I died... I'm sure of it. A hundred percent.
Yet here I am.
Azriel pressed trembling fingers to his forehead—the place the bullet had struck him clean through. But all that remained now was a faint scar, barely visible in the low amber light of the lamp post. Not a bruise, not a cut... even the pain from the earlier beating was gone.
He stepped cautiously out of the alley, the city's quiet hum brushing past him like a whisper. A clock above the nearest streetlamp read 1:03 AM—three hours since his death.
In a haze, he made his way back to the inn and into the small room he rented. The moment he sat on the creaking edge of the bed, his thoughts came crashing down all at once.
Was I just hallucinating? Maybe I was tipsy—imagined the whole thing?
But then his fingers found the scar again. Cold. Real.
Maybe it's old... maybe I just never noticed it before...
"No," he whispered. "That doesn't make sense."
Stress overtook him like a tide. He clawed at his hair in frustration, dragging himself to the mirror. His face stared back—drained, confused, alive.
"I'm still Azriel. Still me..."
Slowly, he lifted his hair, exposing the scar again. There it was. Silent proof that something impossible had happened.
And then, as if his mind could no longer hold the weight of what he'd seen and felt, everything collapsed into darkness.
Azriel passed out cold, collapsing to the floor with a dull thud—alive again, and more afraid than ever.
Azriel opened his eyes to the soft light of dawn spilling through the curtains. His body ached with exhaustion, though not from wounds—just the weight of what he now knew. Groggy and silent, he dragged himself to the inn's restroom to bathe and prepare for work.
He had calmed down since the night before. Still bewildered, yes, but not as panicked.
"Staying calm will help more than panicking. I just need to figure out what happened," he muttered to himself in the steam of the morning wash.
Once dressed and composed, he headed downstairs to the common room, grabbed a quick breakfast from the inn's modest spread, and made his way through the quiet streets toward the Quiet Helm.
As he pushed open the door, a soft chime echoed, and Gio turned from the counter.
"You're up early!" Gio greeted with a smile.
But then his expression shifted—eyebrows furrowed, tone sharp. "Azriel… your forehead. What is that?"
The usual steel in Gio's voice was gone—replaced by something rare: genuine concern.
Azriel instinctively touched the scar. "That's from... last night. Just a little fight—"
Gio cut him off, voice rising. "Boy, my eyes are special—more refined than most mages or crafters you'll ever meet. And that scar?" He pointed directly at it. "That scar wasn't there yesterday. Don't lie to me."
Azriel gulped.
Fine, he thought. There's no point hiding this from him.
"It's... complicated," he admitted. "Can we talk somewhere private? I know the bar's closed, but I'd rather not risk anyone overhearing."
Gio studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "Alright, kid. Kitchen's empty."
They walked behind the bar, past stacked crates and brewing equipment, until they reached the quiet kitchen in the back.
Gio crossed his arms. "Talk."
Azriel inhaled deeply. "After we parted ways last night, I was jumped by two drunk warriors. They beat me down and... one of them shot me in the head."
The words hung heavy in the room.
Gio blinked, the disbelief plain on his face. But as Azriel continued—explaining every detail, his voice steady and eyes unwavering—Gio began to listen more seriously.
"There was no dream, Gio. I died. And three hours later, I woke up. Just like that. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I'm here."
The kitchen fell silent except for the ticking clock and the low hum of distant pipes.
Then—ding.
The front door bell chimed as the first customer of the day stepped in.
Gio clapped a hand on Azriel's shoulder. "Alright. We'll work today. Figure it out later."
Azriel managed a small, tired smile. "Okay."
By 10:00 PM, as the Quiet Helm finally closed its doors for the night, the streets outside had quieted. Inside, Gio and Azriel sat at one of the corner tables, the dim lanterns casting long shadows across the walls.
"What did you feel," Gio asked, his tone careful, "when you came back from the dead?"
Azriel leaned back, eyes focused on nothing in particular. "Groggy, maybe. Lethargic. But… maybe that was just shock. The real kind—the I died and still woke up kind." He exhaled deeply. "But honestly, after witnessing death that close, I keep wondering… would I come back again if it happened a second time? And why me? What even caused it?"
Gio nodded slowly, the worry clear in his expression. "It's troubling. I still keep in touch with a few old mage friends. Maybe one of them knows of something… a book, a case, anything." His voice was gentle, sincere.
Then Gio's gaze softened. "You know… I once had a son."
Azriel looked at him, startled. During all the stories Gio told while working—tales of war, hardship, survival—he had never once mentioned a family.
"I didn't know," Azriel said quietly. "What happened?"
Gio let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't know either. I was at war for so long… I didn't even know I had a son. Found out about him ten years ago." He looked down at his hands. "He wants nothing to do with me."
He then looked at Azriel with a soft, wistful smile. "I may not know your past, kid. But I see someone worth protecting."
Azriel, caught off guard, felt a warmth in his chest. A single tear escaped his eye. Is this… love? The kind he only remembered from his mother and father?
He chuckled through the lump in his throat. "Don't get too emotional, old man. I might die again, y'know."
Gio laughed. "I pray you don't." He stood and stretched. "It's late. I'll reach out to my old friends and see what I can find about your little… 'ability.' I'll let you know as soon as I hear something."
They both hung up their aprons, tidied the bar one last time, and parted ways for the night. But Azriel, restless, chose not to return to the inn immediately. Instead, he climbed the creaky fire escape up to the roof of the Quiet Helm. From there, the stars stretched endlessly above him—and the moon, bright and distant, loomed larger than usual.
Then he heard it.
No—felt it.
A voice.
From the moon.
"RlJFRSBTSUdOTw=="⁹
It wasn't a language. Not one he understood, anyway. But it invaded his mind. A pressure unlike anything he'd ever known. His head throbbed, then screamed with the pain of incomprehensible truth. Azriel clutched his skull, eyes wide, stumbling—
—and fell.
Right off the rooftop.
But he wasn't the only one affected.
Across all seven continents of Signo—Evascera, Velmire, Chronsica, Elarith, Yhrakk, Neulareth, and Sirithane—something stirred. The Seven Graces, mighty protectors of the realm, all felt the pulse of a presence beyond their understanding. Even Voralis, the Mage of Life and ruler of Evascera, was rattled. Especially her.
Because the pulse had come from her continent.
Azriel awoke an hour later, body intact, the impact erased by whatever force had tethered his soul to this world. Again.
He sat up, sweat clinging to his brow, the memory of that strange voice still echoing in his skull.
"I don't know what you are," he said to the sky. "But I'll find out. Whatever that thing in the sky is… I will find the truth."
Elsewhere, in a palace draped in emerald vines and pulsing life, Voralis trembled with fury. She gripped her staff, her voice cracking the silence with divine wrath.
"Something… dares to enter my land."
Her eyes gleamed with a wild gleam, madness and power woven together.
"I WILL FIND THAT PRESENCE—AND ERASE IT."