After the war...

Hell had fallen into a tense silence.

The air, once thick with screams and roaring flames, now only carried the low crackle of embers and the heavy footsteps of Hell Guards. They moved in pairs, their dark armor smeared with soot and blood. Some patrolled the ruined cities, others dragged scorched infernal bodies into massive pits to be burned. The war had ended, but the scent of death still clung to the wind.

Royal Palace – Azreal's Chamber

Azreal's eyes fluttered open.

His vision was hazy, his head felt like a hammer had struck it, and every muscle in his body screamed in pain. For a moment, he lay there motionless, listening to the faint rustling of curtains and the quiet hum of mana in the walls.

Then he heard it.

"...Oh, you're awake."

The voice was soft—relieved.

He turned his head slightly, and there she was—Nena. Sitting beside him, eyes puffy, but smiling. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for him.

Azreal grunted, "...Yeah."

Before he could say more, Nena suddenly burst into tears, "Don't scare me like that again!"

Azreal blinked. "I–"

But she didn't let him finish. "You were injured so badly before, and you didn't wake up for weeks, Azreal. And the moment you recovered, you rushed off again to fight! Then you came back unconscious!"

She leaned forward and hugged him tightly, her voice muffled against his chest. "Sorry... I'm just... I'm glad you're okay."

Azreal managed a weak smile. "Um..."

After a moment, Nena pulled away, wiping her eyes and composing herself. "Where's Aria?" he asked quietly. "How's she doing?"

Nena sat upright. "She still hasn't woken up yet. I moved her to my room to watch over her."

Azreal's brows furrowed. "She's still unconscious? Why? Is everything alright?"

"Relax, Azreal," Nena said, placing a hand gently on his cheek. "She's fine."

"No, you don't understand," Azreal said, his voice tense. "Zarion stabbed her—"

Nena interrupted. "When she was brought in, there were bloodstains on her clothes, yes. But not a single wound. No marks. Nothing. It was as if the injury never existed."

Azreal stared, speechless.

Nena smiled gently, "Don't worry. I know you're concerned about her, but she's safe now."

Azreal didn't say anything, still deep in thought.

Nena stood. "I'll go prepare your breakfast. You should take a bath first."

But Azreal was quiet.

"Azreal!" she snapped, hands on her hips. "Azreal!"

"Huh?" He blinked and turned to her.

"You're thinking about Aria again," she said, then chuckled softly. "You really care about her now, don't you?"

He looked at her.

Nena smiled again. "I'm glad."

And with that, she walked out of the room.

Azreal looked down at his chest, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes widened.

"The mark…" he whispered. "It's gone back to sleep already..."

The dark crimson markings that once spiraled across his body had faded, withdrawn, lying dormant beneath his skin once again. He let out a slow breath and stood up, his gaze drifting to the painting Aria had made—still hanging on the far wall.

He stared at it, unmoving.

Zarion's words echoed in his head:

"You will be my final card against the Gods."

Azreal clenched his fist. "Nonsense," he muttered, brushing it off. "He was always full of it."

He walked to the restroom.

The water hit his face hard, like reality. After washing, he stepped out, dressed swiftly, and left the room, the door sealing behind him.

Down the hall…

He walked slowly, his boots echoing off the polished black stone. Soon, he entered the dining hall and sat at the grand table. Not long after, Nena and a few maids came in with silver trays, placing a variety of dishes in front of him. He said nothing, simply nodding. The maids bowed and backed away.

Nena began to follow, but Azreal stopped her. "Has Aria been given her food?"

"I was about to take it to her," Nena said. "I'll feed her myself."

"Alright," he replied simply, picking up his spoon.

The food was warm, but he ate slowly, thoughtfully. When he finished, he stood, his aura calm but heavy. The maids quickly cleared the dishes as he walked away.

Throne Room

Azreal entered and sat on the high seat of blackened stone. He raised his hand.

"Arian."

Flames spiraled from the floor in front of him, taking the form of a great fire dragon. The beast bowed low.

"Yes, my lord."

"How did the war end?" Azreal asked.

"The resurrected Infernals were all defeated. Each gate was secured by the Pillars," Arian answered. "Balance has been restored."

"And the resurrection itself? Any news?"

"No, my lord. The source of their return remains unknown. The ritual—if it was one—left no trace."

Azreal narrowed his eyes. "Then we're still in the dark."

"Yes."

Arian tilted his head. "May I ask… about Y'tharion? You and Hulk were found unconscious. What happened?"

Azreal was quiet.

Flashes of that brutal, soul-rending battle filled his mind—the screams, the flames, the moment he stood above Y'tharion's corpse.

"He's dead," Azreal finally said.

Arian nodded slowly. "Then the Infernal Evolution has ended."

Azreal stared into the flames around the throne. "...I wonder about that."

"My lord?"

"Nothing. It's not something you need to trouble yourself over."

Arian bowed again. "Then I will take my leave."

With a gust of fire, the dragon vanished.

For a while, Azreal sat alone in silence.

