***
23.59
"No!" A scream tore from Azrael as he saw the figure before him. Bartho. The blacksmith stood motionless, the massive broadsword buried deep in his abdomen.
Bartho had turned his back to the attacker. As he slowly turned to face Azrael, a pained smile appeared on his face. "A little early, but happy birthday, boy." His words were empty, as though they came from another world.
Bartho extended a longsword toward him, as if nothing had happened, as if death wasn't already certain. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something. No sound escaped his dry lips. In the next moment, he collapsed.
Azrael froze. The world around him began to blur. Unable to look away, he watched as Bartho crumpled. Blood poured out of him relentlessly, each drop seeming to drain Azrael's life away. In the final moment, he threw himself beneath Bartho to catch his fall.
Before he could say anything, the blacksmith breathed his last in Azrael's arms.
"Not again... please, not... not you too..." His voice cracked, tears welled up in his eyes, and he couldn't hold them back. The pain, the despair—everything seemed to collapse into a single, suffocating moment.
Azrael could only watch once again, helpless, as death delivered the final blow to his blacksmith. The pain within him was unbearable, as if the world around him had collapsed into a storm of destruction and endless sorrow.
"You'll grow into quite the fine young man. I'll be watching you from the forge of the eternal flame..." Bartho's words echoed in Azrael's mind. Those were the exact words the blacksmith had spoken to him a few hours ago, without any context. Azrael hadn't understood them then. But now...
Azrael held him tightly. Memories of his mother flared within him. Another loss, another sacrifice. But in that moment, a single, all-consuming truth was born within him: hatred. Unfathomable hatred.
The bells tolled. An unbearable pain pierced through his body. Yet he fought against it, ignoring it as if he could outwit death itself.
He wanted to rise, to destroy those who had ruined everything. But his body refused to obey. It was as if an invisible force was forcing him to his knees.
Bard approached him, a knife in his hand. "Such a shame for you. Just before you become stronger, you're going to die..." A mocking laugh escaped his lips. The next moment, he flinched. His hand instinctively moved protectively to his groin.
Azrael could do nothing. His vision blurred, everything growing darker. Just as he was about to give up hope, he saw a new figure—one last spark of light in the darkness. Then everything disappeared, and the world turned black.
"Who are you?" Bard snapped, glaring at the masked figure. The man's hair was short and graying. A gray mask covered most of his face, leaving only the outlines of his eyes visible.
"You will wait until the boy awakens," rasped the voice. It sounded not only foreign but as though it was coming from all directions at once, echoing and threatening.
"Why should I do that? He's dying here and now!" Bard's eyes blazed with fury. A blow struck him, his head falling forward. The pain was like a rush, just before unconsciousness.
"Because HE wants it," came the answer, cool and calm.
"Pfft, so what? Is your colleague somehow above the way of Light, Solaren?" Bard's voice quivered with disdain. "Of course not, he is, after all, a true god and..."
"Of course," replied the man, his voice now almost amused. "After all, he was the one who killed your deity."
A laugh, cold and joyless, echoed through the air. The masked figure gave Bard a playful tap on the back of the head. "You will awaken in due time. HE will make sure of that."
With a step, he moved before the boy, whose lifeless body lay on the ground. "Interesting," he murmured as he looked at the boy. "Everything is unfolding exactly as HE wanted. I look forward to seeing you again."
He gently tapped the boy on the head, as if trying to calm a child. Azrael remained motionless.
Lorena lay already lifeless beside him, consciousness having abandoned her due to the pain of the arrow.
00:25
A hate-filled eye snapped open. "If they take everything from me, I will do the same to them. I will destroy them all. My enemy is not just Bard and Lorena. My enemy is the Church."
He felt incredible. The pain was gone, his injuries healed. But most importantly, his blessing. The name "Veil of Oblivion" burned itself into his memory. Before he could think any further, the mark on his palm flared up, drawing his gaze.
"Apparently, my blessing loves hate," he murmured with a grim smile that barely resembled humanity. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have gained enlightenment so quickly."
Slowly, he turned to his "relatives." Bard seemed to be slowly regaining consciousness, his mind in a drowsy state. A murderous glare met him. Azrael turned away, leaving him alone. For now. Death would wait.
"First, about my abilities..." A surprised whistle escaped him. "Interesting," he thought. His passive ability enhanced his body. He only needed to kill believers for that. The more powerful the victim, the stronger the effect. The most surprising thing: the enhancement remained permanent.
A smile crept across his face. "Perfect. My path forward will probably be that of a heretic."
The first active ability allowed him to bring decay over the victims he injured. The deeper and worse the wound, the more intense the decomposition. The effect took hold immediately, eating away at the body from the inside.
But that wasn't all. Finally, he gained the ability "Decay." With this, he could create a field that continuously weakened his enemies' energy. The more of his own energy he sacrificed, the larger the field became, and the faster the enemy lost strength.
Azrael allowed himself to be overcome by a satisfied grin. These abilities were a perfect match for his sword fighting style. But against many opponents at once, there might be issues. So, he decided to focus on improving "Decay" further.
***
The furious fire of the burning houses was almost impossible to count. Another surge of power coursed through his injured body. His passive ability finally took effect. He had decided to enhance it, as it seemed to be the most optimal in this situation.
Lyren could feel the immense power it granted him. Another upgrade of his abilities. A nearly imperceptible difference in the description, yet the power within him grew, unstoppable, enormous.
"Then let's begin the real fight."
In an instant, he appeared beside his opponent. Completely caught off guard, she tried to defend herself, raising her left arm at the last moment. It was too late. Wild, yellow flames erupted around her arm. A futile countermeasure. The gust of wind practically tore her arm away. There was a deafening crack. A severed arm sailed through the air as though it were nothing more than a broken branch.
"Shame, I can't use my other sword right now," he thought, his gaze fixed on the surprised woman.
She screamed as her body crackled with yellow fire. A wild, uncontrolled flicker, but it wasn't enough. Red and yellow fire, two opposing forces, neutralized each other.
Breathing heavily, she stood there, but now her eyes were fixed on him. She had realized that she could no longer underestimate him.
With every burning house, his power grew. She leapt forward, lightning-fast, like a predator preparing her strike.
"She fights without weapons. I must use the advantage of distance".
Lyren raised his sword; the blade in his hand was the only constant in this chaos. Suddenly, the yellow flames around her began to condense. Her body stopped burning, and instead, she now held a flaming spear.
At the last moment, he stopped, darting to the side as the spear shot toward him like an arrow. The thrust whistled past him. A sudden blow struck his stomach. Yellow flames licked at him hungrily.