Chapter 319: Corven Draumirius Zevrak

Azriel watched Mirius writhe on the ground—panting, gagging, making sounds like a cat struggling to hack something out of its throat.

Mirius turned his head, blood spilling freely down his lips, and smiled.

"That gun..." he rasped.

"So you’re the madman who paid ten billion velts for it..."

A harsh laugh broke from him before it dissolved into bloody coughs.

"I can see why now..."

His hand clutched the gaping wound in his abdomen. In mere seconds, Mirius had already pieced it together. He knew now how a mere

soul weapon

had been able to harm him. He understood—it was chargeable.

"Had you dodged left, right, even ducked... I’d have pierced your skull. But your instincts saved you. Jumping upward threw me off balance. Made me dizzy. Made me miss my chance to kill you."

He sighed, his expression was with genuine disappointment.

The three cadets stared, their faces drained of color. They couldn’t believe it.

Prince Azriel Crimson—an Expert—had just injured a Master.

Still panting, Mirius’s voice came hoarse, yet it was edged with excitement, as he looked at Azriel.

"That vial... What... what did you do to me? It feels like my insides are melting..."

Azriel raised a brow, then another.

"It’s poison."

"...Poison?"

Azriel nodded lightly.

"One of those powerful figures you always hid from happens to be an alchemist. Alchemy here, unlike in our world, is far more practised. That particular alchemist developed a poison so lethal it could kill anyone below level three who so much as breathes the gas it releases. That vial—if dropped—would have filled this village with death."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice turning low, almost playful.

"Now imagine what it does to a Master who just consumed the entire thing."

He raised a hand to his mouth, struggling to suppress the smile tugging at his bloodied lips.

"I bet that precious regeneration you Masters cling to will be overworked tonight. As it keeps repairing those melted organs of yours."

Mirius coughed, body convulsing as his fingers dug harder into his wound.

Azriel’s eyes glinted with something cold.

Just like Azriel had [Eidolon Flesh], a Master possessed their own version of monstrous regeneration. Not a skill—just their nature. Healing at speeds beyond human comprehension. In fact, far better than Azriel’s own... at least for now.

But that regeneration, now slowed, shackled by poison, gave Azriel something priceless.

A step closer to winning.

But winning against whom? Mirius?

Of course, defeating Mirius was part of Azriel’s plan. A crucial step, yes—but still only part of a far greater strategy. No, his true adversary was the scenario itself.

Azriel was currently at a devastating disadvantage. He had lost three entire months.

If there was any human alive who truly understood the rules of the Theogonies, it was Azriel Crimson. He alone comprehended just how crippling this three-month gap in knowledge was.

He recalled clearly the warnings he had received, back when the panels flashed in his soul realm, back when the scenario had first begun.

[Consequences:]

– Death in the Scenario = True Death

– Failure to act = Erasure from the Record

The first consequence was straightforward enough—die in here, and you die permanently. No second chances, no retries. But the second consequence was trickier. Azriel doubted many fully grasped its true meaning.

Record

.

Azriel knew exactly what that meant. When the scenario finally concluded, every surviving participant would return to their soul realm, be evaluated, and then rewarded accordingly—based solely on their performance. From there, they would return to their world, as humans who had conquered the first trial of the gods.

But who exactly conducted that evaluation? Who, precisely, determined how generous or cruel the rewards would be?

It wasn’t the

’Twelve Scenario Tyrants of the Divine Court’.

Certainly, they created these elaborate death games, these twisted divine scenarios—but their role ended there.

As Pollux had explained, the scenarios were no different from plays in a theater, or shows on a grand cosmic stage. The participants were mere actors, and the gods were the audience. And every actor’s true worth, their ultimate value, was decided by how much their audience adored them.

The more popular the actor, the greater the reward.

The same merciless logic governed the Theogonies. Azriel, by circumstance, had become a character whose "screen time" was limited exclusively to other participants’ viewpoints. He never directly showed up in the gods’ feed. And ironically, this granted him a perfect advantage: the gods had absolutely no idea what to expect from him. As terrifying as the unknown might be, it could also be irresistibly thrilling.

Ultimately, the gods themselves would cast their votes at the end of this scenario. Unfair, perhaps—but fairness was never promised. Azriel’s only chance at truly entering the Record hinged on being noticed by at least one participant.

