CHAPTER 322: CHAPTER 321-THE CHAINS THAT FEAST

The wind that swept through the ruins of Gravemourn Stronghold carried no scent of life—only the stale breath of blood and smoke that refused to fade. It was a place where the ground itself seemed to breathe, heavy with the weight of countless forgotten screams. Even the air hung thick, dragging against the lungs as if it wished to remind intruders that they did not belong.

Azrail walked through the shattered gates, his steps soundless, his presence cloaked beneath the deep folds of shadow. To any other eye, he was nothing but an echo—hidden, unseen, undetectable. Beside him, cloaked under the same veil of his power, Kia moved hesitantly, her wide eyes darting around the ruins like a trapped bird.

Her face was pale, her breath unsteady. She had expected danger, yes—but not this.

All around them stood what had once been a city. Now, it was a graveyard sculpted from despair. The buildings were half-eaten by time, the walls carved with desperate claw marks, and every cobblestone beneath their feet bore stains darker than midnight.

Azrail’s gaze swept across it, calm and cold, yet somewhere behind that mask of composure, a faint echo of sorrow stirred.

This place wasn’t new to him. He had seen it before.

Long ago.

Kia stumbled as her foot struck a broken skull half-buried in the dust. "This—this can’t be real," she whispered, her voice trembling as the wind howled through hollow towers. "You said this was where demons send their rejects... but this—this looks like hell."

Azrail’s lips curved faintly, though there was no humour in it. "Not hell," he said softly, his voice steady as stone. "A mirror of it. Welcome to Gravemourn."

The name alone seemed to hang in the air like a curse.

Kia turned toward him, her frown deepening. "You brought me here to see this?"

"No," he replied. "I brought you here to understand."

A scream cut through the silence—raw, piercing, and young. It came from somewhere beyond the broken street ahead. Kia’s body froze. She looked at Azrail, fear flickering in her eyes, but he only raised a hand, signalling her to stay silent.

"Watch," he said quietly.

Through the archway of crumbling stone, a group of children emerged. Barely more than twelve or thirteen, their bodies bore the marks of torment. Their horns were cracked, their wings bent and broken. Each child dragged behind them the carcass of a beast twice their size, bound to their wrists and ankles by blackened chains that rattled faintly with each step.

When they reached the pit ahead, Kia finally saw what the sound of metal and blood truly meant.

The pit wasn’t a hole—it was a scar, wide and alive, glowing faintly with heat. The smell of it burned her throat.

At the edge stood a line of armoured demons. Their armour was made from bone and sinew, and their eyes were cold and colourless. They watched without emotion as the children struggled to pull their burdens to the edge.

One of the smaller ones slipped. The beast’s weight crushed his leg with a sickening crack. He whimpered, clawing at the ground.

"Get up," one of the guards growled.

The child’s voice was weak. "I—I can’t..."

The guard didn’t speak again. He simply raised his serrated blade and brought it down in a single, clean motion.

The head rolled into the pit.

Kia gasped, covering her mouth. The others didn’t stop. They didn’t flinch. They simply dragged the dead child along with the beast into the fire.

No mourning. No hesitation.

Only survival.

Azrail’s gaze never shifted. His tone remained even, though his eyes reflected something older than pity. "Weakness is disease here," he said. "And disease is purged."

They continued onward, unseen shadows gliding through a world built on cruelty. The deeper they went, the thicker the air became, until even breathing felt like swallowing ash.

Below them, adults fought in the pit—demons with bodies carved by battle and madness. It wasn’t a competition. It was culling.

One tore another’s throat out with his bare hands, his fangs gleaming red. Another ripped a heart free, devouring it mid-roar before he was struck down by three more. The molten ground beneath them hissed with every drop of blood that fell.

"This," Azrail murmured, "is how the Emoire family forges their soldiers."

Kia turned toward him, fury replacing her fear. "This isn’t forging—it’s murder!"

"Perhaps," he replied. "But tell me, Kia... when you were born with your gifts, did you cherish them?"

Her breath caught. She froze.

"You think being stuck is unfair," he continued, his voice low. "You think your talent is a curse. But look around you. These creatures—these rejects—would kill for a fraction of what you have."

