If one were to describe the powers Azhriel possessed, they could be divided into three distinct kinds.

The first were his elemental affinities—Frost and Thunder.

Two elements that always clashed in nature, yet within him they blended into a perfect storm. Ice that could freeze the very breath of life and thunder that roared like the heavens themselves, swift and merciless.

The second was the first part of his bloodline—the Celestial.

A heritage that linked him to the stars and the vastness of the cosmos itself. It gave him dominion over aspects like stars, space, void and even soul.

But at his current rank, most of that power remained sealed. For now, all he could access was control over space, bending it enough to blink across short distances or twist the battlefield to his will.

The third… was also simultaneously terrifying.

The Blood of the Ashraeths.

The second part of his bloodline—The Null.

A power that nullifyed. It nullified magic, aura even (#@$\\π$), it stripped power itself away when it was directed at him.

Attacks of magic could be shattered like waves against a cliff, divine senses would easily be slipped off him like water, and no binding or detection spell could hold him.

However once again, he was still too weak.

Only beings who stood at the peak, the Archons, could pierce through that veil and measure his strength, right now.

Even prodigies like Serica and Raymond, with their sharp senses, were blind to it.

There was a reason why Azhriel was marked by the system, and named as the First Calamity That Defied World.

There was a reason that, to kill him, the Divines themselves had been sent.

And yet, he survived.

The boy standing in the moonlight was not just another cadet.

He was a storm waiting to be unleashed. And unleash he did.

*****

"Tch, just finish them already," the man in the middle said, irritation dripping from his voice.

They had come here searching for the shard, only to find a beggar's family hiding inside this ruined museum.

"Yes, si—"

The voice was cut short by another sound that sliced through the dark.

Slick!

The leader spun around, eyes widening in shock. The man who had been holding his sword high now had a shard of glass driven straight through his heart.

"Argh—!"

The man crumpled to the ground with a dull thud.

And from the shadows, the one responsible stepped into view.

Azure and Cold.

Those were the only words that came to their minds as they watched him.

A boy stood there, his white hair swaying faintly in the cold draft, and his sapphire eyes, cold as a winter sky, stared at them without a trace of emotion.

The leader's expression darkened. He hadn't even sensed this boy enter. No—it was as if he had appeared out of nowhere.

"Who are you?" he demanded, releasing his Adept+ rank aura at full force.

But nothing happened.

The pressure vanished into thin air the moment it touched the boy, like waves breaking on a rock.

'What…?'

The boy didn't answer.

He walked away from them as if they didn't exist and knelt in front of the frightened woman who clutched her wounded husband and child at both sides.

Without a word, he handed her a small bottle which shimmered with blue liquid.

"Make him drink this, it's a healing potion." he said quietly. "Then take him and hide in the back."

"T-thank you," the woman stammered, clutching the potion as though it was a lifeline. She hurried to do as he said.

"Hey!" the leader shouted again, louder this time, his voice echoing across the broken hall. "I asked you who you are?"

The boy finally turned his head, his gaze meeting the man's.

"I don't talk to the dead," he said, his voice cold and calm.

The room fell silent.

Azhriel moved, and from the silver bracelet on his wrist, thin strands began to unravel—threads, pale and cold like frozen mist.

Frost Born.

It was his soul weapon. It had grown with him, and when he broke through to the Initiate rank, it changed.

It no longer stayed as just a sword. It gained a new ability—the power to change its form.

A very useful one.

Azhriel had learned early on not to depend on a single weapon. A sword might be his main path, but it also carried risk; if someone recognized his style, it could be traced back to him.

He wanted to be unbound. To fight in any way he chose.

So he experimented. He tried many weapons, learned their rhythm, their weight. Out of all of them, two stood out above the rest.

A scythe. And these threads.

The threads slipped free from his fingers like ribbons of ice. They looked delicate, but each one was sharp enough to cut steel, carrying the same deadly edge as Frost Born when it was a blade.

