For some odd reason, Azriel felt a shiver run down his spine. It wasn't the weight of all the eyes lingering on his table—it was something else. Something he couldn't quite place.
Letting the unease settle, he exhaled quietly and cast a sharp glare toward Conquest. Though his eyes were mostly shadowed by his hair, the intent was clear.
Conquest, however, seemed unfazed. She brought a delicate hand to her mouth, giggling softly.
"Conquest isn't wrong, though," came a booming voice.
"It's rare for you to grace us with that voice of yours. Or show anything on that ugly face, kid."
Azriel's gaze shifted to the hulking figure addressing him: Subject 431, now better known as War.
His towering frame leaned forward slightly, curiosity written across his scarred features.
Azriel shrugged lightly, his movements measured.
"Even I have my good days sometimes…" He paused, his voice turning cold.
"But what the hell do you all think you're looking at?"
The cafeteria fell silent. Every subject who had been sneaking glances in his direction stiffened, quickly averting their eyes. They turned back to their meals with exaggerated smiles, their laughter now painfully forced.
Azriel sighed, the irritation in his chest settling.
'Since regaining control over my body, something always feels off... Something's bound to happen today. I just hope it's my last day here.'
He resumed eating, his focus now on his meal. Yet, the peace was short-lived as War leaned in again.
"So, are you going to tell us?"
Azriel's brow furrowed, annoyance flickering across his face.
'Aren't they unusually chatty today?'
His gaze drifted to the far end of the table where Famine sat, his eyes closed as usual. Even so, Azriel felt the eerie weight of the old man's presence. It made his skin crawl.
Turning back to his food, he replied through slow, deliberate bites.
"I have a feeling something big is about to happen."
His words hung in the air, drawing attention not only from his tablemates but the entire cafeteria.
Conversations hushed, and all eyes shifted subtly toward Azriel again. To the other subjects, when "Death" spoke, every word carried weight. Rare as his voice was, it was treated almost as prophecy.
It wasn't just his appearance or what he spoke of—it was the way Azriel carried himself.
A way he wasn't even aware of.
The way he sat, the measured manner in which he ate, the subtle grace in how he moved his hands, or even the unhurried confidence in his stride—every action exuded an unspoken authority. An effortless elegance clung to him, as if it were woven into his very being.
The air around him seemed to whisper that he was different.
Like he was something more. Someone untouchable.
As though he were royalty.
Azriel himself was oblivious to it, but there was no denying its origin. It was the mark left by his upbringing at the Crimson Estate. The lessons drilled into him by his family, the habits he unknowingly adopted from those around him.
And whether he realized it or not, the impression he left on others was undeniable.
"What do you think it is?" Conquest asked, her chin propped on her hands as she gazed at him with wide, curious eyes.
Azriel opened his mouth, but before he could answer, the overhead speaker crackled to life.
"Attention all subjects. Stop eating and return to your cells immediately. Prepare to be escorted to the underground coliseum. This also includes all subjects of Project New Eden."
The cafeteria erupted into murmurs of confusion and fear. Azriel's table, however, remained eerily calm.
Azriel raised an eyebrow.
'After a year of silence, they're finally letting me fight again? Or is this about something else?'
War chuckled, his voice low and gravelly.
"Well, kid, I think it's finally time for our rematch."
Azriel's lips curved into a faint smile, catching the attention of both Famine and Conquest. The former's expression remained unreadable, his unsettling grin ever-present, while Conquest leaned in closer, her excitement almost childlike.
"Don't get your hopes up," Azriel said evenly, though his tone carried an edge of anticipation.
The subjects around them whispered nervously:
"But didn't we just go to the coliseum two days ago?"
"Don't tell me we're fighting…"
"W-why summon the Four Horsemen? Are we going to die?!"
"No way… M-maybe they're just observing…"
Their frantic chatter filled the room as they hastily cleared their tables and rushed toward their cells.
Only Azriel's table remained seated, watching the chaos unfold with detached curiosity.
Conquest broke the silence, her voice tinged with playful panic.
"Hey, do you think they'll make us fight each other to the death?!"
Her outburst startled a few stragglers, who shot her pale, horrified looks before scrambling out of the cafeteria.
Famine finally spoke, his hoarse voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"This old one has been here far too long. Perhaps my time has finally come."
"Shut up, you suicidal gramps," War grumbled, standing with a heavy sigh.
