The sound of something sharp scraping against stone pierced Azriel's ears.
It felt like nails dragging through his mind, freezing the breath in his throat.
His body stiffened, locked in place.
A rare look of panic flickered across Leo's face, his usual smirk twisted into a grimace.
He clenched his teeth, hands curling into fists by his sides, the only sign of his tension.
The sound came from the dark passage where Vergil and Celestina stood, frozen in time.
It was as though time itself had ceased to exist, and only the oppressive, bone-chilling screech of metal against stone remained.
"This isn't real... it's all in your head... I think," Leo muttered, his voice low, uncertain.
It wasn't reassuring.
In fact, it was terrifying to hear him, the one who almost always had something snarky to say, falter .
Azriel stood paralyzed, the metallic screech growing louder, matching the rapid beat of his heart.
Each time it neared, a fresh wave of dread washed over him.
'Move! Why can't I move?!'
His body refused him, every muscle locked in place as if turned to stone.
The scraping sound drew closer and closer, deafening, tearing at his sanity.
He didn't understand what was happening—it was too sudden, too incomprehensible.
A fleeting hope shot through his mind—'Solomon... could it be Solomon?'
But no. He knew it wasn't him. There was no reason.
A chill colder than death gripped him.
His thoughts spiraled into chaos, alarm bells ringing violently in his head.
He had trusted Solomon—prepared, strategic, invincible Solomon.
He couldn't have lost. He couldn't.
Yet here Azriel stood, utterly powerless, the scraping growing louder, more unbearable, until it felt like his very bones would shatter under the weight of it.
Then, heavy footsteps followed—each one echoing with deliberate, ominous finality.
Azriel's heartbeat matched those footsteps.
Whatever was coming...
He was utterly helpless.
Seconds stretched into what felt like eons, and then, from the suffocating darkness of the passage, a figure finally emerged.
Azriel released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
It came out in a shudder.
His eyes trembled, and even Leo—looked like he had seen a ghost.
The figure's dark boots clicked against the cold stone, each step deliberate, slow, filled with a weight that made Azriel feel impossibly small.
The shadowy robe hung over the figure like a void, its face hidden beneath a heavy hood.
But it wasn't the figure's appearance that sent ice down Azriel's spine.
It was what it carried.
Not just any scythe, but a monstrous weapon, forged from pure night.
The blade—impossibly dark—seemed to devour the light around it, bending the air as if it were alive.
Its jagged edge gleamed with a sickly sheen, like it had tasted countless souls and thirsted for more.
Azriel's blood turned to ice.
He was staring at Death itself.
The figure stopped in front of Azriel, looming over him.
They were the same height.
And then, as if to rip the world further from its hinges...
The figure's face became visible.
Azriel's mind blanked.
Leo's eyes widened in shock.
Because that word—"brat"—wasn't meant for Azriel.
It was meant for the figure standing in front of Azriel.
Wearing Azriel's face.
Azriel stared, face to face with himself.
Yet... it wasn't him.
It was his face, but older, more refined, perfected.
There was an air of utter control, of boundless power, radiating from the figure's every movement.
Its crimson eyes bore down on Azriel with a godlike coldness, as though weighing him against something far beyond his comprehension.
Azriel felt impossibly small.
So small, like the figure before him was a colossus, its hand large enough to crush worlds, its gaze searing like crimson suns.
How long had he been staring?
Seconds? Hours? Days?
It wasn't Azriel looking at himself.
It was him looking at Azriel.
A shift, so small yet so monumental, snapped Azriel out of his daze.
The figure—the other Azriel—was the first to move.
He turned his head toward Leo, who stood paralyzed, bewildered, staring back at him.
And then, with an authority that shook the very air, the figure spoke.
"You have overstayed. It's time for you to return."
The voice was colder than the deepest abyss, each word carrying the weight of an undeniable truth, like the very laws of the universe had been spoken.
There was no defiance. No rebuttal. No refusal.
With a mere wave of the figure's hand, Leo's form began to flicker, the same way his hands had before.
But now... it was his entire body.
Leo's voice warped, glitching, like a broken reality.
He turned his gaze toward Azriel, his face a mask of terror.
Azriel, equally frozen in shock, could only watch as Leo's form distorted and then...
The hateful, tormenting figure Azriel had wanted to rid himself of—gone.
Azriel turned slowly back to the figure wearing his face, his lips trembling.
The figure looked at him, blank and indifferent, tilting its head slightly as though studying Azriel's very soul. It felt like there was nothing in the universe that could be hidden from this being.
"Everything happened faster than expected," the figure mused, its voice cold, detached.
"Does that mean her plan was a success, after all?"
Its crimson eyes locked onto Azriel's, and Azriel found himself unable to look away. Every part of his being was laid bare before those eyes.
There was a strange understanding in his tone.
"That is normal. I was confused once as well. But you needn't worry... all you have to do is remember."
Azriel's mind raced, but he couldn't utter a word.
The figure—his other self—nodded, as if that single word explained everything.
"Remember. That's all you have to do to continue."
And without another moment for thought, the figure raised its scythe.
Azriel's eyes widened in terror.
The scythe came down, swift and inevitable, cutting through the air with terrifying finality.
And as it descended, only one final sentence reached Azriel's ears, carrying the weight of absolute truth.
"Don't ever stray from your path again."
The world went black.