The apartment was silent when Azhareth pushed the door open.
Rai trotted in first, sniffing around like the place belonged to him. The lights didn’t turn on when Azhareth flicked the switch, so he flicked it again.
Nothing.
He sighed and sat down at the small table in the dark, opening one of the containers Rina’s staff had packed. Rai sat beside him, tail thumping happily.
Azhareth took a bite of cold glazed chicken.
Darkness was nothing. He’d eaten in warzones lit by burning cities. This was practically peaceful.
Then—
“RAINE ASHVEIL!”
The voice cracked through the darkness like a thrown plate.
Azhareth didn’t even flinch. He turned his head slightly.
Mira stood at the doorway, one slipper half-off her foot, her apron still tied around her waist, fury radiating from her like a mother scolding her son for doing something profoundly stupid.
“Why,” she demanded, stomping in, “are you eating in the dark like a depressed cave goblin?!”
Azhareth blinked.
“I’m not depressed.”
“That’s not the point!”
She marched to the useless light switch and flicked it repeatedly.
“Raine… sweet boy… did you forget to pay your electricity bill again?”
Azhareth considered lying for Raine’s dignity but answered honestly.
“Yes.”
“For three months! You could’ve been electrocuted! Or eaten by rats!”
Azhareth glanced at Rai.
“I have protection.”
Rai barked proudly.
Mira buried her face in her hands.
“That’s not what I meant! Ugh—just come stay at my place tonight. No darkness. No goblin living.”
“I don’t wish to owe you more,” Azhareth replied.
Mira paused. Her voice softened.
“You don’t owe me anything. I just… worry about you, Raine.”
Azhareth stared at her.
Worry.
For him.
Not fear.
Not worship.
Not trembling obedience.
Just human concern.
Something none of his 666 lives had ever experienced.
“I’m fine here,” he said quietly.
“You sure?”
He nodded.
Mira hesitated, then reluctantly walked out—but kept turning back every few steps, as if afraid he might vanish.
Once the hallway was quiet, Azhareth resumed eating.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Rai curled against his leg, warm and loyal.
For a moment, the dim silence felt almost comforting.
Then the air shimmered.
A soft glow peeled away from the shadows, forming a robed figure whose presence warmed the room without raising the temperature.
Ithil stepped forward.
His robes were stitched with symbols of the old world's long dead. His hands glowed faintly with life magic. His eyes carried centuries of exhaustion.
“You know what you’ve done, right?” he asked without greeting.
Azhareth took a sip of cola.
“It was one pot.”
Ithil’s expression tightened—
but his anger didn’t ignite.
Instead, something else flickered there.
Something Tired
And painfully human.
“You sit here,” Ithil said softly, “in a small apartment, eating dinner someone packed for you, in a neighborhood where someone knocked on your door to scold you for not paying your bills.”
Azhareth stopped chewing.
Ithil’s voice lowered even more.
“And someone cares if you’re eating properly. Someone worries if you’re alone. Someone looks after you simply because they want to.”
He looked around the dark room.
“I never had that. Not in any of my lives.”
Azhareth’s jaw tightened.
Ithil continued, bitter and wistful:
“I healed cities. Nations. Empires. But I ate alone every night. Loved alone. Died alone.”
Silence pressed down like a heavy blanket.
Azhareth inhaled slowly.
“…You’re jealous.”
Ithil gave a hollow smile.
“So are you.”
Azhareth didn’t deny it.
For the first time in over six hundred lives, he had something neither of them ever possessed:
A neighbor who cared.
A roof that wasn’t built for war.
A puppy sleeping against him.
A life where he was not feared.
It was absurd.
Trivial.
Insignificant.
And somehow more precious than any throne he’d held.
Ithil exhaled.
“That’s why ‘one pot’ matters. Because this quiet little life you’ve stumbled into? It’s fragile. And it deserves better than what happened to my world.”
Azhareth took another slow bite.
“…Maybe.”
Rai whined softly and rested his head on Azhareth’s foot.
Ithil stepped closer.
“You healed a warrior completely. Do you understand the implications?”
Azhareth shrugged.
“She was screaming.”
“That isn’t an explanation!”
“It hurt my ears.”
“Azhareth! That’s—!”
He held up a hand.
“You were reckless in your world. I will not repeat your errors.”
Ithil stared at him.
“You say that… but you are acting without purpose. Without restraint. Without a goal.”
“That is correct.”
“And that is more dangerous than any soul you’ve ever carried.”
Azhareth paused, then nodded slightly.
“…Fair.”
Ithil’s aura dimmed with exhaustion.
“Azhareth,” he said quietly, “if you keep reviving the world too quickly… if you create too many miracles… if you bring back the age of overflowing life…”
His expression hardened.
“I will return from the void and stop you myself.”
Azhareth raised an eyebrow.
“Painful.”
“For both of us.”
Azhareth’s lips twitched.
“…I’ll keep that in mind.”
The tension slowly dissipated.
Ithil’s gaze softened with something like old affection.
“Azhareth… don’t isolate yourself again. Not in this lifetime.”
Azhareth didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Rai pressed closer, sensing the heaviness in his master’s silence.
Ithil stepped back as his mirage began dissolving.
Just before fading, he spoke one last time—voice gentle, almost fragile:
“I know you don’t miss us.”
Azhareth paused.
Ithil smiled faintly.
“…But we miss you.”
And he vanished.
The room returned to darkness.
Azhareth finished his meal quietly, Rai curled in his lap.
“I won’t make a river,” he murmured.
Rai barked in approval.
“And even if I did,” Azhareth added dryly, “they’ll manage.”
He ate the last bite in complete silence, unbothered, as the echo of Ithil’s warning lingered softly in the dark.
