Baran The Rise Of Azrael

Chapter 7

"Was he summoned to Ompliyamus?"

Baran's voice echoed off the stone walls.

The tremble in his lips didn't shake the room—

the rising smoke of the fire inside him did.

And in that smoke, one sentence from Virion spun endlessly in his mind:

> "The crown is the most elegant form of betrayal."

Then why had he gone?

Was a war beginning?

Or… was this the start of a different betrayal?

Katlein watched Baran's frantic eyes.

Her own, hidden behind thick lashes, grew misty.

She stayed silent for a moment, then whispered softly, as if to herself:

> "You truly… resemble your mother and father."

Baran's face froze.

> "How do you know them?"

His voice cracked, trembling with fury.

The whole castle seemed to shake with the weight of that sentence.

Katlein turned the tip of her dagger toward him.

> "I am not as merciful as Virion, child."

Was that a warning? A confession?

Baran couldn't tell.

But he knew now—he had to fight not just with his blades or magic…

He had to fight with the truth.

> "Virion… you… Who are you, really?" "Why did you find me? Why now?"

Katlein lowered her head and took a long breath.

There were no more secrets to hide.

> "Baran…

Long ago, the former ruler of Lumeran formed eight battalions.

Each one made of the greatest warriors, meant to protect the heart of the kingdom.

Your mother, your father, Virion, and I… we were the commanders of those battalions."

Baran stopped breathing.

His heart no longer fit inside his chest.

> "The Samers who came for you… they set out before the fire.

When Virion discovered what had happened,

he chose to keep you alive, despite the past.

Not just for your power…

but in memory of your parents."

Katlein's voice thickened.

Her words were no longer just an explanation—they were a dirge.

> "Draegon… the current king.

He killed his own father with his own hands to take the throne.

He made a blood pact with the Demon King to seize it."

Baran's eyes widened.

> "In exchange for helping him rise,

he agreed to open the gates between the underworld and ours.

We, the commanders, stood against him.

But we were too few.

He branded us traitors.

With the Church's support, he either exiled us…

or had us killed."

> "Your mother and father," Katlein said, her voice cracking,

"refused to kneel to a usurper.

They fled Lumeran,

taking you with them, searching for a place where they could be free…

But in Draegon's world, freedom was just a fantasy."

Baran's eyes trembled like sparks over a foggy river.

He didn't cry—he couldn't.

Because now the fire wasn't leaking from his eyes—

it was leaking from his soul.

> "Then why did they die like that?"

"Why so cruelly?"

Katlein paused.

Her voice broke—more than any wound in battle ever could.

> "Because… Draegon sent the Demon Commanders.

And demons don't just kill.

They destroy memory, pride, humanity… everything."

Baran's mind spiraled back to that night—

His father, standing amid the ashes.

His body torn apart, but still upright in death.

And his mother…

a noose around her neck,

her face not filled with fear,

but with unwavering resolve.

It all returned as one great scream inside him.

> "Baran," Katlein said,

"I wanted you to know.

If only we had found you sooner—"

> "SHUT UP!"

Baran's voice pierced through the walls like a sword.

His eyes burned.

Not with spellfire—

but with the last spark of his humanity.

He stood slowly.

His left arm trembled.

The burn on his skin darkened, then flared into a deep crimson.

Threads of mana glowed beneath his skin.

He walked toward the table.

One punch.

Not at the wood—

but at his fate.

The table split in two with a crack.

Dust rose into the shafts of sunlight.

And in that moment, a decision was made.

> "I will never forgive them."

"Royalty? Bloodlines? Divine will? None of it matters anymore."

"They'll all die."

Baran's voice was no longer a boy's.

It echoed like a curse.

> "The ones who chained me…"

"The ones who silenced me…"

"The ones who stole everything I loved…"

> "They'll all die."

"None will escape."

"This world… whatever it gave me…"

"I will give it death in return."

"And I won't stop…

until I see fear in their eyes."

Amid Ashes and Vengeance

Baran had poured out all his rage.

The cursed flame in his chest hadn't faded…

but it quieted.

For a moment.

He swallowed hard.

For the first time… he truly thought.

> "I'm weak…"

Even those two words cut deeper than any dagger.

He didn't even fully know how to wield one yet.

His fire magic… was still a child's tantrum—wild and uncontrolled.

His mana pool had grown, yes—

but he was nowhere near strong enough to face a Demon Commander.

And reaching Draegon? Infiltrating the royal palace?

That was beyond a dream.

Katlein's words rang again in his head—

The harshest, yet truest truth:

> "The greatest teacher… is war itself."

Baran accepted it.

If he truly wanted strength,

he had to leave theory behind—

and walk straight into war.

And that's when he remembered the guilds he had seen when he first arrived in Samerra.

The shining blades… the battle-worn warriors in dented armor…

Some returned victorious,

others carried the blood of friends on their shoulders.

That…

was where he belonged.

His lips moved with resolve:

> "Katlein… I want to grow stronger."

Katlein stayed quiet for a moment.

She looked into his eyes.

There, she saw no child—

only a declaration of war.

The flickering darkness within him was proof that the past…

and the future… would burn.

> "I can't allow you to join a guild."

Baran didn't even reply.

There was no need.

Katlein already knew he would go.

Still, she gave one final warning:

> "Don't use your name.

True names are weaknesses.

A mercenary is only asked one thing:

What's your alias?"

Baran closed his eyes.

And he remembered the echo of his first kill—

The guard's burning scream,

his own reflection in the flames…

A single word had slipped from his lips without thinking.

> "Azrael."

It wasn't a curse.

It was destiny.

Katlein sighed deeply and left to prepare the paperwork.

Baran was left alone.

He reached for the burn mark on his neck.

He was still a boy—15, maybe 16 at most.

But when he looked in the mirror,

the man staring back looked like he was in his twenties.

Broad shoulders, scarred arms,

sharp cheekbones beneath a pale, worn face…

No child should look like this.

But Azrael…

was never meant to be a child.