Azukar gazed at his nemesis—the one he had never truly understood.
He had never seen the him looking so young, so worn down. The black-haired youth appeared even more disheveled than when he was first pulled from the sea. Though he had not been intentionally harmed, the traces of exhaustion and sickness clung unmistakably to his face—only those translucent grey eyes still reflected a piercing, intimidating light.
He recalled their first—and only—true confrontation: the other seated upon the imposing royal throne. But even draped in layers of ornate crimson robes, surrounded by knights in gleaming silver helms, the new king’s frailty and thin frame remained visible despite the grandeur.
And yet, this seemingly frail new king had easily bathed the entire Royal Court in blood. The former King Cassius II and Queen Esméry were impaled through the abdomen by the twin spears of the statue of Zephiel in Doveheart Square. They struggled a whole night before finally passing away. The white, holy stones were stained crimson by the blood of the Divine Chosen, its original hue lost forever.
What followed was a ten-day-ten-night slaughter targeting the former king’s kin and loyalists. Any minister or cleric who dared to object was likewise sent to the gallows. For reasons unknown, the Radiant Church remained utterly silent, and the strongest ecclesiastical power on the continent of Ambrose became nothing more than a puppet of the new king.
Technically, the new king’s massacre targeted the enemies of the Natalin, but the madness and brutality that followed were truly horrifying. The new king launched an apocalyptic war, proclaiming that he would exterminate all believers in the world. And eventually, it was Azukar himself who severed the unbeliever’s head—his final time locking eyes with those smoky grey pupils.
When the dust settled, he stood among the cheering crowd, holding the head that had turned deathly pale and utterly exhausted from blood loss. To his surprise, those beautiful grey eyes looked no different embedded in a living face or resting in a corpse’s skull.
He suddenly recalled that, upon facing those eyes, once stripped of hatred, tension, and the fire of battle, his first genuine thought had been: that person looks like he’s about to die.
—He’s about to die.
Only someone nearing death, yet unburdened by regret, could possess such detached, vacant eyes—like a mercury mirror reflecting the decay of all things. That was why, seeing him now so oddly “lively,” Azukar found himself momentarily disoriented.
“Has your sprained ankle not healed yet?” the Divine Chosen suddenly asked, posing a completely unrelated question. “If you had applied the ointment Rambda gave you daily, it should have fully recovered by now.”
Yet the other still walked with a noticeable limp.
The other visibly froze for a moment, then frowned at him. “The texture is disgusting, and it stinks.”
Azukar: “…”
Is this guy a child?
Suddenly, he felt a flicker of mischief toward his old rival. In a tone he usually reserved for coaxing tribal children, he teased, “Well then, if you agree to apply the ointment on time, I’ll tell you what happened ten years ago. Deal?”
“I can gather information of that level on my own,” the other party pushed greedily, escalating his demand. “Change the deal. I want you to let me and the three sailors leave Asachi Valley safely, and to never harm any of us in the future. In return, we won’t tell anyone what happened here. You may even seal it with a soul pact.”
To form a soul pact, one must swear in the name of their soul to the Ockensell River—the birthplace of the gods. Should anyone break the vow, divine misfortune would descend upon them. No one knew what this “misfortune” entailed—only that no oathbreaker had ever lived to see the next sunrise.
A widely told classic tragedy, The Ockensell River, recounts the tale of a poor couple who, in the heat of love, swore upon the river never to forsake each other. But time changed all things: the man became wealthy and cast his lover aside to wed a noblewoman. On the night of the wedding, the heartbroken woman drowned herself in the river. The faithless man, amid prayers and desperate pleas to the gods, lost his breath in terror and remorse.
In short, soul pacts held terrifying power over the native people of the continent of Ambrose. Nova believed he had proposed an exceptionally viable arrangement.
However, the Divine Chosen gave him a cryptic look for a moment before replying gently, “No, you cannot leave on your own.”
His tone was unusually soft. “The Wall of Sighs doesn’t just block pursuers; it also isolates the Natalin. That four of you survived crossing that sea is already a gift from the goddess of fortune.”
“You speak the common tongue, and you’re the Divine Chosen. Surely you know how to safely reach the outside world.”
“Yes, I do,” Azukar replied with a faint smile. “But why should I tell you, instead of imprisoning you all here?”
“…May I assume your memory hasn’t deteriorated and your logical faculties remain intact?” Professor Brody glared at him darkly. If the person before him were a student, they’d be drenched in cold sweat under such a stern stare—but the bastard in front of him still looked as carefree as ever.
“That’s rather impolite, Professor.”
The professor shot back: “I need to make sure I’m not speaking to a raving lunatic.”