Of course, being noticed alone wasn’t enough. Being seen meant nothing if the viewer was never themselves seen. The gods didn’t watch every minor character’s actions. They craved drama, thrill, and spectacle. They sought out the main protagonists—the heroes and villains who drove the scenario forward. Anyone less exciting became invisible, forgotten.

Azriel doubted figures like the Ten Gods watched these scenarios at all—or at least he hoped not. And even if they did, the truly powerful divine entities would focus on more thrilling, unpredictable scenarios unfolding elsewhere—those starring titans like Joaquin Crimson or Freya Selene.

Azriel’s scenario was small-scale in comparison. Yet his sudden appearance here, dramatically challenging four participants who’d bored the divine audience senseless by remaining hidden away in this village, was bound to snatch attention.

He could practically feel it now—every divine gaze, every unseen camera shifting, adjusting, and zooming onto his bloodied figure. Even better, one of the strongest participants, Master Ranni herself, had accompanied him here. To the gods watching, Ranni’s acknowledgment of Azriel as her strongest cadet was a tantalizing detail, the perfect narrative buildup.

And now, Azriel was facing another one of the strongest participants in the scenario. This battle—this raw, visceral confrontation—was exactly the explosive spectacle the divine viewers hungered for.

Every action Azriel took, every breath, every calculated step was no longer unseen or unnoticed.

Now, every single god watching this scenario had turned their full, unwavering attention toward one man alone:

Azriel Crimson.

Interesting.

Amusing.

Unpredictable.

Unknown.

Fun.

Someone who forced a High Commander to flee.

Master Ranni’s strongest cadet.

Someone who died within a dream dozens of times.

Destroyer of the Forest of Eternity.

Prince.

Young Hero of CASC.

Supreme Archon.

Among other deeds he had already achieved, it was as if Azriel was chaos itself given human form.

Yet, despite all that, the gods knew nothing about him. To them, it must have seemed as if ’

the Fourth Authority’

was intentionally withholding Azriel’s story just to tease their curiosity—and it worked perfectly.

Mirius suddenly began to shake his head, his laughter manic even as blood gushed from his mouth.

"No! No! No!" He cackled hysterically, his eyes going wild.

"Amazing! I finally get it!"

Azriel watched silently, blood still trickling steadily down his face. Mirius’s grin widened further.

"You’ve been lying from the very start!" he shouted.

Azriel blinked slowly.

"You missed on purpose!"

The three bound cadets froze in shock, their eyes wide in astonishment at his words.

"You wanted me to fight you this entire time, didn’t you?" Mirius’s voice trembled with excitement, madness, realization.

"But why go through so much trouble? If it was just a battle you desired, I would have gladly accepted! So what is it you’re truly after?"

Slowly, Mirius rose to his feet, wiping fresh blood from his mouth as his smile vanished completely.

"I had forgotten something crucial—that it’s only the underestimated ones who manage to surprise you. You’ve reminded me well. I won’t repeat that mistake."

He stared intently at Azriel, his smile fading.

"Ah," he sighed softly, "I see it now."

The smile returned, but this time it held neither humor nor amusement—only a bitter coldness.

"You know who I really am."

Azriel remained silent.

A suffocating silence fell between them. The three cadets held their breath, feeling as though even the air itself had frozen under the crushing weight of the moment. Neither man moved; crimson eyes faced a cold blindfold, locked in a battle of unseen tension.

Then, sudden footsteps broke the oppressive stillness. All eyes turned to see a figure emerging from the shadows, dressed in flowing black robes, beautiful blue hair dancing gracefully in the wind.

For an instant, Mirius’s composed expression fractured.

"You truly prepared for everything, didn’t you...?"

Ranni walked forward calmly, her gaze fixed firmly on Azriel. Azriel remained utterly emotionless, and Mirius’s face quickly returned to cold neutrality. Yet, to the cadets, Ranni was like a goddess descended, a beacon of hope among the madness here.

She paused directly before Azriel. Then, in a voice so soft and unexpectedly concerned that even Azriel was taken aback, she asked:

"Does it hurt?"

’Hurt?’

Azriel frowned slightly.

’Does what hurt?’

