A dead wasteland.That was what Azrael found when he arrived at his village.The very air seemed to have been flayed of its essence. The trees stood like withered statues, the roads scarred with broken dust, and the wind... didn't dare blow.Where once there had been a plaza where children played, where elders told stories beneath blooming almond trees, where laughter had been part of the architecture itself... now, there was nothing.Only ash.Only bones.Only silence.
Azrael advanced with trembling steps, as if his body resisted accepting that it was real. That this soulless, gray ruin was all that remained of the place he had sworn to protect. Every step crunched over the remains of what was once life. And each sound, no matter how small, exploded like a detonation in his chest.
He collapsed to his knees. His trembling fingers dug into the arid soil, barren of even the tiniest trace of life. This land, where his mother had passed on her duchy—modest, yet beautiful. Where he had played with his little sister, building castles of mud. Where they had helped raise the homes of those who lived here. Now, his hands found only dust and shattered skulls.
His eyes—so used to beauty, to discipline, diplomacy, and peace—couldn't hold back. Black tears, like ink, streamed down his cheeks, as if his soul were bleeding truth.
Thousands.Thousands of people.Children, women, animals... even flowers...All ripped from the world with surgical precision. Not even full corpses remained.A magic so atrocious, so impossible, that even time seemed to have avoided this place.
"Why...?" he murmured. "Why here...? Why them?"
Then he saw it.In the distance, a youthful figure. Dressed in white. Standing atop the hill of ruins, watching in spectral stillness.
Azrael jumped to his feet. His eyes widened.
"A survivor!" he cried in desperation.
He ran toward the figure, soul on the edge of collapse. Each stride was pushed forward by a spark of hope. But when he was only a few meters away, he froze.
The boy was smiling.Not a sweet smile.It was a twisted grin... his blue eyes cried while his mouth twisted in an expression impossible to read.An inhuman distortion.
And behind him... the air cracked.
Translucent shadows, distorted and writhing, curled around him. They were faces. Faces Azrael knew. Voices that had once blessed his name. Fingers stretching from the mist as if seeking help... or revenge.
They were his villagers.Trapped.Twisted.The boy held a grotesque, rotting scythe that imprisoned them all. It writhed as if it were alive.A living prison.A demon.A monster that had turned his people into an extension of its abomination.
Azrael fell to his knees again. But this time, not in pain.In rage.A rage so pure, so absolute, that it burned away all humanity.
In that instant, Azrael died.Not in body.In soul.
The one who rose from that ground was no longer a man.He was the embodiment of a promise of destruction.
He unfurled his wings—once white—now blackened into a storm of blades. His armor cracked with living veins, as if his fury seeped through every metal plate. His eyes glowed with an unnatural light, a blend of dried tears and eternal fire.
"You..." he said, his voice deeper than thunder. "You're going to die today."
The boy—holding the demonic weapon—tilted his head. The smile did not fade. As if he had been waiting for this all along.
"You're the Duke, aren't you?" he asked with a sweet, childish voice. But every syllable felt like nails in the ears. "Did you come to punish me?"
"No." Azrael stepped forward, each footfall causing an implosion of energy beneath him. "I came to erase your existence from the universe."
The sky darkened instantly. A shroud of shadows covered the earth as if the sun had died. The ground split open, spewing pillars of spectral flame. Reality fractured around them, creating a bubble of damnation where only the two of them existed.
No witnesses.No survivors.Only judgment.
"Then come, avenger!" roared the weapon the boy carried, as his body twisted into a creature of infinite eyes and mouths screaming forgotten names.
And Azrael... roared too.With everything he was.With everything he had lost.With everything he had vowed to destroy.
Azrael remembered that day with cruel precision. That day... he had been the one who lost.
But Azrael knew the story wouldn't end there.
"Zanjara!" Azrael roared with all the power in his chest. "Lend me your strength!"
A colossal figure rose behind him. The titan of stone and fire, Zanjara, answered in a voice deep and fractured like a mountain breaking apart:
"That's why I'm here, Azrael."
The bond was immediate. A golden aura ignited like a reversed eclipse, covering the warrior. His muscles tensed, his shadow multiplied, and his form transformed. Now, Azrael looked like a god of war: multiple arms sprouted from his body like sacred branches, each hand wielding a different weapon. Swords, spears, chakrams, hammers, axes… each carved with divine runes, glowing with purified sunlight.
With firm, fearless steps, he entered Zerek's death circle.
A cursed field of pure death. None had survived there—except Zerek himself. But this time… Azrael remained unaffected. Death surrounded him, touched him, but did not claim him.
From every direction, fine beams of light began to manifest. They moved with surgical precision, launching toward Zerek with growing fury. At first, he dodged with arrogance, then with caution… and finally with strain.
The beams grew ever faster.
