They arrived in a district of the ruined city where the buildings had completely collapsed. Only piles of stone remained to the left and right. Men stood in the shadows, others under the moonlight. Calmly, as if no one could reach them, they gathered in certain spots to talk.
Nathanaël observed the place. The area was rather circular, as if it had once been a plaza where a fountain had stood at the center. The ground had cracked outward from the fountain, and all that remained of it was the base. All around, ruins—collapsed buildings that did not even reach two stories high. There seemed to be nothing comfortable to sleep in or even to live in.
And the strangest thing of all was how open the space was. It was completely exposed, open to any external attack.
"Aren't you afraid of an ambush?"
Hammiel, who continued to walk like a ghost, did not even turn around. He kept his indifferent and serious attitude even when being asked a question.
"The leader is coming. Wait here."
"Great."
Clearly, he wasn't answering questions either. Even though they were guests, they didn't seem all that important.
Nathanaël and Azraüs remained standing there. They looked around. A central plaza, warriors to the left and right—but what Nathanaël didn't understand were the auras, which were strangely refined, as if they had always been able to see and train them.
"This isn't normal…"
"You're right, Nathy. They deserve a good lesson."
"Huh?"
Azraüs's face was unreadable and detached as usual. A face that showed no particular emotion other than curiosity.
But Nathanaël knew him well by now. After spending so much time with him, he could tell just by his tone of voice: he was on the verge of snapping.
"They bring us here while we're in the arena, where the goal is to beat everyone. Their leader isn't here, and on top of that…"
Suddenly, Azraüs threw his club with all his strength at one of the warriors who was talking.
It shot forward like a bullet. No normal human could have stopped it—or so Nathanaël believed.
However, despite its incredible speed, it was caught with one hand without any problem.
"They seem strong."
The warrior who had been pushed back a few meters by the impact dropped the club to the ground, while Azraüs advanced toward the small group.
This time, his tone was accompanied by a hostile expression.
"I don't think I came here to talk or negotiate. Nozras didn't either. I don't give a damn about what you do or your methods. This is Nozras—we fight like warriors. I'll rip your faces off and calmly bury you after my triumph."
Nathanaël watched his friend with fear. It was the first time he had ever seen him this angry.
One of the warriors stepped forward, showing his hands, trying to calm the tension that was becoming more and more palpable.
"Calm down, son of Gazor. We're not here to—"
"I don't give a f*ck about your excuses!"
Suddenly, Azraüs closed the distance between himself and the group in the blink of an eye. His fist stopped just in front of the warrior's face before the latter could even react.
"I'm going to show you how we fight here."
From there, everything happened at lightning speed.
Azraüs's arm was calmly deflected with careful precision. The warrior smiled slightly in satisfaction, but his joy was short-lived. Azraüs straightened up and threw a lightning-fast punch straight into the man's head.
"Your little tricks piss me off."
Nathanaël watched the scene from afar. Even though he found Azraüs's behavior somewhat excessive, he didn't really want to intervene, because he felt that something was wrong with this clan.
Just from the way the warrior had deflected Azraüs's arm, he understood that this clan possessed a foundation in martial arts. The movements were calm and precise, and throughout them, aura flowed smoothly through the body instead of reinforcing the specific parts being used.
It was a technique he himself had never even considered. And above all, a technique impossible to perform without extreme awareness of aura.
Whoever led this clan surely knew more than anyone Nathanaël had ever met.
Moreover, when he looked at Azraüs's aura, Nathanaël quickly understood the difference.
Azraüs's aura was growing under his anger. A threatening aura that, as it manifested more and more, resembled a blazing fire ready to reduce everything to ashes.
"Come at me, you bunch of cowards!!"
At those words, the warriors of the Rosia clan looked each other straight in the eyes. None of them wanted to face this enraged monster.
"No one? …Then I'll come to you."
Azraüs launched himself forward in a single burst. The ground was left with a massive crater.
The first warrior took his fist as if Azraüs had flown straight to him without touching the ground.
However, being in the air without footing made him more vulnerable, and another warrior seized that brief moment to attempt a vertical strike with his blade.
But for a warrior like him, being airborne did not mean being without support. He spun using the arm still buried in the face of the first warrior he had struck. Blocking the sword, he recovered in an instant before smashing the swordsman's face into the ground.
