Chapter three: The Hunt

[Azazel]

Chapter Three: The Hunt Begins

They ran through a world that didn’t want them alive.

The forest tore at their bodies, thorns dragging through flesh already scorched and bruised. The roots snagged their feet like desperate hands trying to pull them under. Azazel’s shoulder hung limp from their last fall. Tempest’s ankle was swollen and lashing pain up her leg. But still—they ran.

The sky above had dimmed, and in its place: grey. Pale, almost blank.

“Don’t stop,” Azazel wheezed, dragging her arm. “Don’t—”

“I know,” she panted. “I know.”

They didn’t know where they were going. Only away.

The mechanical thrum of machines grew closer. Hovercrafts? Helicopters? They didn’t know the word for them—but they knew the sound of a hunt.

Searchlights cut through the canopy in sweeping cones. Voices barked orders over comms in sharp, lifeless tones.

“Target heading southwest. Thermals confirm two active entities. Alert Alpha Cell.”

The lights hit them—and the forest erupted in smoke.

Figures dropped from above, black armor gleaming, rifles raised.

Azazel threw himself sideways, body screaming in protest. A pulse of flame lashed from his hands, not enough to burn, but enough to stagger the closest agent.

Tempest screamed and flung a burst of wind, sending two more flying into the trees.

But there were too many.

One agent stepped forward, distinct from the rest—his armor thicker, his gait slower. Something clamped around his wrist like a gauntlet.

He lifted it—and fired.

A silver arc streaked through the air and latched onto Azazel’s neck.

The world collapsed. Azazel hit the ground hard, every muscle locking. His vision swam in static.

“Collar deployed. Vital signs stable. Begin containment—”

Tempest moved without thinking.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t rage.

She kissed the air.

The soldier nearest Azazel collapsed, gasping. His eyes rolled back, muscles twitching, blood vessels in his nose bursting. She moved again—faster than wind.

In a flash, she was over Azazel, tearing at the collar with trembling fingers. “Stay with me!” she hissed. She yanked the device off—and his body surged back to life with a choked gasp.

But it was too late.

They were surrounded. The soldiers reoriented. Weapons raised. Orders shouted. Tempest clutched Azazel to her, shielding his broken body with hers.

And then—

It came.

A ripple.

A coldness that crawled inside the skin.

The forest froze].

And one by one, the soldiers went silent.

The leader turned, visor locking on something that wasn’t there.

“Unseen anomaly approaching,” he muttered. “Execute Protocol—”

A scream tore through the comms.

Not human.

Something was inside the formation. Moving too fast to see. Too quiet to hear.

And then came the second ripple.

Azazel felt it like a weight on his spine. His fingers went numb. Tempest felt her breath leave her lungs like she’d been kissed by the grave.

“Two…” she whispered. “There’s two.”

Soldiers broke ranks. Screams scattered through the trees. One fired blindly into the forest. Another tried to run and was \dragged backward into the dark.

Something invisible passed by Azazel and Tempest—no sound, no shape.

Just intent].

Pure. Predatory. Designed to erase.

The remaining soldiers turned from the fugitives.

And began firing into the forest.

“Forget the targets! Engage the —ENGAGE THE NULL—”

The voices vanished beneath gunfire and something far worse.

Azazel forced himself to stand, shaking. “We have to go. Now.”

Tempest pulled him up.

The ground behind them burned with muzzle flashes and screams.

But ahead—only shadow.

They vanished into it.

Running.

Limping.

Bleeding.

But alive.

---

[center]Elsewhere…[/center]

“She broke the collar,” a voice said through static, cold and dry.

Another voice answered, almost bored: “Then they’re more dangerous than we calculated.”

“No,” the first corrected. “They’re not just dangerous. They’re exactly what we've been looking for ”

A pause.

Then:

“Radio Kangal and the Echo Units. And elevate their threat level to Anthem-Class.”

A final voice entered the channel—one low and masked with authority.

“We lost a team to two Nullborn. In the same sector.”

“That’s not a coincidence. Nullborn dont hunt in pairs.”

“...No,” the voice said. “They Dont.”

[/color]

[Azazel]

The night had swallowed the forest and the sounds of gunfire ir metal screams were long gone, replaced by the hush of crickets and wind through unfamiliar leaves.

Azazel slumped against a tree, half-dragging Tempest behind him. His arms shook with the effort, each breath scraping up through cracked ribs. Tempest's weight wasn't heavy, but every inch felt like dragging a memory through mud. "Don’t stop," he muttered again, the words now just habit. His voice was sand. Tempest didn’t answer. She was barely conscious, eyes open but empty. Her skin looked translucent under the moonlight, flecked with blood, dirt, and ash.

Then—A glint. Metal in the moonlight. A soldier’s body, twisted backwards over a stump, ribs ruptured as if he’d been squeezed in a fist. Azazel crawled to it and pried the communicator from the chest rig. His fingers numb, shaking, as he pressed the cracked receiver to his ear.

