the bandit camp, then strike the Captain in the chaos.
The plan failed. The Captain was no ordinary man—he was a Warrior of terrifying skill. The mercenaries were slaughtered, and though Ezequiel managed to wound the Captain, it only earned him the man's unending wrath. For days, he was tortured, beaten, and maimed before finally being thrown—still breathing—into a mass grave.
Lying there in the pit, his body broken, Ezequiel didn't feel fear. He felt anger. His life had never been his own. Every step, every choice had been dictated by others, and now he would die because of them.
And then he appeared.
A man barely older than himself, yet capable of defeating the invincible Captain and wiping out the entire bandit camp alone.
When this man gave him the choice—to live as a cripple or die—Ezequiel hadn't hesitated. He chose to live. Even crippled, he would pursue freedom.
He hadn't expected the man to laugh at his answer, nor to offer him a place at his side. But when Zatiel asked, Ezequiel felt something stir inside him—a sharp, fierce certainty.
"This," he thought, "is the first real choice I've made in my entire life."