Azriel stared at his empty bowl, a pang of disappointment flickering in his chest. He wished he could eat more, though his thoughts soon drifted elsewhere. A wave of bitterness washed over him.
'I miss Jasmine. I miss Mom and Dad.'
For all his progress, for all the strength he'd gained in this cursed place, the longing for his family never faded.
As Azriel returned to his cell, he waited in silence, drawing mana from the air.
Hours passed before the metallic clang of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Someone arrived to escort him, leading him to the gates of the underground colosseum.
When the massive gates creaked open, Azriel stepped forward. A gust of wind greeted him, brushing against his long hair and making it flutter. He furrowed his brows as his sharp eyes scanned the arena.
The old, crumbling seats were packed with subjects. All seated. All watching.
Azriel's confusion deepened when his gaze landed on the other three horsemen already standing in the center of the arena. Their expressions mirrored his—equal parts curiosity and caution.
Without hesitation, Azriel made his way toward them, the murmurs of the crowd a distant hum.
Stopping in front of the trio, he let his gaze briefly sweep over the audience before speaking.
"Looks like you can raise your hopes again, 431."
War—Subject 431—grinned, the feral gleam in his eyes betraying his bloodlust.
Conquest trembled, but not out of fear. Her entire body seemed to buzz with excitement, her smile unnervingly innocent.
And Famine? The old man simply stood there, humming softly to himself, his eerie demeanor unchanging.
"They deliberately kept us from fighting again, kid," 431 said, his voice rough yet filled with anticipation.
"But just because you've made the fastest progress reaching the intermediate rank doesn't mean you should get cocky. I'm still a full grade above you. And I've trained just as hard."
Azriel tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hair.
"Then you should know it won't end like last time. This time, I'll be the one to impale you."
A dark chuckle escaped 431's lips, his predatory gaze fixed on Azriel. But Azriel didn't flinch, his calm demeanor unwavering.
Conquest's voice cut through the tension.
"Hey, don't forget about me!" she chimed, her enthusiasm almost unnerving.
"What do you say? You two against me and Famine!"
Both Azriel and 431 turned to her, their faces betraying a mix of disbelief and unease.
"No thanks," Azriel said flatly.
"Same here," 431 added, nodding in agreement.
Conquest and Famine were too... unsettling.
Out of the four horsemen, Death and War were, oddly enough, the most normal.
"The four horsemen are all in the arena..."
"Are they going to fight each other?"
"But... will we survive if they do?"
The murmurs among the subjects grew louder, their unease evident.
Then, suddenly, two figures appeared on the platform above the arena. The crowd fell silent, every pair of eyes turning toward the men in white lab coats.
Azriel narrowed his gaze.
'Doctor Arthur... and Vincent.'
The pair stood motionless for a moment, their expressions unreadable. Then Vincent clapped his hands, the sound sharp and commanding. A wave of fear rippled through the crowd, and even the four horsemen tensed, their attention now fully focused on him.
Azriel gritted his teeth.
Vincent stepped forward, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable edge of authority.
"Today is a special day for you four. Subject 001, Subject 101, Subject 431, and Subject 666. You've made remarkable progress and contributed greatly to Project New Eden's development. As a reward, we've decided to grant you a unique opportunity..."
A tense silence filled the colosseum.
Arthur cleared his throat, stepping beside Vincent. His voice was softer.
"Ah, yes. As a reward, you four will finally have the chance to fight one another. Of course, no killing is allowed. And afterward..." He paused, a slight smirk forming on his lips.
"You will be promoted to the rank of Enforcer
Effective immediately."
The colosseum erupted into chaos.
"No way! They're becoming official members?"
"Skipping so many ranks... is that even allowed?"
"Do you think we could get out of here if we joined Project New Eden...?"
The murmurs of hope and disbelief spread like wildfire.
Azriel's expression remained unreadable, but his thoughts churned.
'They're using this to manipulate the others. Giving them false hope—dangling freedom in front of their faces to push them into a project that's almost guaranteed to kill them.'
And Azriel couldn't bring himself to be angry about it.
Arthur's gaze settled on the four horsemen, his eyes lingering on Azriel. Even with his hair obscuring his face, Azriel felt the doctor's piercing stare. Arthur mouthed:
Azriel's teeth clenched, his jaw tight with suppressed frustration.
Vincent clapped again, silencing the arena. His smile widened, his voice laced with anticipation.
"Happy fighting, Horsemen."