Crackling static, then:

> “Echo-3, you are not cleared to re-enter Sector. Nullborn activity confirmed. Perimeter squads comprimsed, zero survival likelihood.”

> “Radio Kangal”

> “Keep searching. If they're alive, they'll be hiding.”

Azazel stared at the radio for a long moment.

“…Why are they hunting us” he whispered.

Then his hand dropped. And he collapsed. Face-first into the dirt, unconscious. Tempest lasted seconds longer.

She stood—barely.

Then her knees gave out and she fell beside Azazel, body curled defensively, clawed fingers half-drawn, fangs still bared in their sleep.

They looked ready for battle.

But they were completely broken.

Later...

Footsteps approached. Small. Bare. A girl—maybe twelve, maybe less. The same child they had saved. She said nothing, only knelt beside Azazel and touched his shoulder.

He didn’t stir.

Others joined her—five, maybe six figures. Cloaked in animal hide and silks made of strange fiber. Their faces were marked with deep ochre pigment and white powder. They spoke in low hums, tongues unknown, and touched the forest floor with reverence before lifting the fallen warriors. They moved without sound. As if the forest itself concealed them.

One Week Later

...

Sunlight broke through woven ceilings. Azazel blinked once. Twice. His body didn’t ache. It didn’t hurt. He sat up fast—too fast—and instantly regretted it. Dizziness lanced through his skull. He groaned and looked down.

He was shirtless. Bandaged. Scars that should’ve taken months were faded like old ink. His ribs… they didn’t grind when he breathed. But when he tried to call fire to his fingers—nothing. Not even heat. He clenched his fists.

Still nothing.

On the other side of the hut, Tempest stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, her breath hitched. She moved like a ghost might—curious if she still had weight.

Then her eyes met his.

“…You feel it too?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Azazel nodded.

“…Gone. I can barely feel naten....worse than before

Tempest looked away. There were no words in her to say.

They stepped outside a few hours later, walking like wounded animals. The village was alive around them—humming with soft rituals, laughter, cooking fires. The tribal people moved with rhythm and grace, like dancers in a place that hadn’t forgotten music. They smiled gently, bowed in greeting, and offered food without words. But Azazel and Tempest weren’t ready for gratitude.

They weren’t ready for peace.

They found a ledge overlooking the jungle, a crag of rock above the forest canopy, and sat there in silence.

Until it was too much.

Tempest broke first. She turned from him, fists shaking. “Why is this happening?”

Azazel didn’t answer. He was trying not to cry. Holding back his tears out of pride. He was just tired of how easily it came now. Tempest stood, pacing. “Our powers. Our world. It’s all being stripped away. I can’t even call the wind anymore. I can’t fly. What am I now, Zae?”

He looked at her.

And then looked away.

“…Alive.”

Tempest stared at him.

He finally looked back, eyes red, voice trembling.

“We’re alive. I don’t know how—but we are. And for...thats gonna have to be enough. Tempest dropped to her knees beside him and let out a noise—half sob, half laugh. She pressed her forehead into his shoulder.

“Alive,” she whispered. "I dont feel alive.

They stayed like that for a while. Just breathing.

Just being.

[Azazel]

The days passed slowly.

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Azazel and Tempest weren’t running.

The tribe didn’t speak their language—but they spoke with them. Through gestures. Through songs. Through offerings of food and woven clothes left near the hut each morning. Every child knew Azazel’s name. Every elder watched Tempest with a reverence they had no words for.

They were never told to leave.

Because the Elders believed the forest had called for them.

The girl—the one they’d saved—was named Irma. She came every morning with herbs and roots, carrying a bowl of crushed fruit in one hand, and a worn clay jug of springwater in the other.

At first, Azazel refused everything. Too proud. Too confused.

Too broken.

But Irma only smiled and sat cross-legged at the door, repeating one word at a time as she offered the food.

“Jarra”

She tapped the jug.

“Mira.”

She pointed to the water.

“Sol.”

She gestured at the rising sun and over time, they understood. In time, Azazel and Tempest began to repeat the words back. Then came verbs. Then came names.

A month passed.

Azazel was laughing again—quietly. Tempest was dancing with the children, her naten still too weak for true flight, but her body was still capable of unseen agility.

They’d built a life out of stillness. They come...tonsee it as home.

And then the radio crackled.

It was buried under Azazel’s sleeping mat. He’d wrapped it in cloth and bone charm to keep the spirits from hearing it, as the elders warned. But that night—when the jungle was too quiet and the wind felt nervous—it came alive.

> "—Unit Delta, confirm arrival to Gridline."

> "Confirmed."

> "Orders from Alpha Cell override containment. Priority Zero. Apprehend targets Redstar and Stormeye."

Tempest jolted awake, eyes narrow.

Azazel gripped the receiver. His teeth clenched.

> "Repeat: Authorization granted to neutralize all witness unless Redstar and Stormeye surrender."

> "Understood."

> "Start with the elders." Came a dry chuckle. A voice distinct among the rest.