In his hands, they didn't cut him. Not fatally, at least. To him, they were an extension of himself—silent, cold and merciless.

The hall fell silent.

"Attack."

The five remaining men moved without waiting for a second at their leader's command. Darkness burned in their eyes, as demonic energy started leaking from their bodies as black smoke.

Azhriel's threads swayed lightly in the air.

The first one lunged—a swift, stabbing thrust aimed at his heart. The man's aura flared, lightning wrapped around his blade.

Clang!

The thread whipped forward, wrapping around the sword. With a sharp pull, the weapon was yanked off balance.

Azhriel stepped in, cold eyes flashing, and the thread sliced across the man's shoulder, as he dodged at last second.

Blood sprayed.

"Don't scatter! Surround him!" the leader barked.

Two more (Adept-) ranked fighters rushed in, their movements blurring. One came from the left with wind howling around his blade, the other from the right, his axe dripping with black fire.

Spatial Awareness activated, as the world slowed.

The threads danced. Azhriel's body twisted, as he barely dodged the first swing even with his Spatial Awareness on. The second strike came from behind, close enough that he felt the heat brush his back.

Whoosh!

He dropped low, spinning as three threads lashed out like whips. Sparks flew when they clashed against weapons, the impact numbing his arm.

He felt the difference in strength.

Adept.

"Heh, you are weak."

The man with the axe grinned, pushing forward with brutal force. The floor cracked under his steps.

Azhriel's eyes narrowed.

Frost gathered around him, cold mist curling over the broken tiles.

Threads shot out again, this time hooking the ceiling. With a pull, he launched himself upward, the axe blow shattering the spot he had been standing on.

"Don't let him gain distance!"

Three Initiate+ fighters jumped after him. Black flame burst from their hands, streaking across the hall.

Azhriel twisted mid-air, one hand flicking. Threads cut through the fire, but a wave of corrupted wind still grazed his shoulder. Pain lanced through him, and he gritted his teeth as the smell of scorched cloth rose.

He landed, rolled, and dashed forward.

A thread coiled tight around his arm, condensing frost until it was like a blade.

He slashed.

"Augh."

The first Initiate fell, chest sliced open.

But the other two didn't falter. One slammed down an earth hammer, the other thrust with a spear that dripped black venom.

Clang!

The impact threw him back, slamming him against a cracked pillar. His breath hitched, ribs flaring in protest.

The leader watched from behind, calm, studying him.

"You're strong for your rank," he said coldly. "But that's all you are."

He moved.

The Adept+ leader stepped forward, and the pressure doubled. His sword came down in a single, heavy arc, carrying enough force to crush the stone floor.

Azhriel barely brought his threads up in time. Frost hardened them into a shield.

Crash!

The impact sent a shockwave through the room, blasting chunks of debris outward. His feet dug into the floor as he slid back, the threads straining under the pressure.

He couldn't win head-on.

Blue sparks flared across his arm. A low, sharp crack of thunder echoed as his other hand lit up.

Frost and thunder.

Lightning crawled over the threads, and with a sudden burst, he pushed back.

The leader stepped back a fraction, eyes narrowing.

"Kill him," he ordered.

All six came at once.

It became chaos.

Threads lashed like snakes, slicing through weapons and flesh. Frost burst from the ground in jagged spikes. Thunder roared, quick and sharp.

But even as he struck, wounds began to open on his own body. A shallow cut on his cheek. A gash on his arm. His breath came faster.

The Adept fighters were relentless. Every swing heavier, every clash louder. Demonic energy twisted their movements, wild and cruel.

And yet, he did not stop.

He was a shadow in the cold. Every movement precise. Every strike meant to kill.

Minutes passed like hours.

One Initiate dropped, throat cut cleanly. Another fell to a frost spike that pierced his chest.

Five left.

The two Adept- pressed in harder, and Azhriel's threa