Azhriel exhaled quietly as Frost Born faded into mist and slipped back into his chest, like a blade returning to its sheath.
The moment it vanished, the cold air around him softened, and the eerie chill that clung to his body began to fade.
His clothes, torn and bloodied from the battle, had already started mending.
Threads of enchanted fabric weaved themselves back into place, pulling tears closed with quiet magic.
Within moments, the coat looked almost untouched—except for the dried blood, a reminder of the fight.
That was the quality of high-grade gear. Just like the Academy's uniform, Azhriel's clothes weren't ordinary.
They were enchanted, self-repairing, durable against both magic and blades.
A pair of footsteps echoed from behind, followed by a familiar voice.
"Wow, boss. You really did defeat them all by yourself, huh," Phantom said, stepping beside him.
Noel followed after, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief.