Azazel's hand trembled.

Tempest had already stood, heart pounding. “We have to run.”

But Azazel was still listening.

> “Kangal has been dispatched. Nullborn resistance unlikely. Weapons pre-calibrated.”

Silence. Then static.

They ran. Not away. Not yet. But to the village center. Where the drums of war were already sounding—low, warning beats, trembling across the treetops. The hunters were preparing spears. The children were being gathered. Somehow they knew something was wrong.

The elder, Tomael, approached them without fear. His eyes glowed faintly green beneath paint and age. "Terra, calls for thunder again," he said in the tongue they had come to learn.

"Run," Azazel choked. "or hide. They'll kill everyone. "

Tomael shook his head.

"You were asked for. Called."
"and...You answered."
"Now let the forest answer in kind."

Azazel’s claws flexed. His eyes burned, but not with power. With guilt. Without his anthem...without access to naten. These kind people and their wisdom were soon to be shredded. Removed from the world at the whim of...he didnt. even know. Unaware who was hunting them or where theh were.

His squeezed his hand till his knuckles were white with rage and Tempest grabbed his shoulder. “We have to go.”

“But—” He quipped

“If we stay, they all die. That’s what the message said.” she replied

“…They’ll die anyway,” Azazel whispered.

The tribal drums beat faster.

Lightning echoed on the horizon, illuminating the silent presence of the persuers warmachines-now hovering above.
They turned toward the jungle. Half-healed. Half-whole. And Behind them, the sound of boots met mud. A stillness swept through the area. unseen and far above—Kangal of the Alpha Cell and his men were descending from the sky.

[Azazel]

Chapter Four: The Word for Fire

The jungle stood still

The kind of stillness before lightning breaks a tree in half.

Tempest’s heart thundered in her chest. The warriors around her gripped their spears and slings tight, eyes locked forward. Even the birds had stopped. Even the wind refused to move.

And Kangal…

He smiled like he’d just walked into a party made for him.

He took a lazy step forward, boots crunching on moss and Mudd. The insignia on his shoulder still shimmered: a slitted eye over a hound’s skull.

“Such loyalty,” he murmured. “Such… spirit. It’s beautiful and i mean that. Shame... it means nothing in this world.”

Azazel stepped between him and the villagers, mud still drying on his skin. “Stop. Please! I have something to offer.”

Kangal raised a brow. “Do you now?”

Azazel stood tall, eyes wide and knees trembling. “We’ll surrender.No more fighting. No more bloodshed. Just… let them live. The village is innocent. They just helped us. They deserve peace.”

Behind him, Tempest flinched. “What?!”

He didnt answer.

Kangal’s grin widened. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing like a weary schoolteacher. “Zae,” he said softly.

Azazel stiffened.

The villagers had named him that—Zae. A word meaning flame, or outsider. They werent aware of his full name.

But Kangal was.

Kangal tilted his head. “Or do you still go by ‘Azazel Hellgate’ he replied in what would have been tempest and Azazels native tongue."

Silence.

“Thats what i thought,” Kangal continued, rolling the syllables like candy. “Ves..cruuuu tium prince" he whispered with a wicked smile. "Youre an arbiter-class, with active Anthem signature—though I hear that’s been a little… flickery lately.”

Azazel’s breath hitched.

“How do you—?”

“Oh, please,” Kangal purred. “We’re H.O.U.N.D. We archive myths. You? You’re a living one. Youre quite the celeb and a real winner with the ladies-I see."

Tempest stepped forward. “How do you know about us. We...we aren't-? That’s not—”

“Not from this world?” Kangal said brightly. “Oh, sweetheart You’re assuming your world was ever yours to begin with.”

He clapped twice, and two soldiers approached with black ghost collars in hand.

“Now. Shall we seal the deal? You surrender. We let the villagers live. It’s neat. It’s clean. Everyone walks away with a pulse. I personally would have liked something flasher. Like....i came here and said "Youre coming with us or us." He said mimicmking an accent that fell deaf on Azazel and tempest. "Then you guys say something brazen...like 'We choose or else.'"

Azazel exhaled.

He stepped forward.

So did Tempest, reluctantly.

Alai took a step, trying to stop them.

“Don’t…” she whispered.

The collar hovered near Azazel’s throat.

His hand twitched.

The radio crackled.

>“Alpha Cell, confirm capture of both specimens. Authorization to begin village sterilization. Burn the witnesses once the targets are secured.”

The words hung there, like oil in the air.

Tempest’s eyes locked onto Azazel’s and thebsoldier nearest them heart sank into his chest.

His face went pale.

Alai turned sharply, her voice rising above the silence:

“SHA’RA VONTÉ!”

The warriors roared in unison.

“SHA’RA VONTÉ!”

A cry for war. The battle had begun.

Children were rushed back. Women picked up axes. Old warriors reached for spears dulled by time.

Tempest’s fingers sparked with wind. Azazel’s chest heaved.

And then—

The fire returned.

