Azael's mind hung a heartbeat between night and nothingness—then the dream continued where terror had left him hovering.
No trees. No ground. Only shadow, soft and infinite, like the hush before creation dared to breathe.
The winged stranger stood an arm's length away—long white hair floating in an unseen breeze, skin the hue of cooling embers, black wings spread wide like night ablaze. His mantle—Aetherion Exuvia—was not cloth at all: light braided with the first memories of the cosmos, drifting around him without heed to gravity. In every translucent fold shimmered horizons that had never been born.
And yet Azael felt…safe.
"Who are you?" His voice cracked, swallowed by the void.
The stranger's lips curved—half-smile, half-wound. "Names matter to those who plan to meet again." His tone was velvet lined with glass. "We won't."
Azael's chest tightened. "Are you… the Demon King?"
Laughter burst—rich, unkind, almost delighted. The void itself seemed to shake. "Oh, little light, you wear the word king like a child wears crowns of straw." He leaned closer, red eyes gleaming. "Tell me—have you ever considered that the monster everyone fears might be the one who fears himself most?"
Confusion churned with a flicker of dread. "I don't understand."
"You will." He straightened, wings rustling. "Five years hence, perhaps sooner, the world will understand, too."
Five years. The sword spirit's prophecy echoed. Azael's pulse thudded. "Did… did you make me forget my past?"
"I unstitched the tapestry you kept clutching." The stranger's voice thinned, almost tender. "Memories are islands—beautiful, but surrounded by storms. I offered you still water."
Azael's breath hitched. Anger tried to kindle, but doubt smothered the spark. "Then you know who I am?"
A pause—too long, too weighty. "I know exactly who you are. The world's brightest fool."
The words struck harder than any blade. "Why fool?"
"Because only the truly good can betray themselves so completely." A sigh escaped him—heavy, wistful. "You saved a world that never deserved you, and in doing so, handed your own heart to the sword that cut it open."
Azael's thoughts spun. So the spirit was right—Arthur… "Am I really Arthur Isolde?"
The stranger's gaze softened, but there was grief in the gentling. "If you need me to answer that, you are farther from yourself than even I imagined."
Silence folded around them. Azael finally whispered, "Do you hate me?"
"Hate?" The laugh this time was brittle. "I reserve hatred for those who matter. You and I—" His voice lowered to a secret. "—are mirrors. Different fractures, same glass." He glanced away, as though spying a horizon Azael could not see. "But our paths diverge now. I came only to say farewell."
"Farewell?" Panic flickered. "Wait! If you know me—help me remember."
The stranger stepped back. The blank floor under Azael's feet shimmered, cracking like porcelain. An abyss yawned, starless and deep.
"One last kindness, little light," the winged figure murmured, sorrow tracing each syllable. "Live a while without the weight you once carried. When we meet again… choose whether to lift it."
The ground dissolved. Azael fell, the stranger's final words chasing him down the dark.
"Good-bye, my gentle fool."
Regret—Azael could almost taste it—glimmered in those ember eyes as distance swallowed everything.
He jolted awake with a gasp.
Cold sweat clung to his skin. The forest was ink-blue, branches etched against a sky the color of faded sapphires—Neravia's midnight hue. Somewhere far above, unseen moons bathed Ancient Forest in dim luminescence.
The sword spirit hovered near, burning soft and worried. "Azael? Your pulse races like a hunted stag. What did you see?"
He opened his mouth—visions of white hair, red skin, a mantle of unborn stars—then emptiness yawned in his memory. The dream blurred, as though that abyss had swallowed not only him but the recollection itself.
"I… I don't remember," he whispered. Yet a conviction throbbed behind his ribs: I am Arthur. The certainty frightened him.
The spirit drifted closer, haloing him in gentle blue. "Dreams are echoes of buried days. Perhaps your past tried to speak."
"Maybe." His voice trembled. Or maybe someone made sure I couldn't listen.
