In the grand living room of the Voidus Estate, Azriel sat, his newly acquired pair of pitch-black, dark-tinted sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His eyes, though shielded, still held a distant intensity as he sat before the glowing screen of the mana-powered television. The broadcast displayed images of the dungeon outbreak, the flashing images of concerned officials, and the hushed tones of the newscaster, all reporting with a calm that belied the rising tension.
"So far, no problems have emerged," the news reporter stated, their voice steady, trying to reassure the citizens. The words hung in the air like an uncertain promise, as though the calm was a mere façade masking the true depth of the brewing storm.
Azriel's gaze remained unwavering, though his mind wandered, feeling the weight of the moment. He knew better than to take the news at face value—dungeons, especially those that shifted in threat level, rarely stayed contained for long. They had a way of twisting things, growing uncontrollable once the mana reserves within them reached a certain point. The monsters inside weren't the only danger; it was the unpredictability, the volatile nature of such events that made them so terrifying.
Hours passed with no new news, and the tension in the air grew heavier. Azriel sat in the dimly lit living room of the Voidus Estate, his newly gifted black-tinted sunglasses resting on his nose. His right index finger absently rubbed against his thumb as he watched the broadcast, his mind sharp and alert despite the stillness in the room. The news reporter's voice droned on, assuring viewers that, for the moment, no immediate threats had emerged from the dungeon. The calm tone did little to soothe the unease that was slowly creeping up his spine.
Then, a lone figure emerged from the dungeon.
The figure staggered into view, their steps uneven, their body covered in blood. But this wasn't ordinary blood—it was blue. Azriel's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses as he rubbed his thumb and index finger together more purposefully. The blood was from mana beasts—dangerous creatures that lurked within dungeons, often leaving no survivors.
The news crew rushed forward, trying to make sense of the scene, microphones thrusting forward in a frenzy of questions. The figure's face was obscured by dirt and blood, but their desperation was clear. Their breath came in sharp gasps, and they looked as though they had barely escaped the horrors within.
Before anyone could process the situation, the next moment hit with a grim revelation.
More figures began to emerge from the dungeon, one after another, each as bloodied and battered as the first. They were all covered in the unmistakable blue blood of mana beasts. The sight was chilling, the realization that something much larger had occurred beneath the surface of the dungeon sending a ripple of unease through the room.
The guards moved swiftly, pushing the news reporters and camera crews back, demanding space to assess the situation. Tension thickened in the air as the camera panned over the injured figures. The crew muttered amongst themselves, their microphones still trying to capture any sounds as they rushed to get the story.
Then, a lone figure stepped forward from the group of survivors. His body was covered in the same blue blood, but it was clear he was trying to hold himself together. He stood tall despite the exhaustion written across his face. His voice, though strained, rang out with authority.
"It's over," he announced, his words hanging heavy in the air. "The dungeon has been suppressed with minimal casualties."
Azriel's gaze narrowed as he leaned forward, his thumb and index finger still rubbing absentmindedly as he studied the man. He recognized him instantly—the head of the Starox Family, masters of elemental mana. He was known for his unwavering composure, but even now, there was a weariness to him that Azriel couldn't ignore. He had likely seen more than his share of battles in that dungeon.
Azriel's attention shifted, searching through the crowd on the screen until he spotted them—his parents.
At the far end of the broadcast, Lucifer and Lilith stood close to one another, their posture strained but steady. They were bruised, battered, but they were still standing. Azriel could tell it wasn't life-threatening injuries, but there was an undeniable fatigue in their movements. Mana exhaustion. It was clear that they had pushed themselves to the limit to suppress the dungeon, using every ounce of their strength to protect those around them.
He leaned back slightly, taking in the image of his parents, a strange mix of pride and concern swirling within him. They were strong, he knew that. But the battle had clearly taken a toll.
He couldn't help but rub his right index finger again, the motion almost soothing as the lingering tension gnawed at him. It wasn't over, not yet. And something about the situation felt… off. Azriel had learned to trust his instincts over the years, and right now, they were screaming at him.
The silence in the room stretched as the broadcast continued, the reporter now speaking with the Starox Family head, trying to get more details. But Azriel was lost in his thoughts, unable to shake the feeling that something darker was brewing beneath the surface of what had just transpired.
As the guards ordered the news reporters to turn off their broadcasts, a sense of urgency rippled through the air. The reporters, though reluctant, complied, and the screens flickered before cutting to static. In the background, the chaotic scene of injured and exhausted figures began to unfold.
The healers, moving with practiced precision, rushed to tend to the wounded. Those who had brought the bodies of the fallen were gently escorted to the side, their faces etched with sorrow and exhaustion. The bodies, covered in blue blood, were carefully laid out, and healing magic was summoned to work over the fallen warriors.
