CHAPTER 35: LORD’S REQUIEM.

After defeating the beast, Azhriel didn’t waste any time.

He turned and began heading towards where Arianne and Serica were, the air around him still carrying traces of his icy mana. The chill lingered, frosting the grass lightly beneath his feet with every step.

He hadn’t gone too far fighting. In just a few minutes, he reached them.

"Hey," he said, his voice calm as he approached, announcing his presence.

Arianne turned at the sound, her sharp eyes immediately scanning him from head to toe.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her tone was steady, face neutral but her voice held a faint trace of concern.

Blood stained Azhriel’s forehead, a thin line that had dried under the cold air. His clothes were torn in several places, dark with old blood and dust, and his coat hung awkwardly over one shoulder, half-slashed.

Still, Azhriel stood tall.

"I am fine," he replied simply, rolling his shoulder once. "I already took a potion... though, i seriously don’t like the taste of that thing, and it still won’t leave my mouth." He made a face at that, as if the memory alone made it worse.

Listening to his words, Arianne let out a slow breath. A small smile touched her usually calm face as she remembered the Lunarblooms kept safely in her space ring.

"By the way, are the flowers safe? I couldn’t check on them because of those monkeys," Azhriel asked, glancing at her.

"Yes, they’re safe," Arianne replied with a nod. "I had placed them in my space ring right away, so that the demonic energy wouldn’t affect them."

"I guess I owe you, huh" she added after a pause. She had thought he might ask for something in return. But it seemed he was serious about not wanting anything—except a favor.

"Well, that’s all good. Let’s head back to the camp," Azhriel said, turning his gaze to the horizon. The sun was rising, casting warm shades of orange and gold across the sky.

A new day had begun.

"Sorry," Arianne spoke up, "but I need to return to the capital as soon as possible."

"Hm, okay then. Goodbye," Azhriel replied—almost too quickly.

Arianne raised an eyebrow at his blunt response.

"Come on, you expect me to get emotional, hug you or something?" he said, rolling his eyes. "I am just a guy, you met hours ago that happen to help you a little bit."

Arianne let out a small snort. "Strange boy."

’But also different.’ She thought silently.

"Besides, it’s not like we won’t meet again or something. You’re going to the academy, right? We’ll see each other there." Azhriel shrugged, a faint smirk on his face.

"I guess," Arianne replied softly, her tone neutral, but her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than usual.

******

A few days passed since Arianne’s departure, and the camp grew quieter in silence again. Azhriel, however, remained focused. With no distractions left, he threw himself into training.

He spent hours adjusting to his newfound strength, pushing his body to move faster, hit harder, and react quicker. The breakthrough had changed him—it made his senses sharper, and his control on magic and bloodline better.

This time, he also didn’t neglect his affinities. He practiced with ice, letting frost dance across his blade, trained in space, warping short distances to strike from odd angles, and summoned flashes of lightning to enhance his speed.

One of those days, Solas finally returned.

"Ho, you ranked up, huh," he said the moment his feet touched the ground. He didn’t even need to check—just one glance, and he already knew. Not even Azhriel’s bloodline passive ability could hide it from him.

"Yeah, things happened. Broke through in the middle of a fight," Azhriel said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Things like?" Solas asked, raising an eyebrow.

Azhriel shrugged and gave him a brief, vague summary of what had gone down. Nothing too detailed—just enough to explain. The guy wasn’t much of a listener.

"So, Fiona’s granddaughter came here. How pitiful," Solas sighed, almost to himself.

"Hm?" Azhriel looked at him, confused by the strange comment. But Solas didn’t explain—he simply waved it off and shifted the topic.

"The academy starts in a few days. But before that, there’s something I need to teach you—now that you’ve ranked up," he said, his voice suddenly serious.

Azhriel instinctively stood straighter, sensing the shift in his tone.

"Listen carefully, Azhriel," Solas said, his voice now carrying the weight of someone who had stood at the peak of countless battlefields.

"What I’m about to teach you... it’s the culmination of my life. It holds my beliefs, my experience, my will—everything that made me who I am today. My sword art."

His words hung heavy in the air, as if the world itself was listening.

"Let’s go toward the open area, a bit," Solas said, his hands casually behind his back as he walked ahead at a calm pace.

Azhriel silently followed him, his curiosity growing.

"Do you know about the Sword Saint?" Solas asked, his voice light, yet carrying weight.

"A bit," Azhriel replied, his mind conjuring an image of a man whose name echoed through distant lands—one who was also said to be Solas’s rival.

It was rumored that the Sword Saint could cut through anything—even reality itself.

They reached a wide clearing—open skies above, surrounded by distant trees swaying gently in the wind.

The earth was still marked with the remnants of Azhriel’s training: sword marks, scorched grass, and patches of frozen ground.

Solas stopped in the center of the field. He turned, his expression turning solemn as he faced Azhriel.

"Watch carefully," he said, his voice steady. "I’ll show you the First Form of the art. That’s the limit of what you can handle right now."

His hand reached toward the hilt at his side, and the atmosphere shifted—quiet, still, as if even the wind paused to witness.

"The Lords Requiem Art- First Form."

"The Fools Redemption."

Slash.

A single green arc descended from his blade and the forest severed.