Azhareth arrived at Rina’s gym the way storms arrived in old stories—quietly, without warning, and with the strange certainty that the world would have to make space.

  The front shutters were half-open, sunlight spilling in across polished floor mats and stacked weights. Chalk dust hung faintly in the air. Everything looked the same.

  It didn’t feel the same.

  The space was wrong.

  Too tight.

  Too compressed.

  As if the room had been measured for something larger, and the air hadn’t finished adjusting to its absence.

  Azhareth stopped just inside the entrance, cola in hand, eyes sweeping the room.

  “Well,” he said mildly, “there are more people today.”

  His gaze lingered on the unfamiliar faces only briefly.

  “You know I don’t like crowds.”

  Rina flinched, then straightened quickly.

  “I’m sorry, teacher,” she said. “But they wanted to ask about the dungeon.”

  Azhareth looked at her.

  “What about it?”

  He took a step forward—then paused.

  Just a fraction of a second too long.

  His eyes slid past Rina, past the team behind her, tracing their formation with an unconscious precision that made several of them shift under his gaze.

  Something was missing.

  “I see your big friend is gone,” he said.

  The words were not accusatory.

  They were observational.

  Rina blinked. “Who?”

  Azhareth exhaled through his nose. He lifted one hand and pointed casually, as if marking a spot on a tactical map.

  “The big one,” he said. “The one who always stood with you.”

  His finger drifted slightly, indicating another position.

  “And that girl,” he added, nodding toward Kira, “who always hides behind him.”

  Silence rippled outward.

  Kira stiffened, instinctively taking a half-step back before stopping herself, frowning in confusion.

  Rina stared at Azhareth.

  “Teacher,” she said carefully, “we never had anyone like that.”

  Behind her, Merrin, Dael, and Slyph exchanged glances.

  Not uncertain ones.

  Certain ones.

  “Our formation’s always been like this,” Merrin said slowly.

  Dael nodded. “Yeah. It’s… always been four.”

  Kira swallowed, heart suddenly pounding for no reason she could name.

  “There was no one,” she said quietly.

  Azhareth’s lips parted.

  “What are you talking about—”

  He stopped.

  His eyes sharpened, not with anger, but with recalculation. Something old and irritated flickered across his face.

  “…Hah,” he breathed. “If you really don’t remember…”

  He let the silence stretch.

  “Then Nullwing got him.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The word Nullwing did not echo.

  It sank.

  Rina’s breath caught. “Nullwing…? What is that?”

  “A flying thing,” Azhareth said. “Not strong.”

  He took a sip of cola.

  “But its poison erases you.”

  The gym felt colder.

  Rina’s mind raced without direction. Drills. Positions. Emergency withdrawals. Every formation she replayed ended the same way—

  With a gap.

  A space she couldn’t account for.

  Her hands clenched.

  “And looking at how you’re built,” Azhareth continued, gaze flicking across the team, “I can guess how it ended.”

  Rina’s voice wavered. “How—?”

  “He died protecting you,” Azhareth said simply.

  The room tilted.

  Slyph staggered.

  “I—wait—there was—” she tried.

  Her sentence collapsed into a gasp as pain detonated behind her eyes.

  She dropped to one knee, palm slapping against the mat. Her breath hitched violently.

  “Slyph!” Rina was at her side in an instant, gripping her shoulders. “Don’t push it. Please—just breathe.”

  Slyph nodded weakly, jaw clenched, tears leaking soundlessly from the corners of her eyes as a thin line of blood slid from her nose.

  The gym went very still.

  Astra stepped forward.

  Not as an SSS-rank.

  Just as someone who had seen too many people break under pressure.

  “Enough,” Astra said quietly.

  Not to stop the conversation.

  To stop the damage.

  She met Azhareth’s gaze then, instinctively straightening, professionalism sliding back into place like armor.

  “Astra Valerian,” she said clearly.

  “SSS-rank Hunter. A.R.E.S. Special Authority.”

  Azhareth did not respond.

  He turned and walked past her.

  Not rudely.

  Not aggressively.

  Just… uninterested.

  Straight to the buffet table Rina kept for long training days.

  Astra’s eyes widened before she caught herself.

  “Excuse me,” she snapped. “I’m talking to you. Did you not hear what I said?”

  Azhareth poured himself a cup of water.

  “SSS-rank?” he echoed.

  A beat.

  “So?”

  He turned back toward Rina’s team.

  “You’re in the way.”

  The water flew.

  Cold splashed across faces and uniforms, sharp enough to jolt attention back into bodies.

  Before anyone could react, a thin, precise arc of lightning snapped through the wet floor.

  Not violent.

  Medical.

  Slyph cried out once—then sucked in a steady breath as the pain loop shattered.

  Her hands shook, but she was conscious.

  “Stop trying to remember,” Azhareth said evenly. “You’re not supposed to.”

  He glanced at Slyph.

  “That’s how you die.”

  Silence fell again.

  Then Merrin spoke, voice shaking.

  “If he died for us…” she whispered, “shouldn’t we remember him?”

  Azhareth turned.

  “Stop.”

  The word crushed the air.

  “If you want to honor him,” he continued, “then live.”

  Rina lowered her head, fists clenched.

  “He didn’t give his life so you could rot in grief,” Azhareth said.

  “He did it so he could be proud of you.”

  “Don’t make his last decision meaningless.”

  No one spoke.

  Then Bromm stepped forward, shoulders squared, eyes already resigned.

  “Enough,” he said roughly. “Don’t waste time, Eris. Astra.”

  Rina spun. “Bromm—stop!”

  Too late.

  “We’re here to tell you to open the dungeon.”

  The aura dropped.

  Not flared.

  Dropped.

  The world slammed them into the floor.

  Rina tasted blood.

  Dael cried out as his glasses shattered.

  Merrin’s teeth ground together.

  Astra’s breath was torn from her chest.

  Bromm’s arms buckled under invisible weight.

  Ten seconds.

  Then—

  A terrified squeal.

  Squeak.

  The pressure vanished instantly.

  Azhareth staggered.

  His posture shifted.

  A soft giggle escaped.

  He scooped the trembling mouse into his hands.

  “There, there,” Damian murmured gently.

  He looked at Rina, eyes warm.

  “You know,” Damian said, “you need a proper offering, right?”

  He smiled faintly.

  “Next time… I might not be here to save you.”

  The warmth vanished.

  Azhareth snapped back, mortified.

  “Shut up,” he muttered.

  The gym lay cracked.

  The buffet ruined.

  Everyone was bruised and shaken.

  And in the center of it all—

  A gap.

  A space that should have held someone big enough to block a doorway.

  A space no one could name.

  A space only one person had seen.

  And now none of them could be ignored.