Then he realized—of course, he was injured. He’d nearly forgotten the blood staining his face.

Azriel shook his head slowly.

"I don’t feel anything."

Ranni’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, genuine worry evident in her eyes. She then turned her attention briefly to the bound cadets, assessing their conditions swiftly, before looking back at Azriel.

"The entire village has been evacuated," she said quietly, allowing herself a faint, relieved smile.

"I ran into the village chief as I came here. He was shedding tears of gratitude, all thanks to you."

’Huh..?’

Azriel’s expression didn’t change.

"He has no reason to be thankful. I ripped his arm off."

"But you also saved his life—and the lives of everyone in the village," she replied firmly.

"That note you slipped him gave him the chance to warn the villagers and evacuate safely into the tunnels."

That was true. Azriel had indeed warned the chief—not because he was insane or reckless, nor to impress Mirius. When he’d knocked at the cabin door, leaned close to the trembling chief, and whispered threats of consuming his mana core, Azriel had discreetly passed him a simple note. Luckily, the village chief was smart enough to read it and play his role perfectly—even though losing an arm had likely not been part of his expectations.

The note had contained only one simple instruction:

Play along.

When I give you the chance, run.

Evacuate your people immediately to the underground tunnels.

Azriel sighed, his expression unreadable, his gaze fixed back on Mirius, whose expression had now darkened considerably upon realizing how thoroughly he’d been deceived.

"If he feels grateful, there’s nothing I can do about that," Azriel said simply.

Ranni followed his gaze, eyes widening as she noticed Mirius’s grievous wound.

"You... injured him?" Her voice was filled with astonishment.

"I apologize for starting the fun without you, Instructor," Azriel said casually.

"I saw an opportunity and simply couldn’t resist."

Despite the approaching midnight hour, Azriel did not feel that Ranni was late—in his eyes, she had arrived exactly on schedule.

"Did you finish what you needed to?"

Ranni smiled softly, as though with fondness.

"Your threat made the caretakers far more cooperative. They’ve agreed to report themselves to the village chief, step down, and invest the money they stole into renovating the orphanage and placing capable leaders in charge."

Azriel nearly smiled at that.

"Good," he said quietly.

Though, truthfully, only time—and their own survival—would tell if things would truly change.

"Can I ask you something?" Ranni asked suddenly.

Azriel’s lips twitched slightly. Mirius, clearly ignored, visibly simmered with annoyance.

Ranni didn’t even glance at him. Instead, she continued calmly,

"I took the liberty of reviewing the notebook on my way here, and something didn’t add up."

Azriel avoided meeting her gaze.

"You noticed."

Ranni nodded, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at Azriel.

"There was no one named Mirius Gibbler listed in the number 64 spot."

Mirius tilted his head in confusion, then realization spread across his face in slow horror, and finally, dark amusement. Before Azriel could answer, Mirius himself spoke up, his voice rich with bitter irony.

"Of course not," he chuckled.

"You’ve been deceived, Master Ranni—just like everyone else. After the little princess failed to recognize me—even though it hurt my pride, given I knew her father when he was merely an infant—I held no hope that someone called the ’unworthy prince’ could possibly figure it out. Yet, here we are—I was wrong."

"What...?" Ranni frowned deeply, anxiety starting to creep into her voice.

Azriel dismissed Atropos’ Elegy with a tired sigh, his next words spoken in a dark, low voice:

"The man standing before you isn’t ranked number 64, Instructor. He’s far more dangerous. A monster from the top twenty-five."

Ranni’s eyes widened. She hurriedly retrieved the notebook, her gaze darting rapidly over its pages. When her eyes reached the right line, her face drained of color, and her mouth opened in horror.

Azriel spoke again, each word pushing her deeper into shock:

"Number 22: Corven Draumirius Zevrak, sword of the former Dusk King. Among the first twenty humans to become a Master in the First Void Generation. Once a Commander of the Dusk Army—nicknamed the Monarch Slayer for allegedly slaying approximately ten Monarchs in a single month. Presumed dead under unknown circumstances shortly after the death of the First Dusk King..."

Azriel paused; his voice was chillingly calm, and his eyes were like sharpened ice.

"As you can clearly see, Instructor, he’s very much alive—and now a member of FreeWings."