Brikka's twin beast took charge. Even though the enemy's black iron armor was designed to negate magic and dampen physical blows, the Aether Leech Engine did its job—disrupting the connection to Signo and breaking their defense.
Azriel followed close behind the beast, flanking with Leirza. The two moved in perfect sync, like they'd been fighting together for years. Leirza followed Azriel's every move instinctively. The enemies dropped like flies—frozen solid by Brikka's beast or crushed outright by Gio's brutal strikes. They had no choice but to kill. These weren't people anymore—they were zombies.
But after the first thousand kills, their stamina was wearing thin. Corren's buffs weren't enough. Veyra's potions weren't keeping up. And worst of all, the Engine was running dry. Being a makeshift version, it lacked the core component: a real leech found only in the deep caves near Signo's core.
In short—they were screwed.
The marksmen couldn't keep up. Lysara was drained, mentally and physically, from casting so many tornadoes. And five thousand enemies still remained—only now they were regaining strength as the engine failed.
That's when they noticed something strange. The enemy soldiers began tearing into each other—not just attacking, devouring. They ripped off their comrades' armor, tore flesh from bone, and feasted like animals.
Dalaen's blood ran cold.
As a historian and scholar of ancient magic, he knew what this was.
All magic in Signo followed elemental rules—earth, fire, wind, light, dark. Buff types like Corren's were rare, but documented. But this? This was older. Forbidden.
Glutton.
"It's happening again..." Dalaen muttered in horror. "This magic was sealed centuries ago—created by Voralis herself."
Gio turned, blade dripping. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Dalaen's voice shook. "She made it to fight something... a monster called Faeran. A beast from the Hollow Below. It devoured entire regions, magic, matter, even thought. Nothing worked against it. So Voralis—"
He choked on the next words.
"—she broke the rules of magic. She created Glutton to fight Gluttony. But it corrupted her. It wasn't meant to exist."
Renzo's expression twisted with disbelief. "And now Velmira is using it."
Dalaen nodded. "This isn't war anymore. This is infection."
As the cannibals fed, the frontliners began to mutate—growing larger, stronger. Those who used to fall in one hit from Gio now stood unfazed. The return of black iron only made it worse—reflecting his attacks entirely.
They had no choice.
They had to run.
But Azriel stood his ground.
Gio saw it and immediately knew. He ran over and smacked him hard.
"KID, DON'T BE A HERO! WE CAN'T SAVE EVERYONE!"
Azriel's eyes burned with fire.
"Then go. Take the others and lock down the city. I'll buy time. Did you forget? I don't stay dead."
Renzo barged in, panic in his eyes.
"AZRIEL! BLACK IRON CUTS SIGNO'S CONNECTION!"
Azriel was silent.
Then he shouted:
"THEN GO! ALL OF YOU! I'VE GOT NOTHING TO LOSE!"
His voice cracked with emotion.
"IF I LOST YOU GUYS—I WOULDN'T EVEN WANT TO KEEP LIVING."
Gio, who now saw Azriel as a son, clenched his jaw and sighed heavily.
"I'll sta—"
Azriel turned to Leirza.
"Carry him. Now."
Leirza obeyed, dragging Gio out as the others ran—Thorne carrying an unconscious Lysara in his arms.
Azriel stood alone.
The weight of immortality settled on his shoulders. He didn't even know if he was truly immortal. But despite Renzo's warning, he stayed. They were marching toward him. And he thought—
Why am I doing this?
Revenge? Family? To free the world?
He knew all of it. But doubt still clawed at him.
He had always stood up after every fall. After his parents' death. After Reigo. After Lucia. He brushed off fear like it was nothing—even when he came back from the dead. He had pretended to be unbreakable.
But now?
Now he was truly afraid.
Why now?
Is it Renzo's warning?
The army?
The truth I'm avoiding?
He charged.
He could still take down the smaller ones. But the bigger ones—the cannibals—swatted him around like a rag doll.
WHY AM I DOUBTING NOW?! WHY DO I FEAR NOW?!
Even in a harsh world like Signo, a kid is still a kid.
He fought because he was chosen. But why was he chosen?
He swung wildly, every breath heavy. Every strike coated in tears. For the first time, he didn't feel like a machine. For once, he didn't want to kill.
Am I just like the Graces?
He had always told himself he was easing their suffering. That killing was a mercy. But now—he questioned if that was ever true.
And just as it hit him—
One slash.
Two parts of his body.
Blackness.
A void.
He died.
He was fully conscious. Yet, this place was not Reflection.
There was no weight. No breath. No time.
He couldn't feel anything—yet felt everything.
Pain throbbed through him like a memory he didn't live in, echoing through a body he no longer had. His thoughts didn't swim. They screamed. And in that silence, more deafening than any battlefield, came the truth.
So Renzo was right.
I'm finally dead...
Tears—whatever they were in this place—fell from somewhere deeper than his eyes. Not the tears of grief like he shed when Frenel died, but something else. Something older. Ancient and tired.
Relief.
A release, so profound it felt like exhaling after years of holding your breath.
No more battles.
No more screaming.
No more pretending to be a hero.
He could rest now... right?
But then—like smoke curling around light—guilt came.
What about them?
The ones who looked to him when no gods answered?
The broken who found strength in his defiance?
The promises he made in whispers, to graves, to the stars, to himself?
What about Signo?
What about the world he swore to free?
Why him?
Why not Gio? Renzo? Lysara? Anyone else?
Why a nobody?
Why a scared boy in a corpse that wouldn't stay dead?
Why was I chosen?
He screamed into the void—into the hollow space between life and oblivion.
I should've died that night.
The night everything shattered.
If he had died then… would the world be better?
Would the suffering have ended?
Would Frenel have lived?
Would Lucia?
His voice broke in a place without air.
WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?!
His mind convulsed in a thousand directions. He didn't have a mind, and yet it writhed. Pain bled into anguish. Anguish collapsed into despair. He was falling. Folding in on himself. Losing what little identity he had left.
And just when it was about to break him, something changed.
A voice.
Familiar. Soft. Tired.
"Azriel… I'm sorry."
The darkness shattered.
He jolted.
Screams flooded in like a tidal wave. Metal shrieked against metal. Fire howled across crumbling walls. Explosions lit the sky like vengeful stars.
His skin stung—acid.
His body convulsed.
One blink.
He was no longer in the void.
He was no longer dead.
He was back.
But not in the world. In Reflection.
Mirroirs all around him like frozen time. A realm between realms.
He stood—numb, exhausted, reborn.
He looked at his pale reflection.
He whispered:
"I'm going back."
Not because he was a hero.
Not because he wanted to.
But because no one else could.
And somewhere in his bones, shattered and reforged a hundred times, he still believed that maybe—just maybe—being chosen didn't mean being special.
Maybe it meant being the one who keeps standing when everyone else falls.
If it meant carrying the weight of a planet, then so be it.
The mirrors around him shattered—not with violence, but with solemn grace.
As if the world itself had exhaled, releasing its breath through fractured glass.
The orchestra swelled in the background—no longer triumphant, but heavy, mournful.
A symphony of sorrow and purpose, echoing through the void between death and return.
Azriel stood in the center of it all. His shoulders stiff. His spine trembling beneath unseen burdens.
And yet—he didn't kneel.
He couldn't afford to.
He went towards the severed warrior sat on the fourth chair.
"Everyone... wait for me."