The air was thick with the weight of the loss. Even those who had survived the dungeon outbreak seemed overwhelmed by the toll it had taken. Healers—some from the nearby families, others from the neutral guilds—worked tirelessly, their hands glowing with mana as they attempted to restore life and vitality to the injured. The sounds of healing spells, soft incantations whispered under breath, filled the air, blending with the murmurs of grief and relief.
Azriel, sitting back in the shadows of the living room, stared at the screen, his fingers still absently rubbing against his right index finger. His gaze was distant, his mind focused on the events unfolding before him. His parents were there, at the heart of the chaos, and yet they had made it out. The fact that they were still standing was no small miracle. And yet, something lingered in his thoughts—a sense of unease that wouldn't leave him.
----
Azriel's fingers tightened around the armrest as the silence stretched on, his gaze fixed on the darkened screen. Hours had passed since the broadcast cut out, and the weight of the unknown began to gnaw at him. He couldn't shake the sense that something had gone terribly wrong, and every passing minute only deepened his anxiety.
His eyes flickered toward the shadows in the corner of the room, a subtle shift in the darkness catching his attention. He knew what he needed to do.
"Uncle, do we have any reports?" Azriel called out quietly, his voice carrying just enough authority to command the attention of the shadow that had long served his family.
The shadows around him seemed to tremble at his summons before parting to reveal Magnus, his ever-dutiful butler. Dressed in his immaculate uniform, the monocle perched over his right eye gleamed in the dim light of the room. He bowed low in respect before answering.
"Lord Lucifer and Lady Lilith are currently on their way back, my young master. They are riding in a mana car, as they suffered from mana exhaustion. Lady Lilith's space teleportation was unable to bring them back here." Magnus's voice was even, though there was an underlying concern in his tone that Azriel didn't miss. "They should be here shortly."
Azriel's eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of concern and frustration flickering across his expression. Mana exhaustion. He knew what that meant. His parents, powerful as they were, had pushed their limits in the battle to suppress the dungeon, and it had taken its toll. For Lilith to be unable to use her space teleportation, it was a rare occurrence—one that spoke to just how severely their reserves had been drained.
His mind whirled with thoughts of the dungeon outbreak, his parents, and the strange unease that had settled in his chest. Something didn't add up. They had been through worse, yet this time felt different. A subtle shift in the air, a disturbance he couldn't explain. Azriel's instincts were rarely wrong, and they told him that the real battle, the true danger, had yet to reveal itself.
"Thank you, Uncle," Azriel said, his voice steady, but there was a flicker of something more in his eyes—a sharpness that was impossible to ignore.
Magnus gave a small nod before fading back into the shadows, ever watchful and ever silent.
Azriel leaned back into the sofa, his gaze drifting back to the dark screen in front of him. His right thumb instinctively rubbed over his index finger again, a small, unconscious gesture that brought him some comfort, though his mind remained restless.
BZZZZZZ
The sudden crackle of the television made Azriel's heart race. He stood frozen, eyes fixed on the flickering screen, his fingers still gently rubbing his right index finger as if trying to ground himself. The screen remained black, silent, as though it were waiting. Then, slowly, color began to bleed into the darkness, spreading like an ominous stain until the image finally became clear.
Azriel's stomach twisted.
What appeared before him was not the news report he had been expecting, not the safety of the broadcast he had been clinging to, but something far darker, far more chilling.
In a dimly lit, cold room sat his parents—his mother and father—strapped to two chairs, their bodies slumped forward as though they had been drained of all life. Their faces were battered, bruised, and bloodied. They were no longer the imposing figures of power that everyone feared and respected. Their arms hung limp by their sides, eyes vacant but alive, yet the exhaustion and pain were evident.
Azriel's breath caught in his chest, and a strange, bitter taste rose in the back of his throat. His vision blurred, and his pulse thudded in his ears. But before he could process, a voice broke through the thick tension in the room.
The voice was low, dripping with malice.
"You shouldn't have gone against my plans, Lucifer Voidus and Lilith Voidus," the voice sneered, echoing unnaturally through the room. There was a sickening, mocking tone that made Azriel's blood run cold. "The most feared raiders, yet here they sit, broken, bruised, and battered. Poor mana-exhausted raiders who couldn't even stand straight. Hahaha!"
The laughter that followed was cruel, sharp, and filled with contempt. Azriel's hands clenched into fists, his entire body going rigid as a flood of anger and fear coursed through him. His parents were alive, but they were not the same. They were broken. The realization twisted in his gut like a dagger.
The screen flickered again, showing them in full, their heads hanging, eyes dull, but unmistakably aware.
They were being mocked.
Azriel's breath hitched, his mind racing through a thousand thoughts, none of them clear. Who did this? Why?
The voice continued, its cruel tone reverberating as if to twist the knife deeper.
