There are no clocks in ruins.
No bells to toll the hour. No sunlit towers to cast long shadows that say: "This is morning," or "This is night." Just silence, and the slow shifting of temperature across the stones.
I woke up to warmth.
Not sunlight — not really. Just the soft ambient glow of the underground torches, flickering from the residual mana that soaked Blackspire's walls. My chamber remained unchanged: stone bench, rough blankets, a basin of conjured water.
Still, it was warmer than the bed I'd died in.
And that alone was something.
I sat up slowly, running a hand through my hair — longer now, slightly tangled. I conjured a small mirror from the Illusory Tool skill. My face was sharper, more refined, and the bags under my eyes had faded entirely.
But I still didn't look like a hero.
And that… was comforting.
****
I found Azael in the old training hall.
She was barefoot on the stone floor, moving through a slow series of stances — blades made of crimson mana dancing around her like petals in a storm. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing steady.
She didn't just train.
She flowed.
It was strange, seeing something so deadly look so peaceful.
I watched from the doorway, leaning silently against the wall.
Eventually, she opened her eyes and spoke without turning. "Staring is rude, Master."
"You like it," I said dryly.
She smirked. "True. But it's still rude."
I stepped in and crossed the dusty floor toward her, noting the residual scorch marks that laced the tiles. Her control was impressive. Every cut, every movement of her conjured blades had landed within the same invisible circle.
"You don't sleep?" I asked.
"I meditate. My kind dreams in fragments." She waved a hand, and the weapons vanished. "And you?"
"Got bored of lying down."
"That's good." She flicked a speck of dust from her shoulder. "If you stay still too long, your thoughts will eat you alive."
"Been there," I muttered, before I could stop myself.
Her gaze softened, but she didn't pry.
Instead, she moved to a nearby bench and gestured for me to sit.
"Come. Teach me how humans waste time."
****
We shared a breakfast conjured by magic and mutual laziness. Bread that never dried out. Fruit that never spoiled. Honey that didn't stick.
"I miss bitterness," Azael said suddenly, chewing thoughtfully. "Human food is always sweet or bland. When I ruled Blackspire, our kitchens used to blend pain into the palette."
I raised a brow. "Pain?"
"Emotion," she clarified. "We cooked with it. Fear, lust, regret — each could be distilled through essence magic. Flavors with meaning."
"That sounds both poetic and vaguely horrifying."
She grinned. "As all good things are."
****
Later that day, I wandered through the old archive. Most of the scrolls were dust by now, but a few had survived — sealed in stasis or embedded with protective glyphs.
I spent an hour reading half-legible writings on ancient pact law and binding circles. Azael eventually joined me, dragging a conjured couch into the middle of the archive and sprawling across it like a cat.
"You're a strange one," she said after a while.
I didn't look up. "How so?"
"Most men would be learning how to destroy cities right now. You're reading old ink and scribbles."
"I like scribbles."
She snorted softly, then said nothing else for a long time.
The silence wasn't awkward. It was shared.
In my past life, I was alone because I had no choice.
Here, I was alone… because I was preparing.
But maybe — maybe — not always alone.
****
That evening, I tried meditating near the core altar — a crystal slab at the heart of the ruins, once used for demonic rituals, now silent and cold.
Azael appeared without warning, again. She had a habit of doing that.
She sat beside me, cross-legged, wings wrapped around herself.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
I opened one eye. "I was thinking about my name."
"Reinhart?"
I shook my head. "No. The name I'll need next. The one people will whisper when they can't sleep."
She studied me for a moment, then said, "Names are earned. Not chosen."
"That's a very demonic way to think."
She smiled. "I am a demon."
"…fair."
We meditated together in silence for a while. She showed me a few breathing patterns, how to balance my mana output, how not to let infinite power fry your nerves without realizing.
The teachings were simple. But the act of sharing them wasn't.
She wasn't just a Queen.
She was… becoming something else.
So was I.
****
That night, she brought me tea.
Or at least, her version of it. A glowing red brew that shimmered like blood under candlelight.
"It's infused with memory," she explained, handing me the cup. "Each sip brings up something you've buried."
"Why would I want that?"
"So you can stop being afraid of it."
I hesitated… then drank.
****
I remembered my hospital bed.
The beeping. The stillness. The nurse who held my hand when I couldn't speak anymore.
I remembered reading The Hero's Welcome one last time. Reading about how the noble son returned to glory. How he was welcomed home like a god.
And how I would never have a home to return to.
The tea burned going down, but it didn't hurt.
Not really.
"I was never supposed to matter," I said quietly.
Azael didn't respond. She didn't need to.
She just stayed. She just… was there.
And that was enough.
****
By the time I went to bed, I felt no closer to revenge.
But I felt something else.
Stillness.
And sometimes, that's the most dangerous power of all.