Mira had gone home.
The dishes were washed.
Rai was sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, paws twitching as he chased something in his dreams.
Azhareth sat on the old sofa, listening to the hum of the city outside. Distant traffic. A faint drone buzz. Someone arguing on the street three floors down.
It was almost… peaceful.
So of course, someone knocked.
Not with Mira’s furious pounding.
Not a debt collector’s impatient hammer.
A polite, measured triple tap.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Azhareth opened his eyes.
Rai rolled upright, fur sparking softly.
He stood and opened the door.
An elderly man in a flawless black suit stood there, spine straight, silver hair combed back so precisely it almost gleamed. He held a polished silver tray in both hands.
On that tray sat two packs of cola, the cans frosted, condensation beading and slipping down their sides like the promise of salvation.
The man bowed at precisely forty-five degrees.
“Good evening, Sir Ashveil,” he said, voice smooth. “I am Aldren, butler to the Everhart family. Miss Rina requests your presence.”
Azhareth’s eyes drifted to the cola.
“…I see,” he said solemnly. “You may speak.”
Aldren did not visibly react to the odd phrasing.
“Miss Rina wishes to avoid disturbing the neighborhood,” he continued. “Thus, she has requested that I personally escort you to a more… suitable location for your lessons.”
Rai barked once, approving of the tribute.
Azhareth picked up one of the cola packs from the tray.
“…Acceptable.”
He stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
Rai trotted along at his heel, tail crackling.
A black limousine waited at the curb, glossy enough to double as a mirror. It was long enough that it could’ve been mistaken for some sort of armored transport.
Aldren opened the door with practiced grace.
“After you, Sir.”
Azhareth ducked inside, Rai hopping in after him.
The interior was softly lit, lined in dark leather, with a miniature bar built into the side panel. Crystal glasses. Wine bottles resting in temperature-controlled slots. There was even a star-patterned ceiling.
“Please, be at ease,” Aldren said from the front, closing the door.
The limousine glided forward—silent, smooth.
Azhareth looked at the glass of red liquid already poured and waiting in the cup holder beside him.
High-quality wine, judging by the aroma.
A symbol of status.
Of luxury.
He lifted it and took a sip.
His entire expression froze.
This was—
Rot.
Bitter, sour rot of old fruit dressed in fancy glassware.
He leaned forward, spat the wine back into the glass with surgical precision, set it aside, and cracked open a cola instead.
Rai jumped at the hiss of the can, then whined eagerly.
Azhareth took one long, slow drink.
The fizz burned his throat in exactly the right way.
“…Yes,” he murmured, satisfied. “This is worth living for.”
In the front, Aldren stared straight ahead.
If he was horrified, he did not show it.
The city landscape shifted from cramped apartments and neon signs to cleaner high-rises and guarded gates. The limousine passed through an automated checkpoint, cameras swiveling, mana sensors flickering.
Steel barriers slid aside, granting them entrance.
They pulled into a wide courtyard paved with polished stone. A towering building loomed overhead—sleek glass, armored edges, subtle wards humming just beneath visibility.
Everhart’s private training complex.
When Azhareth stepped out of the car, two neat rows of Everhart employees stood already aligned, forming a corridor of stiff backs and bowed heads leading to the entrance.
Some wore suits.
Some wore security uniforms.
A few carried clipboards and tablets, eyes flicking up in cautious curiosity.
They bowed as one.
“Welcome, Sir Ashveil!”
Their voices echoed off the stone.
For a moment, Azhareth saw a different scene.
Armies of demons kneeling.
Clerics groveling.
Subordinates chanting his name out of terror rather than devotion.
His jaw tightened.
Rai brushed against his ankle, a soft nudge—a reminder of now, not then.
Azhareth raised a hand.
“Dismiss them.”
The nearest manager blinked.
“S-Sir?”
Rina appeared near the doorway, stepping out from behind the line. Today's clothes were simple, practical—training gear, hair tied back, eyes bright but cautious.
“Raine?” she asked, confused. “They’re here to greet you.”
“I dislike crowds,” Azhareth said calmly. “Dismiss them.”
There was no anger in his voice.
Just absolute expectation.
Rina hesitated for only a second. She turned to her people.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
They dispersed quickly, whispering to each other as they walked off.
“Who is this guy?”
“New SS-ranked trainer, maybe?”
“He just spat our best wine back into the glass.”
“Maybe he has a weird taste.”
“You mean no taste.”
Azhareth ignored them.
He followed Rina into the building.
Rai followed him.