A dozen men then rushed at him, blades and daggers in hand. They surrounded him quickly—only to realize that he was already no longer among them.
Azraüs took advantage of their momentary inattention, cutting through the air and grabbing the face of another female warrior farther away.
"I told you…"
He crushed her face so thoroughly that it no longer resembled anything human. Then, he did what Nathanaël believed to be impossible in this world.
"…that I would rip your face off."
The warrior screamed in pain as her face was torn away. But she couldn't do anything else before taking an uppercut to the abdomen.
Azraüs stood back up, a face in his hand, and displayed his dominant build to the others.
Without a doubt, he was bigger, stronger, faster, more muscular, and more terrifying. In this world—especially in Nozras—being like the son of the Ogre was a blessing.
But woe to those who had to face people like him…
"You're nothing but a bunch of cowards who abandoned our roots. I will never forgive you."
And yet…
"Even when facing your own brother?"
A single voice was enough to tip the balance…
Time seemed to stop.
In the blink of an eye, all the warriors dropped to their knees as if their king had arrived.
The leader of the Rosia clan walked calmly forward. His footsteps echoed despite the noise of the world and the wind; only him could be heard.
A ray of moonlight followed him humbly, as if it too were part of the spectacle.
His cloak, a deep blue almost black, flowed behind him like a nocturnal sea. The heavy, noble fabric seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, hovering just above the ground with silent elegance. It slid like a loyal shadow behind the charismatic leader.
Beneath the cloak, he wore a crossed tunic of the same deep blue, embroidered with discreet patterns that only the moon could reveal. Geometric, almost runic lines ran along his torso and sleeves, like scars woven into the fabric. The high, rigid collar framed his neck with an almost military austerity.
Around his waist, a dark leather belt, worn yet sturdy, held everything together with cold precision. At his side, a sword slept in its scabbard, its pommel visible just enough to remind everyone that he was not here to talk.
His boots, reinforced with metal, softly struck the stone, each step echoing like a judgment. Moonlight slid over the plates, revealing dull steel reflections, as if they had seen too many battles to shine anymore.
Azraüs did not move. His body refused to believe it. His wide-open eyes stared at the ground in disbelief. He could no longer see anything. His world was collapsing, leaving a strong body looking as fragile as a stone statue.
Azraël knelt beside the woman who had lost her face, and there, Nathanaël witnessed a miracle.
No, he knew where it came from…
Azraël calmly extended his hand, and a light appeared from it. Slowly, a circle filled with engravings emerged from his palm. It contained symbols Nathanaël recognized. The other world was at work…
The warrior regained her face little by little. As if her skin were returning piece by piece, reassembling itself as before, leaving no trace that it had ever been torn away.
Nathanaël could not believe it.
"How? …"
Azraël then stood up calmly before turning toward his brother with a gentle smile.
"Well then, look at me. Azraüs."
Azraüs slowly raised his eyes. Trembling like a leaf, his vision was blurred. Yet it did not lie—his brother was truly there. He had been told he was dead, that he was no longer of this world. But this moment felt real. Far too real.
"Well? Don't I deserve a hug?"
Azraüs hesitated for a moment, then ran toward his brother and wrapped him in his arms.
Nathanaël watched the scene with a hint of relief, thinking the two brothers would fight on the spot. Instead, it became the most moving reunion he had ever witnessed. A small tear rolled down his cheek as he watched the two sons of the Ogre finally reunited.
In the end, he had not been able to tell him. He had let fate take care of their reunion, and although it did not fully please him, it did not bother him either.
He had never seen Azraüs this fragile. From the beginning, the famous warrior had only shown his strong and admirable side. The rest was discarded back in Nozras.
And yet here, the great little warrior was crying hot tears, and it warmed Nathanaël's heart.
The warriors slowly stood up and helped the wounded. Then Azraüs loosened his embrace and looked at his brother.
"How?"
"I never died. At least, I was lucky."
Azraël then looked at Nathanaël.
"Come into my tent. I will explain everything."
Nathanaël felt a strange sensation. He was good at reading people, and when he looked at Gazor's eldest son, he could not help but feel that something was wrong. As if Azraël already knew everything. As if he were hiding something far too great for himself and those around him…