The other man continued to gaze at him gently, as though watching a child throwing a tantrum.
…And in the end, it still came to this.
Nova quietly took a step back and suddenly drew out the arrowhead he had hidden in his sleeve, pressing it against the artery in his throat. The sharp tip sank into the thin skin, and bright red blood began to seep out slowly.
“Let us go, or I’ll die right now,” the dark-haired youth said calmly. Blue veins bulged on his arm from the force, yet the gloved fingers showed no tremble or hesitation. “And before I die, I’ll make sure to shout the word ‘Divine Chosen’ loud and clear.”
Perhaps the Empire no longer cared about the rebel remnants from three centuries ago, but the emergence of a new “Divine Chosen” would undoubtedly drive them mad.
The valley is constantly windblown; the vibrant banners flapped wildly, proclaiming to the dragons that this patch of land nestled among forest, sea, and snowy peaks was their home. Crimson streaks slid down the young man’s raised neck, trickling onto the earth and drying quickly, leaving behind tiny blossoming bloodstains.
Drip. Drip.
Azukar heard the faint sound of the long-decayed organ in his chest beating—once, then once again.
He suddenly burst out laughing under the other’s “this guy’s nuts” expression—yes, it really was him, his nemesis, the lonely phantom once seated high upon a throne, now dragging “Azukar” out of the void and crashing him hard into the live ground.
Compared to their first—and final—encounter, the Divine Chosen now understood his enemy’s tactics far better: Nova Brody loves extreme pressure, revels in life-and-death gambits, eccentric and fanatical, bold to the point of madness. And yet, he always seemed to see everything like a god, to control it all. Choosing him as an enemy was choosing to step into an unpredictable nightmare.
He stared into those beautiful eyes. At this moment, he could easily shatter the unaware, childlike arrogance within them. But just as Nova had said, it was a matter of an “information gap.” Time had given Azukar too much. A Level-Nine Bloodline Spell? It was nothing unbreakable.
This was not a fair duel. His enemy was still young, while his own soul had already weathered in time.
The guy first laughed to himself like a lunatic, then sighed in helplessness under Nova’s increasingly weirded-out stare.
“All right. You win.”
The man shrugged with blunt surrender, the divine solemnity from their first meeting all gone.
“I promise, I’ll ensure the four of you leave Asachi Valley safely—but not right now.” Seeing the dark-haired youth’s skeptical look, he added kindly, “Of course, only after we sign a soul pact. You can lower the arrow now.”
“…Thank you for your understanding and goodwill. In return, perhaps I can assist in reinforcing the Natalin defenses,” Nova said as he slowly lowered his hand, still watching warily. “Shall we sign it now?”
…
The sailors stared dazedly at the freshly completed Soulbound Pact.
“…This was your so-called ‘plan’?”
That cold and aloof professor had risked his life for lowly folks like them—none of the sailors had seen that coming. Their hearts brimmed with a mix of astonishment and gratitude. Still, the method… was a bit unorthodox.
“Since I achieved my goal, I don’t see the problem,” Nova replied, clearly displeased. “It required quick thinking and the courage to sacrifice.”
“That’s true, we’re all grateful, sir. Without you, we’d probably be dragon food by now,”
Captain Scarbough said as he patiently wrapped bandages around the young man’s neck with the same gentle care he used on his four-year-old granddaughter. “But if possible, please try to put your own safety first.”
Seeing that the professor was about to argue, he simply committed treason by grabbing a piece of the hard “bread” from the table and stuffing it into the man’s mouth.
“…Mmgh.”
The dark-haired youth blinked, chewed with great difficulty, and immediately grimaced from the gritty “bread” that tasted like mashed tubers, crushed seed husks, and perhaps even the occasional pebble.
The valley’s god-awful food was one of Nova’s biggest motivations to escape this coffee-less hell. This local staple, called mara, wasn’t even as palatable as the cheapest, saltiest, stinkiest, rock-hard black bread from a city bakery.
The Natalins ensured everyone had just enough to not starve—including outsiders like them. But if you wanted any culinary pleasure? You had to earn points. Hunt, mine, fix roofs, gather herbs—whatever worked for you. Even the dragons in the valley had points—though credited to their handlers.
Even the Divine Chosen wasn’t exempt. The professor had earned a few points by helping sort herbs, and during a visit to the barter post, he had peeked at the ledgers—only to find one individual miles ahead in points, though most were listed under a dragon-shaped icon.
The other Natalin had enthusiastically gestured and explained that those points belonged to the Divine Chosen and his dragon—Windstrider Aizela.
In Asachi Valley, everyone mooched off the dragons.
