Baran The Rise Of Azrael

When the healer arrived, Baran's burns were treated with care.

Ointments, mixed with rare herbs, were applied gently to his scorched skin.

He was given soft, clean clothes.

And for the first time… he was allowed to sleep in a safe bed.

But Baran couldn't sleep.

When he finally opened his eyes in the damp, musty room, a weak ray of sunlight filtered through the dust swirling in the air.

It stung his eyes, long adjusted to the dark.

He sat up slowly.

The cracked wooden floor creaked under his weight.

There was a table, a broken mirror, and a pitcher of water in the room.

He stepped in front of the mirror.

And stared at his reflection.

He was taller now.

His shoulders had broadened.

There was no frailty left in his face.

But the burns—

Scars stretched from his left shoulder down to his wrist, etched deep into his skin.

His jet-black eyes were vast and still, like a lake before a storm.

And storms, indeed, raged inside them.

His hair, once a uniform black, now held veins of crimson.

His cheekbones were sharper, his skin paler.

This was no longer the face of a child…

It was the face of a ghost.

And in that moment, he spoke to himself.

> "You've made it, Baran. This is the beginning."

"From now on, your story will be written in power."

"Your strength… will spread fear."

"But first, control it. Use your mind, Baran. Just like you always have."

"To survive. To hide. To take revenge."

"Keep your fire hidden. But when the time comes… unleash it."

"Like a dragon—let your fury erupt."

"Kill your enemy…"

"Kill…"

"Kill…"

"…and kill."

His voice was low and raspy.

His eyes flared with something dangerous.

And then… a shadow appeared in the doorway.

Commander Virion.

He had opened the door in silence, watching Baran's reflection in the mirror.

He had heard every word.

But when he finally spoke, his face showed no emotion.

> "Get dressed. We're going down to the training grounds," he said.

"Today is your first day."

He turned and walked away.

But his mind lingered in the room.

The fire he'd seen in Baran's eyes…

It was unlike anything he'd witnessed in any of the hundreds of soldiers who had passed through his command.

This wasn't ambition.

This… was pure vengeance.

Virion narrowed his eyes.

The soldier in him hadn't yet decided:

Was Baran a threat?

Or something more?

If a threat, he'd need to be eliminated. Quickly.

But something inside him wanted to give the boy a chance.

Baran dressed in silence.

The tunic was plain but well-made, reaching down to his sturdy, worn boots.

The burn on his left arm still throbbed—not with pain, but with memory.

Commander Virion walked ahead, heavy steps echoing in the stone halls.

Baran followed.

They moved through long, cold corridors.

Each wall bore symbols—the insignias of the Samer battalion, plaques of oaths, fading war paints from long-forgotten battles.

This wasn't just a stronghold.

It was the heart of a war.

When they reached the stairs, Baran descended slowly.

With every step, he felt the pressure radiating off Virion's back more clearly.

His mana… calm, yet suffocating.

It pulsed with power—dense and crushing.

> "So this is the commander…"

"This level… it's not even close to mine. Fighting him would be suicide."

"I've got a long way to go."

The thoughts disappeared as he reached the bottom step.

Because the sight that met him there…

was far grander than anything he had expected.

Samerra Training Grounds

Baran's eyes widened.

A vast courtyard stretched out before him, encircled by towering stone pillars.

At every corner, mages were training—each focused on their own element, each immersed in a different discipline.

In one corner,

a group of earth wielders conjured stone shields from the ground. Rocks spun in the air, forming into defensive stances and formations.

On the far side,

wind users wrapped vortexes around their bodies, increasing their speed and agility as they darted through invisible courses.

Not far from them,

fire mages hurled blazing orbs from their arms, each one striking designated targets with explosive precision.

And most striking of all:

a lone figure stood within a ring of ice.

With every step, the ground beneath their feet froze solid, leaving a trail of frost in their wake.

Baran's breath caught for a moment.

> "They always said magic wielders were rare in this world…"

"But here…"

"…there's one of every kind."

His eyes gleamed with realization.

> "So these are the Samers—the ones who fight monsters at the borders."

At the same time, another awareness settled over him.

This wasn't just training.

This was preparation for war.

And somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered to him:

> "This is not your home, Baran. But if you want power… this is where it begins."

Commander Virion stopped walking.

He gestured toward a section of the grounds.

> "You'll observe today. Tomorrow, I'll decide which path you take."

His voice was clear and commanding—

but there was something more hidden beneath it.

> "I'm watching you."

Baran dipped his head slightly.

He accepted the command.

But inside, something far more determined stirred.

> "They're not mine. None of them are. But I'll take a piece from each. And anyone who tries to stop me… will kneel before me one day."

Baran didn't leave the training grounds all day.

His lips stayed sealed, his eyes sharp.

He watched from the shadows—

quiet, unmoving—

studying every movement on the field.

He memorized the hand signs of the ice users,

the mental focus of the earth mages,

the breath control of the wind walkers—

even the footwork patterns of the non-magical warriors who relied solely on combat techniques.

But there was always something burning inside him.

Observation wasn't enough.

He needed to try.

He needed to burn.