Michael worked in silence, his hands moving deftly over the materials he'd acquired using his last divine crystals. The silvery metal reflected the dim light of the rest floor, its sheen slowly dulling under the harsh grip of his calloused fingers. Fragments of the mythical metal—a shimmering blend of conductive alloys and mana-infused ores—lay scattered around him. Each piece of the puzzle had been selected with precision, not for beauty or style, but for function and sheer lethality.
The dungeon floor was quiet, far too quiet, but the oppressive atmosphere of the deeper floors still hung over him. Even in this so-called "rest floor," the weight of impending danger was omnipresent.
His fingers moved mechanically, bending and twisting wire, inscribing rough runes onto the metal frame. Every rune had a purpose, guiding the flow of mana that would charge and fire the crude projectiles. Yet for all his precision, the weapon was ugly—more a hodgepodge of broken parts than a finely crafted instrument of war.
Valencia sat nearby, her sharp crimson eyes watching him closely, though she said little. The soft glow of the rune lights reflected off her pale skin, casting eerie shadows across her predatory features. She leaned against the cold stone wall, her jet-black hair spilling over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. Her presence was a strange combination of comfort and tension, like a blade ready to strike at any moment, yet loyal to him.
The moment hung in the air, fragile and quiet, broken only by the occasional spark as Michael fused metal together with bursts of magic. His thoughts drifted as he worked, lingering on the object before him. The coilgun—meant to replicate the e-shotguns of his old world—was more than just a weapon. It was a bridge between his two lives, a reminder of the past and a tool for survival in this grim, new reality.
"This should work," he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for Valencia to hear.
"You've been saying that for the last hour," she replied, her voice tinged with amusement. "Don't push yourself too hard. It won't be much use if you collapse before we even test it."
"I won't collapse," Michael snapped back, though there was no real bite to his words. His focus was too narrow, too ingrained in the task at hand. His hands worked feverishly as if he could only think clearly when building something—when creating something from the ruins of his world.
Minutes passed, then an hour. Finally, Michael sat back, wiping a smear of grime from his cheek. Before him lay the finished coilgun, though 'finished' was generous. The weapon was light—almost unnervingly so, considering the power it was meant to channel—but rough, as though cobbled together in a hurry. The barrel was uneven, the grip crudely wrapped in leather straps, and jagged wires jutted out in some places like exposed nerves.
It looked like it could fall apart at any moment, a half-hearted prototype that shouldn't work. Yet, beneath the ugly exterior, Michael could feel the magic humming through it, the power pulsing just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
"Light... but it'll hit hard," Michael said to himself, a half-smile twitching on his lips. "Just what I need."
Valencia pushed off the wall and approached, her expression shifting to one of admiration as she eyed the weapon. Her eyes flared slightly, the red irises glowing brighter under the ambient light. "You always underestimate yourself, Michael," she murmured, her tone low, soft, and almost affectionate. "You might not have the touch of a blacksmith, but this—" she gestured to the coilgun, "—this will do more than the job."
He nodded, though something tugged at the edges of his consciousness. A faint unease. As if the creation in his hands was more than just a tool. But there was no time for doubt. He needed this, and it needed to work.
Taking a deep breath, Michael raised the coilgun, aiming at the far wall. The runes along the barrel flickered as he funneled mana into them, the lines glowing a faint blue. The hum of energy grew louder, a barely audible vibration that thrummed in his bones. He could feel the mana surging through the runes, flowing smoothly, with no resistance.
His finger hovered over the trigger, and he squeezed it gently.
There was a faint click, followed by a sharp, electrified crack. A metal projectile shot forward with blinding speed, tearing through the air and slamming into the stone wall. The impact was deafening, a shockwave of force that left a crater the size of a small shield in the wall. Dust and debris rained down as the sound echoed through the empty chamber.
Michael lowered the coilgun, his breath coming out in slow, measured puffs. His heart pounded in his chest, not just from the recoil but from the sheer power he had felt coursing through the weapon.
He turned to Valencia, who had a satisfied smirk on her lips. "Perfect," she said.
He felt it too—the satisfaction of holding power, tangible and real, in his hands. The coilgun was rough, ugly even, but it worked. It worked perfectly.
But the moment of triumph was fleeting. Without warning, a sudden chill gripped him, coursing down his spine like icy fingers. His vision blurred, and his knees buckled beneath him. The world around him began to shift, as if reality itself were warping. He heard Valencia call his name, but her voice seemed to come from a distant place, muffled and indistinct.
The darkness swallowed him.
—
Michael found himself standing in a void of pure shadow, a place where even the concept of light seemed foreign. The air was thick and oppressive, pressing down on him from all sides. He felt weightless, as though suspended in an endless abyss. Before him, the darkness stirred, twisting and writhing like a living thing.
Out of the shifting gloom, a figure began to take shape.
A towering figure cloaked in black, its form indistinct and nebulous. Only its eyes—glowing red orbs that pierced through the void—were visible, staring directly at him. The figure radiated an overwhelming presence, an aura of death so powerful that Michael could feel his very soul tremble.
The God of Death #073 had arrived.
"Azrael," the voice rumbled, deep and echoing, like the sound of distant thunder. It wasn't just a voice—it was a presence, a force that pressed into Michael's mind and soul, suffocating him with its intensity.
Michael tried to speak, but no words came. His throat tightened, and his body remained frozen, locked in place by the god's gaze.
The deity's red eyes drifted downward, settling on the coilgun still clutched in Michael's hands. A low, almost amused sound escaped from the god—a rumble that could have been laughter or scorn.
"Crude," the god said, its voice laced with equal parts approval and disdain. "But functional. Much like you."
The words struck Michael like a blow, reverberating through him. He had no response, only the growing sense that he was standing on the edge of something far greater than himself.
"You have taken your first steps," the god continued, the air growing colder with each syllable. "But know this, Azrael. Power always demands a price."
The god's words echoed in the void, sinking deep into Michael's mind. A price. He had known this from the moment he had entered the dungeon, but hearing it from the God of Death itself made it real. Tangible. Dangerous.
"You will take what you need," the god intoned, its glowing eyes never leaving Michael. "But remember this: you do not walk this path alone."
The god's form began to dissolve into the shadows, its presence lingering even as its body vanished. But before it disappeared entirely, it spoke one last time—a final, chilling warning.
"The storm you are becoming cannot be controlled."
—
Michael jolted awake, his body drenched in cold sweat. The cold air of the rest floor felt harsh against his skin, grounding him in the present. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind reeling from the vision. He felt Valencia's hand on his arm, her grip tight and steady.
"Michael!" she said, her voice sharp with concern. "What happened?"
He blinked, disoriented for a moment before the memory of the vision came flooding back. The God of Death. The warning. The price.
"I saw him," Michael rasped, his voice hoarse. "The God of Death."
Valencia's eyes widened, her expression shifting to something between fear and awe. "What did he say?"
Michael hesitated, the god's words still burning in his mind. He glanced down at the coilgun in his hand, the crude but powerful weapon. A symbol of the path he was walking—a path that was becoming more dangerous with every step.
"He said..." Michael paused, swallowing hard. "He said I'm becoming the storm."
Valencia's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, her smile both proud and predatory. "Then let them fear the storm."
Michael nodded slowly, but the god's final warning echoed in his mind. There was always a price.
And it was one he wasn't sure he was ready to pay.