Not a spark.

Not a flicker.

But wings of molten flame erupting from his back, flaring with rage and pain and truth. His claws curled—steel made of heat, fingers like blades.

Tempest lifted off the ground.

Her hair whipped with wind that obeyed her grief.

They didn’t speak.

They moved

Azazel

"\Stay behind me!\" he roared at the villagers, only to realized
They weren’t staying behind.

They were fighting.

A spear arced past his face, impaling a soldier about to flank him. A child hurled a burning stick into a soldier’s mask. One of the elderly women used a cooking pot to knock out a gunner mid-reload.

They were here.

They had chosen this.

Azazel gritted his teeth and moved again, roaring into the chaos. He hit the soldier with enough force to break sound.

Claws ripped through the man’s torso—tearing it clean from his hips.

Another lunged.

Azazel turned, caught the rifle, melted it, and twisted the attacker’s arms off like chicken bones. He let the screams ring. Let them see what he was.

Flames danced across his shoulders like a crown. His wings burned high above the trees.

One child had wandered too close.

Eyes wide. Tears on his cheeks.

Azazel saw him.

Dropped the body.

And knelt.

Tge soldiers face was still burning, still monstrous.

He spoke softly, smoke curling from his breath.

“You should listen to your mother.”

The child didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

But slowly…nodded.

Tempest
She danced through blades and bullets and dropped low under a swinging baton, then burst upward with a column of air that sent two soldiers flying. Another grabbed her from behind—until his feet left the ground and he screamed, flailing into the canopy.

Tempest snarled. “You don’t get to hurt them.”

A child tripped behind her. She spun and caught him, shielding his body as bullets sprayed.

None landed.

Not because they missed.

Because the air caught them and dropped them to the dirt like seeds that refused to bloom.

She looked at her hands and smiled at her blood free hands. The spark was returning.

She sprinted, each motion a blur of wind, her body pulled in a thousand directions by instinct and fury.

A soldier tried to shoot—his rifle exploded in his hands.

Another ran—she lifted him by a gust and slammed him into a tree.

She found Alai—fighting, bleeding—and shielded her with a dome of rushing air.

“We’re with you,” Tempest said through gritted teeth.

“For now,” Alai said, smiling, even through pain. “But we’ve always been with you.”

Tempest eye squinted in confusion

Kangal
He hadn’t moved. Bodies fell around him. Fire licked the air. Wind howled. But he didn’t flinch.

Where others fought, Kangal walked.

Where others bled, he smiled.

He watched a spear pierce a soldier’s thigh—and laughed.

Watched Tempest tear through a group with barely flickering power—and hummed.

One of his sergeants called for orders.

Kangal raised a hand.

Then tapped the side of his radio without addressing the soldier.

“Requesting Anthem clearance.”

A beat.

Then every H.O.U.N.D. soldier—every single one—dropped their weapons and ran. They abandoned the wounded.

They leapt over allies.

One even threw off his vest and screamed, sprinting into the trees.

Kangal finally moved. One step and spoke with a gleeful smile.

"Stop farming mutts. Test your fangs against a pure breed."

>Radio:Anthem clerence for Alpha Cell 03: Kangal, approved

[Azazel]

The words cut sharper than any blade.

“Requesting anthem clearance.”

A silent signal detonated. Soldiers abandoned their rifles mid-aim, wounded comrades fell where they lay, even hard-bitten tribesmen broke rank to scatter. The battlefield emptied around Kangal in a widening circle, leaving only two figures standing their ground: Azazel and Tempest.

Kangal rolled his shoulders as if the exodus bored him, a sound rising low from deep inside — something between a growl and the grinding of stone. It followed him, an undercurrent of menace that prickled the spine.

Azazel’s fists blazed with fire, his stance sharp and coiled for violence. Tempest’s hands swept the air, drawing gusts into blades of cutting wind. Kangal didn’t meet them head-on. He slipped between them, gliding, skipping, vanishing in bursts of speed that left afterimages dripping off him like echoes of light. Every blur of motion snapped into another soldier’s death — a tribesman’s strike turned back on his comrade, an arrow twisted off course into a fleeing ally. His dance wasn’t just evasive; it was predatory theater, a rhythm that bent the battlefield into his stage.

“You two dance art much for the arts. You can’t dance at all,” Kangal sneered, pirouetting through a cross strike, Azazel’s fist grazing his shoulder while Tempest’s wind carved the air inches from his cheek. He tapped his neck mockingly, grin wide and wolfish.

Fire licked his arm, wind shredded his coat — but every wound only thickened the growl in his chest. Each cut, each scream, each drop of blood fed his anthem.*Pain stitched him deeper into the fight, his movements sharper, faster, more violent.

The soldiers who lingered froze, watching a nightmare unfold. Azazel’s punches slammed into empty space; Tempest’s scythes of wind shredded nothing but shadows. Kangal’s afterimages multiplied until it seemed the battlefield teemed with him — laughing silhouettes, flickering phantoms that taunted with impossible precision.