Azrael had calculated every detail of that battle. For years, he designed a network of magical mirrors, hidden in parallel planes, suspended between dimensions, infused with level-10 solar amplification magic. They could absorb the faintest sunlight and convert it into a burning torrent capable of reducing anything to ash.
He had perfected those mirrors down to the tiniest shard, splitting them into thousands of miniature units, each capable of firing multiple concentrated beams at once. What would be impossible for an ordinary mage, Azrael turned into art.
But he knew that wouldn't be enough. Zerek was bonded to Santa Muerte. His body resisted the most destructive spells. That's why he summoned Zanjara—only he could neutralize that bond.
The combat was a glorious chaos.
Zerek, who usually danced with death, could barely keep up. His dark spells had no effect on Azrael. His scythe couldn't absorb his soul. And worse—he couldn't locate the artifacts shooting the beams of light. They were… everywhere and nowhere.
Each time Zerek managed to sever one of Azrael's arms, a new figure emerged from the wound: a new Azrael. Not illusions. True copies. Warriors with the same ferocity and technique, surrounding him completely. It was like fighting an army made entirely of the same enemy.
Zerek began to falter.
"Hey, brat!" Santa Muerte suddenly shouted, her tone alarmed.
"What now?" Zerek spat, panting and annoyed.
"Change of plans… I can't help you."
"What!? Why!?"
"Are you stupid? Didn't you realize who your opponent made a pact with?"
"Was I supposed to?"
"Of course, idiot! That's Zanjara! My father!"
Zerek froze. That second of hesitation was all it took for a beam of light to pierce his abdomen like a divine spear. And one of Azrael's clones—maybe the original, maybe not—swung one of his sacred swords and slashed Zerek's eye with brutal precision.
Zerek's scream tore through the air.
"What...? What do you mean, he's your father?"
"That eye won't heal, moron. The wounds my father leaves… can't be mended with magic."
"Damn it!" Zerek shouted, blood pouring from his empty socket. "Then what's his weakness?!"
But there was no answer.
Suddenly, the death field went still.
Zerek felt something being ripped from the deepest part of his being. He fell to his knees. The pain was unbearable. Azrael, sword still in hand, began to pull—not at his body, but at his bond.
His bond with Santa Muerte.
The sword didn't cut flesh. It severed ties. It broke pacts. It sliced through the very essence of spiritual connection.
And Zerek… screamed.
He felt something tear inside. An invisible wound that didn't bleed but burned like hellfire. Every soul trapped in his scythe, every spirit he had absorbed, began to return the pain of their death. One by one.
He died as a soldier.He died as a child.He died as a mother.He died as a wolf.
Every life he had consumed, stolen, or destroyed pierced him like a dagger of memories. He didn't know how much time passed. Maybe minutes. For him, it felt like centuries. Each death was a judgment. A sentence. A prayer never answered.
And in the end… he saw her.
The only one who never should have died.
She looked at him with tenderness. And with sorrow. And in his mind, her voice was clear:
"Forgive me for not being the one to carry the death… forgive me for not being me..."
Zerek collapsed to the ground. No strength. No words. No vengeance. Only emptiness.
Azrael—now a single form again—approached.
And his gaze… held no rage. Only understanding.
"The wheel of karma," he whispered. "You've suffered every death you caused. I sacrificed everything to execute that technique once. And now, it's done."
He paused. Took a deep breath.
"Even if I don't give you the final blow… you're already dead. Your mind, your soul, your body… will never recover."
And he added, without hatred:
"But I'm not a psychopath. I'll grant it to you. You won't suffer anymore."
The magical mirrors aligned.The beams of light focused to a single point.
Zerek, with cracked lips and barely conscious, moved his tongue. Inside his mouth, a small magical circle activated.
A teleportation seal.
Zerek's body vanished just before being obliterated.The beams struck the spot… destroying the circle.
Azrael didn't know where he had gone. Neither did Zerek.
But it no longer mattered.
Zerek was dead.
Azrael remained standing amid the remnants of the battlefield.
The air still smelled of ash and ozone. The spot where Zerek had fallen still smoked, as if death itself had left its final breath there. And yet, Azrael knew he could not rejoice. There was no victory in that duel. Only justice… and loss.
Zanjara slowly dematerialized behind him, like a shadow returning to the abyss.
"You've done what was necessary," came his voice, distant now, fading into the echoes of time. "But what is necessary is not always what is right."
Azrael closed his eyes.He knew those words would be his burden from now on.
What he had done—though justified by every corpse he had mourned—was a curse. One that would not fall on him alone, but also upon what remained of the magical balance of the continent. The bond between Santa Muerte and her chosen had been forcibly severed, through an ancient forbidden art. That would have a cost. The freed souls, the broken seal… even the cycle of reincarnation might have been altered.
And still… he felt no regret.He couldn't.
Because when he had fallen to his knees among the smoldering ruins of his old village, he had made a promise: never again would death walk unpunished among the innocent.
Zerek had become the monster that never should have existed.And now, he was gone.