Baran The Rise Of Azrael

Chapter 8

The documents were finally complete.

Katlein had meticulously prepared every page, waiting silently by Baran's side. Her guilty gaze didn't plead for forgiveness—it carried loyalty instead.

Baran hadn't forgiven her.

But… he no longer blamed her either.

His anger had found a single target: Draegon's damnation.

He made his final preparations.

He strapped the two daggers Virion had given him to his waist—one burning crimson like fury, the other cold and dark like extinguished twilight.

A black hooded cloak draped over his shoulders.

And then… he placed the mask over his face.

Its scorched edges and red eye streaks told both his past and foretold his future.

Azrael had been born.

When Baran stepped into the grand guildhall of Samerra, the buzzing inside halted for a moment.

People stared.

Their eyes locked onto the mask, his towering frame, and broad shoulders.

The scars on his left arm looked like they belonged to a veteran of many battles.

No one suspected he was just fifteen years old.

A guild attendant—a blonde woman with a stern gaze—approached him.

> "New here? Let's see which rank you're starting from…"

Baran didn't respond.

He simply handed over the document Katlein had given him.

The attendant raised an eyebrow.

> "E-class, huh? Most start from G. Someone's backing you, clearly… Whatever. If it checks out, there's no problem."

She processed the information using a magic-powered system resembling a computer.

Then handed Baran a small, black mission token, engraved with a red "E."

He would use it to select quests from the board inside the guild.

> "My advice: start easy. Scouting or maybe collecting beast hides.

Don't rush unless you want to die."

Baran gave a faint nod.

But his plan was different.

He would forge himself on the battlefield.

He would be bathed in blood.

Step by step, he would create Azrael.

He approached the quest board.

His masked reflection flickered ominously in the glass.

Baran scanned the quests line by line.

Then his eyes landed on one marked with a red seal:

> Quest: Hunt the Hellhounds

Region: Bloodmire Hill – Fog Forest

Reward: 300 silver

Note: Recommended for C-class and above only.

He brought the quest to the attendant.

She frowned and looked him over.

> "This one… you can't do it alone. Where's your party?"

Baran didn't speak.

He simply revealed the daggers under his cloak.

One burned like flame; the other was darker than night.

> "I'm alone."

The woman paused. Then rolled her eyes.

> "Another lone hero, huh? Guys like you either die on your first mission or come back missing limbs."

Baran didn't reply.

He just held the paper forward, unmoved.

As if death meant nothing.

She sighed deeply and stamped the document.

> "Fine. Just keep your back clean so the wolves know where to bite."

Baran stepped back quietly.

He walked toward the guild's doors, slowly and silently.

His eyes caught his reflection again in the board's glass.

In the shadow of his hood, the red streaks of the mask glowed faintly.

He saw himself.

A lone figure. Born from darkness.

No allies. No safety.

But…

> "Bonds… they come in time,"

he thought.

He needed someone who wouldn't betray him.

To trust and to be trusted was never easy for Baran.

When he rode a carriage for the first time, the sound of hooves on the dusty roads of Samerra mirrored the thoughts clattering in his mind.

> "A C-rank mission… worth two gold."

He had to earn decent coin before Katlein's money ran out.

But this quest wasn't just about silver.

It was about reputation.

Reputation that could carry him all the way to Ompliyamus.

And war…

He was about to enter a real war.

The carriage stopped at a village nestled in the shadow of Bloodmire Hill—smoky, grim, and quiet.

But beneath the silence, a fear lurked.

As Baran stepped off, he heard villagers whisper:

> "He's going alone?"

"So young… maybe just for show…"

"Masked, cloaked… who knows who he is?"

Baran didn't look back.

He walked alone.

Power deafens some ears.

Baran knew this all too well.

The village chief, a modest but dignified man, rose to greet him.

Baran was surprised by the gesture but said nothing.

The chief wasted no time.

> "Hellhounds...

These aren't just wolves.

Their claws tear through iron. Their jaws snap bone like twigs.

Worst of all… they're resistant to fire.

Flame won't scare them. It'll only enrage them.

They hunt in packs. That's their true strength."

He raised his eyes.

> "Tonight's a full moon.

The villagers fear another loss."

Baran nodded but thought to himself:

> "Fire resistance, huh? So I can't test my new spells..."

It frustrated him.

He'd only just started to control his fire magic.

This was supposed to be his proving ground.

But…

Lately, something else had been stirring within him.

His mana no longer resonated only with fire—

There was a darker pulse.

Cold vibrations in his palms, waking him at night.

A mist-like shadow creeping into his core.

A power not yet understood.

An instinct not yet awakened.

> "Do I need another trauma?

Must every power be born from pain?"

Baran sighed.

But only one thought echoed in his mind: to grow stronger.

Tonight, he would take another step toward his fate.

As he left the chief's home, his eyes vanished into the grey-stained sky.

The moon, pale like spilled blood, slipped through broken clouds—

casting a cursed stillness across the land.

He entered the room prepared for him.

Closed the door. Leaned against the wall.

> "Maybe my elemental magic is enough…

But this body isn't yet that of a warrior."

His physical combat ability had only just reached D-rank.

But the Hellhounds… they weren't enemies.

They were a test.

Baran stared at the ceiling.

He raised his hands.

Threads of mana weaved from his fingertips.

Katlein's voice echoed in his mind:

> "Mana threads aren't enough...

You must weave them—like armor—wrap them around your body."

His face tensed.

Mana weaving… yes, it was his only hope.

But he wasn't yet skilled.

It consumed too much mana.

It slowed him down.

> "Thirty minutes… maybe less. I can't last longer."

Still, he had a plan.

He slept.

Deeply, wearily, but alert.

---

Midnight.

Baran's eyes opened.

The sky was pitch black. The world, silent.

He rose.

Cloak draped. Mask on. Daggers strapped.

No one knew his name for this mission.

But he was no longer Baran.

He was Azrael. The herald of death.

As he stepped into the forest, he focused mana into his eyes.

Mana traces… ten Hellhounds.

Too many.

> "I don't need all of them."

He cast mana to lure a few.

Three responded instantly.

Pack instincts kicking in.

Before he could defend himself, one lunged at his arm.

A scream nearly broke loose—

but the mana weave held.

Baran struck with his dagger.

The first blow: fatal.

The second: a quick injury.

He directed mana to his legs, gaining speed.

But…

> "I'm burning too much mana."

He tried to split the pack.

The attacks intensified, but he pressed on, wounded only by minor grazes.

Then came the last group.

One among them… larger.

Its howl shook the woods.

Baran stepped back.

> "This one's different.

This… is the alpha."

His mana weave began to collapse.

His hands trembled.

Breath staggered.

The alpha roared, spewing a flame-like howl.

Baran barely dodged.

He hit the ground and stared at the sky.

> "I can't die here."

And then…

A whisper.

Not in his head, but deep in his soul.

Virion's voice:

> "When mana runs out…

what remains, do you know?

Rage."

Baran rose.

The dagger in his left hand… glowed.

Not fire.

Dark mist.

A cold, ominous pulse spread.

> "What… is this?"

No time for answers.

The spell whispered itself:

> "Blindness."

Baran surrendered to the power rising within.

He blinded the alpha.

One goal remained: kill.

He hurled his left dagger.

Charged with the right—straight to the heart.

One strike. One scream.

Silence.

Only the steam among the leaves remained.

Baran stood.

Soaked in blood and sweat.

But he smiled.

Virion's words came back:

> "Well done."

Baran whispered inwardly:

> "You still haunt me… old man."