Then came the shift. Kangal lured Azazel wide with a feigned stumble, and in the blink that Tempest lunged to cover, he was already at her side. A cuff snapped from his wrist, clamping onto her arm with surgical finality. Not enough to strip her of power, but enough to shatter her rhythm.

Kangal leaned close, growl low and teasing.
“The boys need to chat.”

Tempest’s eyes flared as her winds faltered, stuttering like a broken instrument against the restraint.

Azazel froze mid-step, realization slamming into him. Kangal’s grin spread wide, blood dripping from his side while his afterimages still flickered across the clearing, darting in and out of existence like mocking ghosts.

At the edge of the chaos, a soldier muttered, half in awe, half in disbelief:

“Such fluidity? Is that Kangal’s arbiter… Swaggah?”

The word carried, settling heavy over the field. Kangal didn’t pause; the name was acknowledgment enough.

Swaggah — the battlefield in motion, the deadly rhythm of avoidance and misdirection made flesh. Not instinct, but art. Not evasion, but domination.

The duel narrowed. Azazel now faced only the monster that fed on pain, a creature who moved as though the battlefield itself obeyed a rhythm only he could hear.

[Azazel]

And then, amid the blur, he started talking.

“Tell me, Azazel…” Kangal’s voice was casual, almost conversational, even as he slid under a flaming spear Azazel hurled and snapped his chain outward. The metallic snake locked itself around Tempest’s neck.

“Is Vescrutia real? Or just another story the higher-ups whisper to keep us docile?”

Azazel’s eyes narrowed, his fire roaring higher. He gave no answer.

Kangal chuckled, tugging the chain tight, the metal grinding cruelly into Tempest’s throat. A scream — sharp as broken glass — tore free. Azazel’s face twisted in pure rage, and Kangal’s grin sharpened.
“Ah, the face of anger. The one emotion that’s almost always honest.” His voice curled with a devilish smile. “For a moment I thought you weren’t hittin’ this… but that fury in your eyes says otherwise.” He jerked the chain tighter tugging tempest to the ground. “Silence won’t save you…it never saves anyone.” He said softly “I can read your face the way a psychic reads cards.”

Azazel wanted to lash out. He wanted to smash Kangal’s skull into the dirt with fists of molten iron. But Tempest was too close. And with Kangal’s speed, the only body he’d tear apart would be hers.

“If Vescrutia’s real,” Kangal pressed. “is it starved of naten? Do they crawl across a dying world like we do here… on Terra? Is that why you came?”

Something flickered in Azazel’s eyes — a flash of tenderness, almost grief. Kangal caught it. His grip faltered. In that instant, Tempest wrenched free, leaving scratches carved into her neck.

Azazel’s breath deepened, his whole frame vibrating with rage, but he still gave no voice.

Kangal tilted his head, nursing the wound Tempest left in her escape.
“Tch. Nothing but a tease? You’ve got me curious, and you won’t even share the goods. Selfish little messiah.” He blew a mocking kiss toward Tempest, then grabbed his own neck, mimicking the face she’d made under the cruelty of his grip. “You think anger makes you strong? Well, schools in session, son. Todays lesson is Anger makes you predictable, Azazel.”

Azazel’s jaw locked. Fire swirled in his palms, heat warping the air until it trembled.

“I need answers, Azazel…” Kangal smirked, arms opening wide, daring the inferno. “And I know you’re the one with them. But if violence is what you prefer…” He let his chain slip from his hand, eyes closing in feigned vulnerability.

With a silent and blinding strike, Azazel hurled a fireball that burned like a miniature sun. But unlike the flames before, this one carried a gray core at its heart — heavy, unstable, wrong. It ripped across the battlefield at impossible speed.

Kangal vanished, Swaggah pulling him out of its path.

The fire struck.

The scream that followed sliced through the tribe like a blade. Azazel’s eyes went wide. The inferno had consumed the village elder, frozen in shock at the battlefield’s edge. Flesh blistered, bone blackened, his body swallowed whole before anyone could move.

Kangal reappeared beyond the carnage, doubled over laughing.
“Oof — friendly fire? What an amateur!”

The laughter was merciless, louder than the elder’s fading cries. Tribesmen staggered back, horrified. Tempest strained against the cuff, eyes wide with fury and grief.

Azazel didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His chest heaved, aura twisting violently, fire bursting from his body in violent plumes. It darkened — then dimmed.

The orange blaze that had always marked him collapsed into suffocating gray flames, each pulse bending the air as if gravity itself bowed to his wrath. The ground split beneath his feet, cracks racing outward like veins of ash.

The elder’s daughter screamed as she and her mother clawed at the cuff on Tempest’s arm. In the chaos, the restraint snapped. Wind roared back into Tempest’s veins, wild and howling, just as Azazel’s gray inferno spread outward like judgment itself.

Tempest’s fury faltered. Her eyes widened in fear when she looked at him — she’d never seen Azazel like this. His presence reminded her of only one other: his loathsome sister, Nagase.