He drew his knees close, feeling the smallness of his frame beneath the ragged cloth. "Am I truly the world's last hope?"
"You are the hope you choose to become," the spirit answered—warm, unwavering. "Arthur or Azael, hero or child—your heart decides which name carries the sword."
Something in that gentle certainty soothed him, yet a jagged shard of mistrust lodged in his mind—placed there by a stranger who felt heartbreakingly familiar.
Azael lifted his gaze to the pale-blue sky. The leaves overhead glowed like silver coins, rustling with secrets.
I don't know who you were, he said silently to the fading dream, but if I hurt you… I will make it right. Even if I must save the world twice.
The sword spirit's light brightened, as if hearing the vow. "Rest, Azael. Dawn is hours away."
He nodded, lying back against the root cradle. Sleep crept near, but unease lurked beneath his ribs. Somewhere beyond the rustling canopy, destiny paced, counting down five silent years.
And in a realm between waking and memory, a winged figure watched stars yet unborn, whispering to the mantle of the sky:
"Shine brightly, gentle fool… until the sky learns why it fears your light."
The forest still dreamed of dawn when two figures materialized among the colossal trunks—one wrapped in a robe that suggested an ancient warrior, the other cloaked in pale feathers that might have been wings or a mirage. No bird cried, no leaf stirred; even the wind hushed as if eavesdropping.
The feathered one tilted his head slightly, voice echoing like a forgotten hymn.
"Sixteen kilometers... something stirs. It has no weight, no voice—yet the silence folds around it."
The swordsman's helm caught a sliver of the sky's pallid blue.
"Then it is not presence... but absence pretending to exist."
A pause. The feathered one looked toward the distant ridge.
"Still... even absence leaves footprints, if fate insists on watching."
The swordsman answered, calm and final:
"Let it wander. If destiny must falter, let it stumble by its own design."
They stood a heartbeat longer. Then space bent quietly inward—and they were gone.
Only the trembling breath of the forest remained, as if the world itself was still listening.
Moments earlier—Azael's camp
"Azael—wake!" The sword spirit's glow blazed, brittle with urgency.
He jerked upright, dream-sweat cooling on his skin. "What—?"
We must leave. Now.
The voice trembled in a way he had never heard—fear wearing a mentor's warmth like a fraying cloak.
"But I just—" He caught the tremor in the light, swallowed. "All right… which way?"
Away from the heart of the forest. Run.
He obeyed, legs still weak from nightmares, heartbeat drumming panic through every vein. The spirit streaked ahead, a frantic beacon.
The deeper giants thinned; trunks grew slimmer, underbrush denser. Chill mist clung to his ankles. A faint line of pewter light—pre-dawn—was peeling open the eastern sky. He'd almost begun to hope they were safe when a rolling hush, like thunder holding its tongue, billowed behind him.
A shadow dropped from the vault of branches—tall, armored, its cloak swirling like storm clouds stitched to flesh. Cracked iron helmed its face; a ruined mask split down the center hid whatever expression might dwell beneath. Black sparks flickered around it, leaping across the bark like fleas of lightning.
The sword spirit's shriek tore the morning silence. Malgor Legion—Tier 5!
Too late. A bolt of dark electricity lanced outward. Azael flung himself sideways, but the edge sheared his shoulder—the burn numbing, sickeningly cold. He cried out, stumbling to one knee as blood dampened the ragged cloth.
A low laugh vibrated from within the mask. "No pactbound? No shield? Even pigs know they can't walk in Malgor territory." Its voice crackled like wet cedar on a fire. "You… might just be dumber than most pigs."
The spirit zipped between them, light flaring. Back, wretch!
The Malgor ignored the spirit—it could not see what had no physical form. Another crackling swipe split the earth, hurling Azael against a sapling that shattered on impact. Pain flashed white; breath exited in a ragged gasp.