The Everhart private gym was enormous.
A high ceiling vaulted overhead, lined with mana-lamps and reinforced beams. Training dummies made of special materials stood in rows.
Some were humanoid. Others resembled monsters. There were weight racks, mana compression zones, a gravity-adjustable floor section, and complex rune panels along the walls.
Five hunters stood together, waiting.
Rina’s top team.
- A broad-shouldered tank with a massive shield on his back.
- A sharp-eyed mage with rings glowing faintly on her fingers.
- A dual-dagger rogue leaning against a pillar, arms folded.
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- A spearwoman with calloused hands and a calm presence.
- An archer with a sleek bow and a quiver of mana-coated arrows.
All of them carried themselves like seasoned fighters.
All of them looked at Azhareth like they weren’t sure if this was a joke or a test.
They bowed.
“Miss Rina’s… instructor,” the tank said.
“Teacher,” the mage corrected softly.
They waited for him to react.
He did not.
Because behind them—
Against the wall—
Stood a long, glorious table.
Roasted meats.
Fragrant rice.
Mana-rich fruits glistening with juice.
Exotic dungeon vegetables properly cooked.
Pastries and puddings and soups.
And at the end, arranged like an altar,
ten cans of cola, standing in a neat row.
Azhareth stepped past the hunters without a word.
He pointed at the table.
“And this line,” he said, “is for me?”
Rina nodded.
“Yes.”
He sat at the nearest bench, reached for a plate, and began to eat.
Not sloppily.
Not wildly.
But with a focused, efficient hunger that made it clear this was not a luxury to him.
This was survival.
Rai hopped up beside him, grabbed a drumstick in his mouth, and went to war with it, sparks crackling along his fur in pure joy.
Rina’s team stared.
“…Is this… normal?” the archer whispered.
“For him?” the mage murmured. “According to the footage from the titan site?”
“What footage?” the rogue frowned.
“Nothing,” the mage said quickly. “It was deleted, remember?”
They watched the man their captain had bowed to—
a man in a cheap jacket, with tired eyes and a quiet manner—
eat like he’d seen too many battlefields and not enough kitchens.
After a few minutes, Rina approached cautiously.
“Should I… give you a moment?” she asked.
Azhareth answered only when he set down an empty plate.
“We can begin,” he said.
Rina straightened, slipping unconsciously into combat mode.
Her team shifted behind her, curious.
“You wish to use the techniques you recorded,” Azhareth said evenly. “Flercher Reflex and Flashpoint Transpierce.”
The words drew a few raised eyebrows.
The tank muttered, “Weird skill names.”
“Probably some ultra-rare SS speed set,” the rogue replied quietly.
“Sounds like something from an obscure dungeon drop,” the mage mused.
Rina nodded.
“Yes. My book recorded them during the titan fight.”
Azhareth watched her for a heartbeat.
“Before you touch them,” he said, “I need to see your foundation.”
He gestured to the open space.
“Run,” he said simply. “As fast as you can. Use every enhancement you have.”
Rina took a breath.
“Yes, Teacher.”
She stepped onto the training floor.
Her team moved to the edge, giving her room.
She closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself. Then she began to activate skills, one by one.
“Acceleration.”
“Windstep.”
“Mana Flow.”
“Featherfoot.”
Magic flared around her legs, her boots, her joints. The air around her shimmered faintly.
The tank murmured, “She’s stacking everything.”
The mage nodded. “We’ve never seen her go full power in front of strangers.”
Rina opened her eyes.
They were sharp now. Focused.
She moved.
The world seemed to distort.
She shot forward, leaving a blurred afterimage. The wind cracked in her wake, slamming against the reinforced walls. Mana trails streaked behind her like pale ribbons.
She rebounded from one end to the other, circling the gym. Her footsteps were quicksilver. To a civilian eye, she would have looked like nothing but flashes of motion.
Her team grinned.
“That’s our captain!”
“Look at her go!”
“She’s even faster than last month—”
Rai’s head turned, tracking her with surprising accuracy.
Azhareth watched quietly, leaning back, cola in hand.
“…I see a blur,” he said to himself.
After several laps, Rina slid to a stop in front of him, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and smiled.
“That,” she said, “is my fastest speed.”
Azhareth took another sip.
“Good,” he said. “Warm-ups are important.”
She blinked.
“…Warm-up?”
The gym fell silent.
Rina cleared her throat.
“Teacher… that was my maximum speed.”
Azhareth’s hand stopped halfway between his drink and his mouth.