[Azazel]

The battlefield had gone still — not in peace, but in suspension. The wind from Tempest’s release still whipped through the air, scattering embers and ash, but even that seemed reluctant to intrude. All eyes fixed on the three figures standing amid ruin and blood: Azazel, wreathed in gray flame; Tempest, breathing in ragged gusts; and Kangal, his chain swaying loose at his side, smiling faintly as if daring the next breath to spark another war.

For a long, shuddering moment, no one moved. The smoke curled between them like language unspoken — and then it happened.
Something ancient passed between their gazes.
A resonance.

They felt it, all of them. Enemy and ally alike.
That trembling, nameless understanding — the echo of pain, the terror of loss, the hunger that drove them all to fight.
For the first time, soldiers of opposite sides saw God not above them, but in one another’s eyes.

Azazel’s fists tightened, the gray fire folding around his knuckles like mourning silk. The fury in him swelled, yes — but beneath it, something else stirred.
His voice, when it came, was not shouted. It did not roar. It rolled through the air slow and heavy, each word dragging behind it the weight of a thousand unanswered questions.

“Vescrutia...”
His tone broke the silence. The heat around him dimmed.
“Why is that word familiar to you?”

His words struck deeper than any fireball. They vibrated through Kangal’s chest — not with power, but recognition.
It wasn’t a threat.
It was curiosity… laced with compassion, buried under wrath.

Kangal’s smirk faltered. For the first time, he looked human — something fragile flickering behind his eyes. The echo of a memory he could not name.

Behind him, the child of the slain elder wailed — a broken, trembling sound that cracked the air like glass. Her mother held what little of the man remained, her body shaking under the weight of grief too heavy for breath.

Kangal turned, gaze falling on them, and for a fleeting instant the mask of arrogance shattered completely. His lips parted, and the apology that followed came out barely above a whisper:

“I’m sorry…”

He reached to his ear and crushed the hound-issued earpiece between his fingers. The small crack of metal and glass echoed like a confession. Then, almost pleading, he motioned to Azazel — urging him to do the same.

The prince of hellfire stood unmoving, gray embers swirling at his feet. He looked at the broken communicator, then back at Kangal.
He said nothing — but his refusal was answer enough.

The wind shifted. Tempest’s eyes darted between them, unable to name what she felt — rage, grief, or some strange sympathy neither side should have allowed.

Kangal breathed in sharply, the sorrow in his face giving way to realization.

“So…” he murmured, the faintest tremor in his voice,
“it is real.”

Something softened in the gray flames around Azazel. Kangal’s chain drooped, the tension fading from his stance. Between them lay the corpse of an elder, the ashes of innocence, and a silence more binding than war itself.

And in that silence — a terrible understanding:
That both of them were chained to the same thing.
That both were searching for Vescrutia, not as conquerors, but as exiles— beings who no longer belonged to the worlds that had made them.

The air pulsed once — gray fire meeting the whisper of the wind — and every soldier present, on both sides, felt it ripple through their bones.

A moment of shared empathy.
A moment that felt like grief, dressed in understanding.

Then Kangal spoke again, softer than before, almost to himself:

“We all came here chasing myths… didn’t we?”

And though no one answered, every heart on that field did.

[Azazel]

At first, the only sound was the child’s sobbing.

It came unevenly — short, breaking hiccups that punctured the silence between Azazel and Kangal like the slow toll of a bell. Each cry rippled across the battlefield, stripping away the armor of fury that had clung to every soldier’s heart.

The flames around Azazel steadied. Kangal’s stance lowered, the chain slackening at his side. Even the winds around Tempest softened to a breeze that carried the girl’s voice across the scorched earth.

Soldier and tribesman alike felt it — her grief made their hearts heavy, their weapons reluctant. Her sorrow became a metronome for the war itself, slowing the rhythm of chaos into something unbearably human.

Azazel broke the silence first, his voice quiet and hoarse from the effort of restraint.

“What’s Vescrutia to you? Why worry if it’s real?” he asked, eyes narrowing through the heat haze. “Who…told you to ask me about Vescrutia?”

Kangal’s grin faltered. He lowered his weapon; the chain coiled and hissed like a tired serpent.

“We’re H.O.U.N.D.,” he said. “We don’t ask questions—we chase them. We track anomalies, legends, weapons, worlds… whatever the brass thinks might shift the balance.” His voice darkened. “But Vescrutia—that one isn’t supposed to exist. It’s the forbidden name. The cradle world. The birthplace of Naten.”

Azazel’s eyes burned brighter, the gray flames pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Cradle…birth place of Naten?” he said. “I don't think you understand what youre saying, what youre implying?!”

Kangal’s expression softened; the usual smirk was gone, replaced by something oddly human.

“Then help me,” he said, quietly. “Help us.”

The child’s sobbing steadied again, slowing until each breath was deliberate. Whatever invisible tide she pulled from the air smoothed into silence. As her tears dried, so too did the fragile compassion that had held the field together.