Azriel's thumb pressed down harder on his index finger, his body trembling with emotion as he stood rooted in place, his gaze unwavering on the television screen. His sunglasses had fallen from his face, their glassy clatter echoing in the otherwise silent room. But the sound barely registered in his mind as his focus sharpened, his otherworldly eyes glowing with a radiant, almost blinding light, as his senses expanded and the world around him became a blur of shapes, colors, and energy.
From the shadowed corners of the room, Magnus emerged. The normally composed butler was uncharacteristically distraught, his eyes full of concern, yet his movements remained measured, his purpose clear. He took a step toward Azriel, his voice low but urgent.
"Azriel," Magnus said softly, his voice trembling slightly, "Turn away. This... this isn't for you to watch. Please."
But Azriel didn't respond. He didn't even look at Magnus, his gaze fixed solely on the television screen. His breath was ragged, his chest tight as he tried to steady himself against the tidal wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. No... He couldn't look away. Not now. Not when it mattered most.
On the screen, a figure in dark robes appeared, a mask obscuring his face. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate and cold. In his hand, he held a black broadsword, its edge gleaming ominously, and Azriel felt the pulse of death vibrating through the air like a sickening drumbeat. The figure was closing in on his parents, and he could do nothing to stop it. His heart slammed in his chest, and his vision blurred with rising fury and helplessness.
But then, something changed.
Lucifer and Lilith—his mother and father—looked up. Their eyes, though weary and bruised, locked onto the recording device. Their faces were battered, their bodies broken, but there was still a soft, familiar smile on both of them. The kind of smile only they could give him, the kind that said everything without needing words. Their voices cut through the tension in the room, their last moments captured in the most gut-wrenching way possible.
"Azzy," Lucifer said, his voice soft but strong, filled with the same fatherly warmth Azriel had always known. "Don't worry, okay? It's going to be fine. You've grown up so much... I can't believe how much you've changed. How much you've grown... from that little boy to the young man you are now."
Azriel felt something twist inside him, a raw, aching pain as he heard his father's words, but he couldn't look away. His eyes, filled with the impossible light of his inherited power, locked onto their faces, memorizing every detail, every moment, even though it hurt more than anything he'd ever felt.
"My little angel," Lilith's voice was gentle, and it carried the weight of every sacrifice she'd ever made for him. "Don't worry about us, okay? We'll wait for you on the other side, alright? Promise me you'll live your life and tell us all your adventures when we meet again. Don't let us hold you back, sweetie. Ah, and that cheesecake? Looks like we'll have to get a raincheck on that, okay?"
She smiled as she said it, but her words... they were a farewell. And then she added, "We love you, Azriel. Always. You've always been meant for greatness, and we know you'll do amazing things. So, don't let us hold you back."
Azriel felt as though the very air had been ripped from his lungs. The agony of hearing their words—the love and warmth they had given him, knowing they wouldn't be there to see him grow, to share the life he still had ahead of him—was unbearable. But as they smiled, Azriel heard a faint, familiar voice—Lucifer's voice, strong and unwavering even in the face of death.
"Take care of your grandfather, alright?" Lucifer added, his tone carrying a mix of humor and care. "He's a bit clumsy when it comes to teaching, but give him time. He means well."
Azriel's chest tightened at the sound of those words. Take care of him? Was he supposed to carry the weight of their love, their trust, in this moment? He wanted to scream, wanted to shout at the screen, to run to them, to stop the impending doom from consuming everything he had ever known. But it was too late.
As if the world itself was mocking their final words, the assassin's cruel laugh filled the room, and the blade in his hand rose high, casting a menacing shadow over Lucifer and Lilith.
"Oh my, please don't let me ruin this moment," the figure taunted, his voice full of venom. And then, in a single, brutal motion, the black broadsword descended.
The blade sliced through the air with terrifying speed, and Azriel watched, paralyzed, as it cleaved through Lucifer's neck. His father's head fell from his shoulders, rolling away, the smile still frozen on his lips even as the life drained from his eyes. Azriel's stomach twisted, his vision spinning, but he couldn't turn away. Not now. Not when it mattered most.
The assassin didn't hesitate. With the same cold efficiency, he raised the blade again. The sword came down with the same ruthless precision, severing Lilith's head from her body in a single, horrifying motion. Her head rolled across the floor, her peaceful expression lingering even in death.
Azriel's body trembled violently as the world around him seemed to implode. The storm above the estate raged harder, lightning splitting the sky, but nothing could drown out the sound of his heart shattering.
Azriel stood frozen, his eyes locked on the television screen, where the assassin's blade fell—again and again. Each cut, each slash, each moment searing itself into his very soul. The storm outside raged on, dark clouds swirling, and black lightning crackling as if the world itself was mirroring the chaos inside him. The power within him surged, as raw and untamed as the fury boiling in his veins.