The air seemed to hold its breath.
He lowered the can slowly.
“…Your maximum,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He stared at her like she had just told him she could fly by jumping twice.
Something in his expression shifted—
annoyance, disbelief, and a faint shade of insult, as if someone had cursed his ancestral line.
He stood.
Even without flaring mana, his presence pressed more heavily into the room. The five hunters straightened, instinctively wary.
“Rina Everhart,” he said, voice calm but edged. “You told me your book recorded two techniques.”
“Yes,” she said carefully. “Their names were Flercher Reflex and Flashpoint Transpierce.”
Her team frowned at the names, trading glances.
“Sounds dramatic,” the rogue muttered.
The mage shrugged. “Dungeon skills always sound dramatic.”
Azhareth took a step toward Rina.
“You believe,” he said, “you are ready to use them?”
Rina swallowed.
“I… I hoped you would help me get there.”
Azhareth exhaled, a sound halfway between patience and exasperation.
“Do you understand,” he asked quietly, “what those skills are meant to do?”
Rina hesitated.
“…Not exactly. The book only showed the names and fragments of feeling.”
He tapped his temple.
“Flercher Reflex will accelerate your perception to an extreme degree. The world will slow to a crawl. Every movement, every speck of dust in the air, every twitch in an enemy’s finger—you will see it all.”
Her team blinked.
“That sounds… cool?” the archer whispered.
Azhareth’s gaze sharpened.
“But your body,” he continued, tapping her shoulder lightly, “will still be this body.”
He flicked her lightly with one finger.
She stumbled back three steps.
“If your mind moves too fast,” Azhareth said, “and your flesh cannot follow, you will tear your mana pathways apart. You will either go mad… or your nerves will burn out.”
Rina swallowed hard.
“And Flashpoint Transpierce,” he added, “forces your body into a single, absolute point of lethal movement. Every muscle, every fiber, every shred of mana will drive one strike forward at once.”
He tilted his head.
“With your current structure, using it at full concept… would shatter your bones before you reached your target.”
Her team stared, stunned.
The tank muttered, “That… sounds less cool.”
The mage whispered, “Is that even still a skill at that point…?”
Rina felt cold sweat down her spine.
“I… I didn’t know,” she admitted.
“No,” Azhareth said flatly. “You did not.”
He extended a hand.
“Give me the book.”
She obeyed without thinking, placing the glowing skill book into his palm.
It pulsed softly with light, reacting to his touch. He flipped it open, scanning the faint, abstract description hovering inside.
No ranks.
No numbers.
Just raw structure.
He let out a quiet, humorless breath.
“…Of all the people to pick up a fragment of that man,” he muttered, “it had to be you.”
Rina tensed.
“Teacher…?”
He closed the book and placed it back in her hands.
“You are very fortunate,” he said, meeting her eyes, “that you did not try to ‘test’ either skill on your own.”
Rina clutched the book tightly.
“I… I was scared,” she admitted. “The names felt… heavy. Wrong, somehow. So I waited.”
Azhareth nodded once.
“For that alone, you live.”
Her team swallowed in unison.
Rina bowed deeply.
“Please,” she said. “Teach me how to become someone who can use them… someday.”
Azhareth studied her for a long moment.
She was talented, yes.
Prideful, but not stupid.
Afraid, but still standing here.
“…You are thousands of steps away,” he said. “Your body, your senses, your control—all of them are far from the level those techniques demand.”
Rina’s shoulders fell for a second.
Then she straightened.
“Then I’ll take those steps,” she said quietly. “However many it takes.”
Azhareth’s lips twitched.
Not a smile.
Something more tired than that.
He turned away and picked up another cola.
“Very well,” he said. “Lesson one.”
Rina lifted her head.
“Yes, Teacher?”
He pointed at his own eyes—and then at her.
“You must first learn to see,” he said. “Not what you think is there. Not what you expect. What is actually there.”
He gestured to the floor.
“Sit.”
She obeyed.
Her team shifted, watching.
Rai hopped onto a bench, chewing the remains of his drumstick, sparks crackling softly like they were applauding the start of something dangerous.
Azhareth cracked open a fresh can of cola, the hiss loud in the quiet gym.
“The world is faster than you think,” he said. “If you cannot keep up with it as you are now… it will break you long before those skills ever will.”
Rina swallowed, then nodded.
“I’ll keep up,” she said.
“We’ll see,” Azhareth replied lightly. “Now—look at my hand. Tell me how many times it moves.”
He raised his fingers.
And moved.