Tempest felt it first — a subtle change in the wind, a hum under the quiet. Her gaze snapped to the girl as the sobs fell away.

Azazel and Kangal still faced one another, words lingering between them like smoke from spent fire.

“You could be an answer to so many questions.” Kangal continued, near pleading. “Come with me. To H.O.U.N.D.’s base. You’re proof Vescrutia exist — and maybe still does. If I can bring you in, I can make them listen.”

Azazel’s aura flickered.

“and be your prize?” he said flatly.
“No,” Kangal shook his head and stepped closer. “I want to learn from you. Maybe through you I’ll understand what we lost. What….Terra has lost.

And then the stillness broke.

The child’s voice cut through the quiet like glass.

“You killed him!”

Her words struck harder than any weapon. They tore through both armies — H.O.U.N.D. and tribe alike — reigniting the fire grief had dampened.

“You killed my father!” she screamed, small and cracked, trembling with fury.

Her voice tore the air like shrapnel. The soldiers flinched; the ground itself seemed to pulse with her rage. Every fighter felt it — her grief warped into anger, and that anger resurrected theirs.

Shouts erupted. Weapons rose. The war’s rhythm surged back to life.

Only Tempest, wind coiling at her back, stepped apart — seeing what the others could not. The child was the pulse. Her emotion bound them, infected the Naten around them, turning compassion into violence with every breath.

“She’s doing this,” Tempest shouted to Azazel. “Her pain— it’s bleeding into the Naten.”

Azazel said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed on Kangal — the man who had offered peace, truth, and chains all at once. The gray flames flared again, reflecting the girl’s fury.

A voice — not heard with ears but felt in bone and marrow — spoke into Azazel’s mind:

Alai:Azazel… Champion of my will. Kill. That. Man.

[Azazel]

The child’s scream tore through the air, shaking the last threads of stillness apart.
Weapons rose again. Boots scraped stone. The sound of steel meeting steel echoed through the ruins like thunder rolling across a graveyard.

Kangal’s jaw clenched. His body trembled — not with fear, but with a strange, hollow urgency that even he didn’t understand.

“You still in there… Azazel?” he asked, voice unsteady, clinging to reason like a drowning man to driftwood. “We could end this… without more bloodshed.”

Azazel did not answer. He didn’t blink. His body moved with eerie stillness, flame coiling faintly at his feet. Something about that calm — that quiet disregard — ignited something ugly in Kangal.
He felt ignored. Abandoned. Forgotten by the very war he thought he understood.

Something cracked in Kangal’s expression. His chain rattled, alive and restless.

“I just wanna know what’s true!” he shouted — and the chain snapped forward like lightning, the words and violence fused in a single motion.

Azazel caught the first strike with his forearm, the impact shuddering through the ground. The second whip lashed around him, sparking where it scraped his flame-coated skin.
Each strike came faster, more desperate — Kangal fighting like a man arguing with his own hands.

He was speaking through every blow, half to Azazel, half to the storm inside him.

“They told us Vescrutia was dead — a legacy, a myth—!”
*Crack!* The chain tore through fire.
“They said it was the root of Naten — and without it—!”
*Snap!* Sparks carved burning lines across Azazel’s chest.
“If it’s not dead — if you’re from there — then everything we’ve done—”

Kangal’s voice broke. His strikes grew wild, uneven.
“…is a lie!”

Azazel moved through the assault like a phantom of flame and grief. His eyes glowed gray, his movements solemn — not furious, but burdened.
The two clashed, chain against fire, until the air itself became a storm of sound and heat.

Behind them, the battlefield collapsed into madness.
The girl’s cries — raw, wordless — rippled through the Naten currents like a contagion. Soldiers screamed and turned on one another; tribesmen answered with equal fury. Blades met bone in waves of blind hatred.

Tempest stood at the eye of the chaos, her breath shaking.
She could feel it — the emotional pulse, the psychic tide of rage radiating from the child’s grief.

“Stop it… Alai! Stop…” she whispered, wind coiling around her trembling hands.
But no one heard her. Not Azazel. Not even the wind itself.

Her eyes hardened.
“They’ve gone mad…”

She raced to Alai’s side, pleading for the girl to calm, but Alai only screamed — and with her scream, the battlefield answered. Her madness had no sides.
Soldier turned on comrade. Tribe turned on brother. Even the smallest grudges, the faintest slights, erupted into killing intent.
A stubbed toe. A debt forgotten. A rumor from years past — it was enough to ignite bloodlust.

They shouted their reasons for violence with feverish conviction, heedless of wounds or breath. Whether a broken jaw or a bullet through the chest, they kept fighting — slaves to the rhythm of her rage.

Tempest’s chest heaved. Her arm trembled.

“My god…” she whispered to no one. “What’s happening…”

Amid the ruins of order, Azazel and Kangal still fought — flame and chain colliding like thunder. Not enemies anymore, but men dragged into something greater than themselves.