"Stop—please!" He clutched his shoulder, blood slick between his fingers. "Why are you doing this?"
A fresh surge of lightning arced around the demon's fists. "Because storms feed on fear—and you, little blank soul, are nothing but fear made flesh."
Azael's vision blurred. Fight. The sword spirit's plea rang inside his skull. Remember Arthur. Remember strength.
"I am—" He wavered. Was he really? Doubt and pain tangled his thoughts. Yet the dream stranger's words haunted him: You saved a world that never deserved you. If that was true…
He ripped a fallen branch from the ground—thin, crooked, useless. The gesture felt absurd, yet defiance sparked in his chest. He leveled it like a sword.
The Malgor cocked its head. "This will be entertaining."
It lunged. Azael swung. Wood passed through demon spirit body, scattering harmless sparks. Dark laughter peeled across the clearing. The demon flicked its wrist; black lightning coiled, struck—the branch disintegrated, pain flaring up Azael's arm.
Weak, bleeding, he dropped to all fours, tears streaking dirt onto his cheeks. "Sword spirit—help me!"
I cannot touch him. The voice quivered—part despair, part something he could not name.
He looked up, anguish twisting into fury. "You… can't—or won't?"
Silence answered.
The Malgor stepped closer, thunder churning in its cloak. "Cry louder, little prey. The rain loves a lament."
Azael's thoughts snapped back to the sword spirit's words: "You… are this world's last hope—and its reason for beginning to crack again." If he died here, did the world simply crack wider? Or was his life only glue for a story someone else had written?
No. Even if he was nothing… he would die believing he was someone.
He pushed upright—legs shaking, lips blood-streaked. "If I truly am Arthur," he rasped, "I won't fall on my knees."
The Malgor raised an armored hand. Black clouds gathered overhead; static hissed in the air. Raindrops began to fall—each spark-flecked droplet draining light from the grass it struck. Soul-Draining Rain.
Spots danced before Azael's eyes. He swayed, arms limp. Yet rage mixed with terror—an alchemy potent enough to keep him standing. One step. Another.
"Run!" the sword spirit cried. I can't lose you—not yet.
But the storm was faster. Vandregast blurred—Storm-Rider Form—then re-formed behind him, gauntlet closing round his throat. Azael's feet dangled; fingers clawed uselessly at iron.
Lightning laced the demon's arm, illuminating the cracked mask. "First lesson, empty boy: Goodness without strength is permission."
Pressure crushed his windpipe. Blackness tunneled his vision. Memories he didn't possess flared—images of golden banners, of a white sword raised against shadows. Faces shouting his name—Arthur!—then fading like ash in wind.
His legs gave way again. He was shaking. Not from courage—but because no part of him wanted to die.
But if this was the end, then…
"Even if I'm nothing… let me die believing I was someone."
He didn't know if the words were prayer or surrender.
His heartbeat slowed, thunder roaring in his ears. Far away, the sword spirit keened—a sound like a cello string snapping.
Then—a tremor. Not in the forest, but in Vandregast. Its grip loosened a fraction. Those ember runes along the gauntlet flickered, almost hesitant.
Azael's half-lidded gaze met the demon's hollow helm. In that near-death hush, he felt something inside the storm spirit—a brush of guilt, an echo of Guilt Resonance latching to his own self-negation.
It wasn't his doing—but the storm spirit's own curse, awakened by a familiarity it dared not name.
Pain cut new clarity. He whispered, broken: "Storms feed on fear—but I'm not afraid anymore."
The Malgor snarled, tightening its hand—but the lightning sputtered, reacting strangely to the sudden calm in his pulse. Confused rage surged; it slammed him against a trunk, fists poised to finish.
And as sunrise bled amber through the thinning canopy, the chapter froze there: battered boy pinned by war-spawned tempest, sword spirit screaming, rain devouring color—while somewhere high above, two unseen watchers weighed fate's gamble.