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First chapter
Baran– / Kanağan Pit / Veyraalt Slave Camp – at night
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He stared up at the sky.
But there were no stars anymore, no hope.
Everything was gray. The sky was gray, the earth was gray, even the eyes of people... gray.
Baran could no longer distinguish good from evil.
Countless wounds on his body throbbed with pain.
The tips of his black hair had begun to take on a reddish hue from constant exposure to heat.
He looked at his chained wrists.
The rusty pickaxe in his hand rested on the stone that had been gnawing away at his life.
He lifted the pickaxe.
And brought it down.
He struck.
And struck.
And struck.
With each blow, he wasn't just breaking the stone—he was trying to shatter his past.
But the more he fractured the rock, the more he could protect the broken child within.
His father…
He couldn't remember the name.
But the memories...
Even though his hands trembled, the images etched in his mind wouldn't fade.
He delivered one last strike before dropping the pick
His grip slipped.
His calloused skin cracked.
Blood seeped between the stones.
Baran's vision dimmed.
He collapsed onto the earth.
The world plunged into silence.
---
As consciousness faded into darkness, an image emerged from deep within his memory.
His father.
A magnificent, powerful man.
He fought with fists woven from flame.
Baran watched from the sidelines, eyes sparkling with awe.
That man looked like a god.
A protector. Invincible.
Baran simply watched… and smiled.
That smile was the first light to touch his face in a long time.
But that warmth...
Was ripped apart by a scream.
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"Get up, you son of a bitch!"
The whip that slashed across his waist dragged Baran from the past into the present.
His body trembled.
The guard cursed and lashed him again.
Baran's back burned like fire.
The soil absorbed his tears.
But this time... there were no tears in his eyes.
Only fury.
Before the second strike landed, Baran saw a reflection of himself—
But it wasn't him.
It was his father.
The memory of his father's dead body flickered in his mind again.
Horrifying. Silent.
But that image didn't spark fear this time.
It stirred something else in the void within him:
Flame.
A spark within...
Then a tremble…
And then… an explosion.
When Baran opened his eyes again, night was gone.
One of the stone walls surrounding the camp had exploded.
Pickaxes lay scattered, chains had melted.
The guard... was gone.
Turned to ash.
Baran slowly rose.
Black burn marks trailed down his left arm.
From shoulder to wrist, his skin had cracked, leaving a crimson trace.
A mark that would never fade from his body: the awakening of his first magic.
He wasn't afraid.
Because for the first time... he felt no pain.
As the dust settled, it felt as though even the sky was watching him.
Baran lifted his head.
And whispered into the darkness:
> "I'm not a dog."
"I am Baran..."
"…Azrael."