Magnus moved, his usual calm composure shattered by the violence of the scene. He stepped closer to Azriel, his voice low, yet tinged with desperate concern.
"Azriel..." Magnus's voice trembled. "Please… turn away."
The words felt like a distant echo, too far away from the storm churning within his chest. His hand, still pressing on his thumb and index finger, tightened until his knuckles cracked, his breath coming in shallow, strained bursts.
Magnus, sensing the rising danger in the air, reached out, his hand tentative as if to pull Azriel from the abyss that was opening before them.
But as soon as his fingers brushed the air around Azriel, it happened.
The shadows trembled.
Azriel's breath hitched, his eyes flashing with a strange, unnatural gleam. He didn't move, but his power, the raw essence of darkness and death that ran through his veins, surged outward like a tidal wave. In an instant, tendrils of shadow erupted from the floor and walls around him, twisting and writhing, as if they had a mind of their own. They shot toward Magnus, faster than human eyes could follow.
Magnus barely had time to react. The tendrils of shadow coiled around him with a strength that felt like a vice, pulling him away from Azriel as if he were a mere puppet. Before he could even speak, the shadows clenched tighter, and with one brutal motion, they hurled him through the air.
Magnus's eyes widened in shock as he was sent crashing into the wall, his body slamming through the glass window behind him. The sound of shattering glass filled the room as Magnus was thrown out into the storm, his form disappearing into the darkness beyond.
Azriel didn't even flinch. He didn't care. His world was no longer bound by the rules of human concern, of love, or of mercy. All that mattered was the destruction of the source of his pain—the force that had taken his parents from him. The assassin's laugh still echoed in his ears, and their last words were still fresh in his mind.
The shadows swirled, a vortex of power rising around him, pulling at the very fabric of reality itself. The storm above the estate intensified, black lightning streaking across the sky in jagged bursts, as though the heavens themselves were powerless to stop the chaos Azriel was unleashing.
Azriel's gaze drifted down to his right hand, his thumb still pressing against his index finger. The small, subtle gesture that had once been a promise. A simple, childlike vow made with the people who had loved him most. Don't worry. We'll be okay. We love you, Azzy.
It was all broken now. That promise, that connection, shattered like glass under the weight of everything he had just witnessed. A cold, hollow emptiness spread through him, as if his heart itself had cracked and crumbled with the loss of his parents.
The shadows around him grew restless, swirling, seeking something to latch onto. They hummed with the same energy that coursed through him, his power—the inheritance of his bloodline, his legacy—pounding against the walls of his consciousness.
The storm outside raged on, but it felt distant. Like it belonged to a world that no longer mattered. The only thing that existed now was the darkness within him, and the rage that had been buried for so long.
Azriel looked at the pale, fragile skin of his right hand, and the sharp, jagged edge of the promise he had made. His thumb pressed down harder on his index finger.
Crack
The pain sliced through him, raw and agonizing, but it was nothing compared to the hollow emptiness inside. The sharp sting of his own flesh splitting, the blood rushing to the surface, was a feeling—an anchor in a sea of overwhelming darkness. He needed to feel something. Anything other than the suffocating agony of loss.
The shadows responded. They trembled at his command, the power within him thrumming as he embraced the agony and turned it into something darker. More dangerous.
A sharp, guttural cry escaped his throat, but it was swallowed by the deafening storm that had begun to churn around him.
A cocoon of shadows wrapped around him, folding in on itself as it grew larger, more oppressive. It was as if the very fabric of reality was breaking apart around him, the room dimming under the weight of his power. His body convulsed, his hands trembling as his mind teetered on the edge of control.
Azriel's breath hitched as the cocoon closed around him, encasing him in a prison of darkness.
Magnus's unconscious form lay crumpled in the corner of the room, oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the heart of the boy he had sworn to protect. The shadows pressed against every surface, surging with life, with power, with grief.
Inside the cocoon, Azriel's eyes burned with a ferocious black light. He couldn't hear anything anymore—not the sounds of the house, not Magnus's voice, not the cries of anyone who might have cared. There was nothing but darkness, an overwhelming, suffocating darkness. He embraced it.
The cocoon of darkness continued to pulse around him, a suffocating force, until Azriel's breath came in ragged gasps. His body trembled, held captive by the immense power he had unleashed. The storm outside howled in fury, a reflection of the chaos within him.
But then, through the suffocating fog of his rage and grief, one word escaped his lips—
"Enough."
The shadows recoiled at his command, their relentless advance halting in an instant. The storm outside began to recede, the winds dying down as if bowing to his will. The oppressive darkness around him shifted, settling into stillness.
Azriel's body, now drained of all energy, collapsed into unconsciousness. His mind faded, lost in the quiet aftermath of the storm he had created.