Each blow spoke of loss — of truths too painful to face.

“Why would they lie?” Kangal shouted between strikes, voice cracking. “Tell me!”

Azazel’s answer came through clenched teeth, quiet but sharp enough to cut through the chaos.

“Because… you serve a cruel god.”

For the first time, Kangal hesitated. The chain faltered mid-swing, as if even Swaggah couldn’t move under the weight of that truth.

In the distance, the child’s sobbing began again — slower now, weaker — and the survivors froze where they stood.
The world itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what came next.

[Azazel]

The battlefield breathed like a living thing.
Each sob from Alai struck like a drumbeat — slow, trembling, unbearable. Her cries rose and fell, and with each one the world seemed to pulse with violence.

Azazel’s jaw clenched. Kangal’s eyes burned. Even the air felt enslaved to that rhythm — grief shaping fury, sorrow hardening into bloodlust.

Chains screamed through the air. Gray hellfire answered.
Kangal lunged; Azazel slipped aside, his movements sharp, almost surgical. No hesitation. No mercy.

He caught Kangal’s wrist mid-swing and *snapped* it sideways — bone cracking like dry wood.
Another cry from Alai.
Azazel followed through, hammering his knee into Kangal’s ribs.
*Crack.* Two. Maybe three.

Kangal coughed, blood flecking his lips — but the fire in his eyes stayed bright. “You cant beat an Alpha Cell!!” he shouted, desperate and drowning with reason. His chain lashed forward, more instinct than aim, and wrapped around Azazel’s throat.

Azazel didn’t struggle. He reached up, calm and deliberate, letting his fingers trace the links before they ignited. Gray fire ate the metal. The chain snapped.

Alai sobbed louder — *hic, hic, hic* — her tears spattering the dirt as the two titans clashed again.
Azazel struck low, breaking Kangal’s leg at the knee. Then his shoulder. Then his nose. Each motion was perfect, intentional — not rage, but precision shaped by something beyond his will.

Tempest saw it.
She saw the madness in Azazel’s eyes — the same hunger mirrored in the soldiers now killing one another.
And she saw Alai, still weeping, her grief twisting the air around her.

“Alai…” Tempest whispered, stepping through the haze. The girl’s small shoulders trembled as if her body itself was carrying the war.

“Please, stop.”

No response. The sobbing only grew. The battle’s rhythm quickened.

Azazel slammed Kangal to the ground.
The earth shook.
Kangal gasped — broken and bleeding — but even he wasn’t in control anymore. His chain flew again, guided by some unseen conductor.

“Alai, look at me,” Tempest said, kneeling, voice shaking now. “You’re hurting them. You’re hurting everyone.”

The girl’s eyes lifted — shining, terrified — and Tempest’s heart split. She reached out, pressing her hand over Alai’s chest.

“I’m sorry.”

The wind rose, soft and sorrowful. It wrapped around the child’s body, drawing the air from her lungs just enough that her breathing slowed… then stopped.
Alai fell still — asleep, peaceful.

At that exact moment, Azazel’s fist hung frozen over Kangal’s face — the gray flame dying on his skin.
Both men stood locked in horror, trembling as if waking from a dream.

Azazel’s eyes widened. He looked down at Kangal — his body broken, barely breathing. His own hands shook as realization sank in.
Kangal’s voice rasped through shattered teeth. “Am…I dying?”

The battlefield was silent now. The soldiers who remained lowered their weapons, some sobbing, others stumbling toward the unconscious girl as if she were a saint.

Azazel stepped back, chest heaving, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

Kangal struggled upright, bones grinding audibly. Still, he smiled — faint, bloody.
“It’s not fair,” he wheezed. “You shouldn’t be able to use your Anthem. But… my god, isn’t it beautiful? Hellfire, aye. That’s what they call it? A power unrestrained… how divine.”

Azazel’s tone was low, shaken. “How can you know the name of my Anthem? My world… my arrival?”

Kangal laughed weakly. “...I don’t know. Ask Mastiff...”

Azazel flinched with confusion.

Kangal looked around at the ruin — his men dead or defecting, the tribe kneeling, the girl silent. “If H.O.U.N.D. is lying to me…” He coughed, spitting blood. “Then I….”

He met Azazel’s gaze — calm now, spent. “Reinforcements will come. I’ll protect those who fled. But H.O.U.N.D. won’t stop hunting you… or her, now.”

He pointed toward the sleeping girl. “Not while you’re here.”

Azazel said nothing.

Kangal limped into the treeline, fading with the mist. “There’s a current east,” he called back. “It’ll take you deeper — to where H.O.U.N.D. doesn’t follow. The heart of Terra.”

---

**Aftermath**

Tempest carried Alai to the river. Azazel stood waiting, his expression empty, his hands still trembling.

They set the small boat afloat and stepped in, the river carrying them through the smoke.

Neither spoke — only the rhythm of oars breaking water, slow and steady, a faint echo of the girl’s once-sorrowful sobs.

The forest behind them went still.