Nathanaël and Azraüs kept swinging their fists left and right. The time he had spent fighting in the arena could no longer be counted in minutes, nor even in hours. Warriors appeared every second—new faces and old ones alike. No one wanted to give up.
In the midst of the onslaught, Nathanaël understood why the arena was considered a tomb. Even the strongest were reduced to the state of mere warriors within these walls.
'When is all of this going to end?'
Nathanaël had once again begun to carefully manipulate his aura, using it to reinforce specific parts of his body at precise moments. But after maintaining total dominance over this battlefield for so long, he finally began to tire. It was as if this wasn't the first time these warriors had faced opponents far stronger than themselves. It was as if they feared it so little that they threw themselves body and soul into a defeat that was almost guaranteed.
And it disgusted Nathanaël…
He was starting to run out of stamina. Each blow hurt more than the last. His injuries grew more numerous. Beyond the wall at the entrance of the country, beyond the repeated battles with Azraüs, beyond the road traveled and even the battlefield before the capital, there was the arena.
In his mind, there was nothing more suffocating than this place. And he was sure he was on the verge of breaking, of letting himself die.
All his strength had been reduced to nothing by the duration and madness of these warriors. All his courage had been consumed by blood. This country may have helped him climb a step in his quest for determination, but it had not made him ready to face the world.
Nathanaël saw red, and sometimes blood even filled his mouth—his own or that of others—so often that, through sheer weariness, he ended up finding it refreshing.
Nozras disgusted him. Nozras terrified him. He wanted to leave. But it was too late—the slightest misstep in this city meant death.
Yet when he looked at Azraüs, it felt as though the man was enjoying himself more with each passing hour. His club struck harder and harder, and his smile never lost its brilliance. The famous son of the ogre, even buried beneath the bodies of warriors, did not yield. On the contrary, he only grew stronger.
'That madman…'
Nathanaël could no longer maintain his focus. His breathing grew difficult. Despite all the distance he had traveled to get here, he now had to realize what the nation of war truly meant.
'Nathy…'
Azraüs saw his friend weakening, but in the middle of all this, lending a hand made no sense. It wasn't strength his friend lacked—it was madness and habit.
Nathanaël wasn't looking behind him. A warrior suddenly appeared, a club in hand—far bigger than Azraüs's.
He raised it high into the sky with both arms before bringing it down toward Nathanaël's head.
Under normal circumstances, Nathanaël would have dodged it, but with the fatigue…
"Are you the foreigner accompanying Sir Azraüs?"
Amid all the clamor, he heard a voice that stood out from the rest…
A man stepped in between them, calmly catching the club with his right hand.
He wore a gray cape and clothes that didn't look like they came from Nozras—a plain gray T-shirt, short but loose pants. He too bore many tattoos, almost completely covered in them, yet his face was untouched. A scar adorned the corner of his mouth.
"Nathanaël? Is that correct?"
His gaze was empty, a gray that Nathanaël suspected was not natural. He had the beginnings of a well-kept beard that suited his face perfectly, and short black hair slicked back. His appearance resembled that of a high-fashion noble, but his tattoos reminded everyone that he belonged to war.
And in the midst of this chaos, while the battle continued and his mind wandered, Nathanaël was intrigued.
"Hey…"
The warrior who had tried to strike Nathanaël prepared another attack on the spot. Gripping his club, he gathered tremendous momentum, tensing every muscle to strike with all his might.
However, before he even had time to swing—
"I'm not talking to you."
A blade pierced his heart. Simple and efficient—an art almost forbidden in Nozras. Only brute force was meant to reign, and such a sharp, skillful blade made the surrounding warriors understand that a clan of vultures had arrived.
Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. The warriors were still fighting, but their gazes were fixed on the strange man.
It didn't seem to bother him. Turning back to Nathanaël, he bowed slightly.
"I am Hammiel. A member of the Rosia clan. I have come to take you to my leader, if you are willing."
"If we're willing?"
Nathanaël looked around and noticed that the other warriors had backed away, as if they feared this man.
"What did you do to them?"
"Nothing special. The Rosia clan simply controls the capital at the moment."
Controls the capital, huh?
Did those words even make sense?
"Then why isn't your leader sitting on the throne?"
"He was waiting for you…"
"What?"
Waiting for them. Could it be that on this earth there existed a being so insolent that he wanted a fair fight with the strongest before sitting on the throne of the ultimate warrior?
Nathanaël looked at Azraüs, who had begun shouting at the warriors not to retreat.
"Where are you going? Come back and fight, you bunch of cowards!"
The area cleared out very quickly, and in the end, no one else stepped forward.
"So, are you coming or not?"
Nathanaël felt relieved, yet at the same time horrified. Nothing had worked on these burned-out minds—not even a superior force like aura. They kept coming and coming, without even caring about their possible death.
So what could possibly frighten them about this man?
Nathanaël and Azraüs therefore followed the man into the capital. His cold gaze and his very presence made the warriors who came too close step back.
Nathanaël then asked him the question.
"How is it that those monsters are so afraid of you?"
Hammiel took a long time before answering.
"The Rosia clan simply doesn't like half-measures."
"Half-measures?"
Azraüs, walking calmly beside his traveling companion, then began to speak.
"Ah, I think I've already heard of you outside the capital. A small clan formed by a survivor told me you were merciless. You abandoned the laws of Nozras by working only on vital points and by bringing weapons from the outside world."
Then, suddenly, his gaze changed, becoming severe and hateful.
"You are cowards…"
Hammiel did not reply.
Nathanaël quickly understood that the warriors of Nozras mainly fought with their fists, and that even if they carried blades, it was mostly to clash them against one another. They were not machines made to kill, but to fight. Death only came when one had given everything and the body was no longer able to show any sign of physical movement.
Honor rested in the law of the strongest, but everyone respected what a true fight was.
"So that's how you are?"
"I don't see where the problem is. Our leader will rule over Nozras, and no one will be able to do anything about it."
Nathanaël could see the unquestionable confidence this man had in his leader. By looking at his aura, he could clearly tell what kind of person he was. Discreet, intelligent, simple, effective, and useful. His aura remained subdued, as if he did not want to be seen. Dense but small, less impressive than Zvrag's, yet just as dangerous.
Suddenly, Hammiel's gaze shifted, and he looked at Nathanaël from the corner of his eye.
"You can see them too, can't you?"
Nathanaël stopped in shock.
"What? …"
Another one. Another special man who had received this blessing. Although the Emperor could also see them, the reason was that he had spent an enormous amount of time in ruins charged with aura and passages to the other world.
Aura and its visions came only from that other world, or else… from a person who had been in contact with the other world. From a person or an object…
Nathanaël understood.
"You have the book, don't you?"
Hammiel did not stop, however, disappearing among the rubble and reappearing farther ahead. His steps were like those of an unreal person, as if the world itself did not take his existence into account.
And now that Nathanaël knew that this clan was in possession of the book, he suspected one thing: could he win against this man?
"My leader will explain everything to you."
Nathanaël looked in the direction they were supposed to go. All of a sudden, the path felt far less pleasant. The man who had saved him from what was probably a fatal blow now seemed to be holding a knife to his throat.
"Nathy? Are we going? If we beat up their leader, we go to the throne and we win."
Nathanaël couldn't believe Azraüs's calmness of mind. As if the world didn't interest him any more than that. His confidence in himself clearly outweighed all his problems.
"That bastard is still alive."
Suddenly, he thought back to his father's words, and everything began to fall into place.
A chilling idea came to his mind…
Maybe this time, Azraüs would fall.
"Okay, let's go."
Yet Nathanaël couldn't bring himself to say it.