Before she could speak, the ground trembled again. This time, it wasn’t from battle—it was the sound of something deeper. An ancient iron bell began to toll, its tone heavy and distorted.

Magic rippled through the ruins. The very air seemed to vibrate with a chant too old and too cruel for mortal tongues.

Kia’s voice quivered. "What is that?"

Azrail’s eyes glinted beneath the hood of his shadow. "The Feast of Chains."

They moved again.

Past the pit, past the broken homes, until they reached what might once have been the heart of the stronghold. Now, it was a cathedral of horror. The plaza stretched wide, lit by black fires that burned without smoke.

At its centre stood a monolith of rusted metal, towering high and pulsing with dull crimson light. Chains ran from its peak, spread across the courtyard, connecting to hundreds of demons—each one bound, trembling, their eyes hollow.

And from each of them, black smoke rose—souls being drained and funnelled into the glowing runes carved into the tower’s surface.

Kia’s breath hitched. "What... what are they doing?"

"Feeding," Azrail said.

"Feeding on what?"

He looked at her, eyes unreadable. "Each other."

As if to answer her horror, a scream tore through the air. The weakest bound demon convulsed, the life ripped from his body in an instant. His form turned to ash, and the chains pulsed red, transferring his stolen essence to the others.

"They steal power?" Kia whispered.

"They earn it," Azrail said. "Through dominance, through despair, through death." His gaze lingered on the chained figures. "Here, no one is entitled to live."

Kia turned away, trembling. "This isn’t strength. It’s insanity."

"Yet it breeds kings," Azrail murmured. "And monsters alike."

The clang of chains interrupted their silence. From the far end of the plaza, a creature emerged—massive, burnt, and carved with molten sigils. It dragged a dozen corpses behind it, each one still steaming.

"That," Azrail said softly, "is one of the Emoire’s Warden Sons. Once a child of this place."

The creature hurled the corpses toward the tower. The runes brightened. The feeding grew more violent.

Kia stared, her emotions warring—fear, disgust, and confusion all twisting into something hollow.

Azrail’s eyes flickered toward her. He saw it—the way her arrogance cracked, her pride faltering as the truth dug deep.

"Why show me this?" she finally asked, her voice breaking.

"Because," he said, turning toward her, "you’ve been drowning in envy and anger. You think effort is suffering, that the world owes you for your talent. But these children, these monsters—they were born without choice. You, Kia, still have time. They never did."

Her lips parted, but no words came.

"Look," Azrail said.

And then, as if the world itself obeyed, one of the chained demons—a boy no older than sixteen—cut his own bonds. His body trembled, but he raised his jagged blade and plunged it into his own heart.

The tower roared. His soul burst free, flooding into the chains. Those still alive screamed, their bodies twisting as his essence made them stronger.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The cries turned to madness.

Kia stumbled backwards, her eyes wide with terror. "This place—it’s cursed."

Azrail’s gaze lingered on the crimson glow of the chains. "No," he said quietly. "It’s honest."

Night crept over the stronghold. The fires dimmed, but the air didn’t cool. Even in silence, the chains kept moving—creaking, pulsing, whispering.

Kia sat beside a cracked wall, her expression blank. "I don’t understand how they keep living like this."

"They don’t," Azrail said, watching the flickering flames. "They simply refuse to die."

For a long moment, the two sat in silence. Then she turned to him, her tone subdued. "You said this was the first part of my lesson. What comes next?"

Azrail looked toward the horizon, where the crimson moon rose like a wound that refused to heal.

"The second lesson," he said, "lies beyond the Chains. It’s called the Hall of Broken Crowns."

Her throat tightened. "And what’s there?"

Azrail’s gaze darkened. "The ones who survived this place... but wished they hadn’t."

The wind shifted again, scattering ash like grey snow. The city moaned—a beast dreaming in agony. And in that moment, Kia began to understand, however faintly, that her pain was nothing compared to the cruelty the world could show.

She wasn’t cursed. She was lucky.

The stronghold whispered as if mocking her realisation, its chains rattling like laughter.

And as the last fires burned low, Azrail’s shadow deepened, his presence fading into the darkness.

The lesson had only begun.

The Chains still feasted.