Then Nena entered.

"Laisa came to check on you while you were unconscious," she said. "She left after a while to change clothes."

"I see."

Nena studied him carefully, then smiled. "You can go see Aria now."

Azreal turned to her. "Is she awake?"

"No, but I've finished feeding her. You can sit with her. But when it's time for her bath, you will excuse us."

Azreal nodded.

Nena turned to leave, but suddenly remembered something. "And don't for—"

She blinked.

Azreal was already gone.

She let out a breath. "Quick as usual…"

She walked away.

---

Nena's Room

The door creaked open slowly.

Azreal stepped inside, his silhouette framed in the soft light bleeding through the corridor behind him. The room was quiet, almost too quiet. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, and a gentle breeze rustled the curtains.

He shut the door silently behind him.

Aria lay on the bed, wrapped in soft white sheets, her silver hair spread like a halo on the pillow. Her chest rose and fell gently with each breath, but she remained unconscious. Two maids tending to her bowed upon seeing Azreal and left the room quickly, their heads low as they passed him. The door clicked shut behind them.

Azreal stood there for a moment.

Then he slowly walked over to her bedside, pulling the chair closer before sitting down. His eyes softened.

"I'm glad you're alright," he whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingertips trembled slightly.

He stared at her in silence for a long moment, then slowly reached for the blanket. He hesitated—but then, carefully, he pulled it back and opened half of her shirt, searching.

No wounds.

No scars.

Nothing.

Not even the faintest trace of where Zarion's blade had pierced her.

He frowned. "Did it heal on its own?" he muttered. "But… Aria can't regenerate like that. She's not—"

Then he saw it.

On her hand.

A glowing cross-shaped mark.

Azreal reached out and touched it gently.

The moment his fingers made contact, the mark on Aria's hand pulsed—and the one on his own chest responded in kind. His body tensed as a wave of heat and pain shot through him. His chest began to glow, the same eerie light pouring out from beneath his shirt. His pupils flared. A sharp ringing filled his ears.

And then—

The world twisted.

Light surged around him. His vision bent, blurred. He stumbled forward.

When Azreal opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the room.

He was standing in an endless white space. A world of light and stillness. Nothing but a blinding, pure void stretching in every direction.

He blinked.

Then—

A voice echoed.

"...Who's there?"

The empty white began to fill with smoke, curling and shifting like mist across a battlefield. Azreal walked forward, guided by the voice, his boots echoing faintly on what felt like solid light.

Then it appeared.

Massive. Majestic. Fearsome.

A colossal nine-tailed fox floated before him—its body covered in golden fur laced with burning symbols. Its tails flickered with energy. It hovered in the void, staring at him with ancient, glowing eyes. Its presence filled the entire space.

The creature's voice was a whisper and a roar at once.

The fox's eyes narrowed as it gazed into Azreal's soul. "You…"

Its eyes widened slightly as it noticed the mark glowing on his chest.

The great beast blinked, startled. "You're—"

Azreal narrowed his eyes, calm even in the presence of such power. "You must be Yuzara… the guardian of the key to the Hollow Realm."

The fox didn't reply right away. It studied him closely, lips parting as it muttered under its breath, "It can't be… no… is he—?"

Azreal stepped forward. "I'm Azreal."

Yuzara flinched. She tilted her massive head, whispering, "Azreal… Then no. He's not who I thought."

Out loud, she asked, "So… You're Azreal. The King of Hell."

"I see you've heard of me," Azreal said.

"No," Yuzara responded. "Aria told me about you."

Azreal nodded, glancing around. "And this place?"

"This is the realm within Aria," Yuzara explained. "When your mark resonated with hers, it pulled you into my domain."

Azreal looked down at his glowing chest. "So that's what happened…"

He looked back at the nine-tailed fox. "You were the one who healed Aria, weren't you?"

Yuzara nodded. "Yes. But not for you. She is my vessel. If she dies, so do I. You could say… I saved myself."

Azreal chuckled slightly. "Fair enough."

Suddenly, the realm was swallowed in light.

And then—

Azreal's eyes snapped open.

He was back in Nena's room.

Aria lay in the same position, her breathing calm and steady. Azreal blinked a few times, dazed, before reaching out and resting his head gently on her hand.

He said nothing.

But his mind swirled.

There were questions that needed answers—questions only Aria could answer when she woke.

Outside the Final Gate of Hell

A scorched wasteland stretched far into the distance. The ground was cracked, still steaming in places from the devastation of the infernal war. Ash floated in the air like snow.

Suddenly—figures appeared.

Men, cloaked in black, walking in perfect sync, their faces hidden beneath hoods. They stepped onto the burned earth, unbothered by the destruction.

One of them stopped.

He knelt and sprinkled ashen dust across the broken ground.

It shimmered… then pulsed.

A glowing red circle etched itself into the land, pulsing with a heartbeat of its own. The pressure it gave off was suffocating.

The figure stared at it… and smiled.

Then, in a low, knowing voice, he whispered:

"Sin… is evolution."

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