She had battled titans whose roars split the sky.
But as she stood in the doorway of Raine Ashveil’s tiny apartment…
Nothing had ever terrified her more than the man standing quietly before her.
Azhareth—inside Raine—did nothing.
No gesture.
No glare.
No killing intent.
He simply existed.
And that alone pressed down on her like the weight of a collapsing world.
Her breath stuttered.
Her knees weakened.
Her heartbeat slammed in her chest in panicked, uneven thuds.
This pressure…
It was not bloodlust.
It was not mana flaring.
It was a presence.
Ancient.
Heavy.
Throne-like.
As if she stood before a monarch who had ruled for centuries —
a being whose authority had been carved into his very soul.
Rai sat beside him, sparks rising off his fur like flickers of blue fire.
Even the small creature radiated danger, watching Rina with intelligent, predatory eyes.
Rina swallowed hard.
“…Raine Ashveil?”
Her voice cracked.
Azhareth nodded once.
Silent.
Still.
Regal.
Rina exhaled shakily.
She had confronted monsters.
But she had never confronted someone who felt so…
inevitably powerful.
“About the titan,” she began.
“I— I saw what you did. I saw the thrust. The lightning. The… the time distortion—”
Azhareth looked at her.
Just looked.
And the words died in her throat.
This man was impossible to interrogate.
He didn’t dodge.
He didn’t lie.
He didn’t explain.
He simply waited—
like a sovereign accustomed to people coming before his throne with trembling offerings.
Rina felt her spine lock straight.
Her instincts screamed:
Don't anger him.
But something else whispered beneath the fear:
He isn’t trying to harm me.
This pressure isn’t malicious.
It’s… old.
Lonely.
And that tiny sensation of sadness in his aura kept her from collapsing entirely.
She tried again.
“H-how did you move like that…?”
No answer.
Only calm, ancient eyes watching her struggle.
She clenched her fists.
This was not interrogation.
This was an audience.
Just as she opened her mouth a third time—
GRRRRRRGRRROOOOOOWWWWL.
A massive, cavernous rumble echoed inside the small apartment.
Rina froze.
But she heard nothing.
Because fear drowned out everything except the pressure crushing her chest.
Azhareth, however, stiffened.
His hand pressed to his abdomen.
…Traitorous mortal flesh.
Rai’s stomach growled next, more pitifully.
Azhareth resisted the urge to groan.
He finally spoke.
His voice rolled through the room, low and measured, like a king reciting law carved in stone.
“In all my life…”
Azhareth’s eyes half-lidded, his aura rising imperceptibly.
“…knowledge is never free.”
Rina’s heart skipped.
He continued:
“Those who seek answers… must bring an offering.”
Rina’s breath caught.
“O-offering…?”
He lifted one finger.
Not threateningly.
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Not aggressively.
But with a subtle, commanding grace.
And her legs buckled.
She dropped onto one knee, unable to stop herself.
Her body obeyed before her mind even processed the movement.
Even Rai’s sparks softened — an acknowledgment of the ritual.
Azhareth’s voice deepened:
“A feast, if one must.”
A ritual.
A contract.
A tradition older than her nation, maybe older than humanity.
Rina understood.
“I… I’ll bring it,” she said shakily, bowing deeper.
“Anything. Whatever you require.”
Azhareth closed his eyes, accepting her vow.
An ancient pact had been spoken.
Rina did not waste a second.
She sprinted through the city, calling every chef under Everhart family employment.
Within thirty minutes, vehicles crowded the alley:
- black corporate vans
- elite catering trucks
- Everhart private chefs in crisp uniforms
- A.R.E.S. security on standby
Neighbors peeked through windows.
Without hesitation, they assembled long tables in the hallway.
Silver trays opened.
Steam rose.
Aromatic spices filled the air.
A banquet fit for royalty.
For being older than royalty.
Chefs, confused but terrified by Rina’s urgency, bowed when presenting the dishes.
Rina stood proudly beside the feast she had gathered.
Azhareth sat cross-legged on the floor, Rai curled at his side.
He took the first bite—
And memories of flavor he had long forgotten exploded on his tongue.
His pupils dilated.
This…
This was food.
Not war rations.
Not monster meat.
Not the bland, survival-driven meals of his many lives.
Real.
Rich.
Layered.
Beautiful.
He ate with calm, terrifying efficiency.
Rai devoured his share like a crackling bolt of hunger incarnate.
Rina didn’t speak.
Not once.
She sat on the floor with her hands on her knees, waiting for the judgement of an ancient king.
When the feast was finally finished—
when the last dish was emptied—
when the silence stretched into reverence—
Rina gathered her courage.
“…Raine.”
Her voice trembled.
“One question.”
Azhareth lifted a brow.
Rina whispered:
“…Who is Flercher?”
Azhareth’s hand stopped midway through reaching for a final bite.
Rai froze.
Even the air stopped.
Azhareth did not breathe.
For the first time in her life—
Rina felt true, primal fear.
The room darkened.
The air thickened.
The shadows seemed to bow toward him.
Azhareth slowly set down the plate.
And then, with a voice that carried the weight of epochs:
“Flercher…
is a being far beyond your comprehension.”
Rina’s forehead touched the floor instantly.
“I—I apologize! I didn’t mean offense— I only—”
Her voice shook.
She waited for him to reject her.
To cast her out.
To erase her.
But instead—
Azhareth looked at her quietly.
Not with anger.
With understanding.
With loneliness she could feel in her bones.
“I…”
She swallowed hard, then bowed deeper than ever before.
“Please.”
Her voice was no longer steady.
“Please be my teacher.”
Azhareth blinked.
She pressed her hands firmly to the floor.
“I saw the way you fought.
The skill my Empty Book recorded…
I can’t use it without dying.
I need guidance.
I need strength.
And I know—”
Her head lowered further.
“I know you are someone beyond anything I have ever met.
Please… teach me.”
Silence fell.
Azhareth studied her.
A young woman.
Born wealthy.
Raised powerful.
Praised by millions.
Now kneeling before a man in a collapsing apartment, begging for wisdom.
He almost laughed.
But her sincerity was real.
After a long, heavy moment—
Azhareth nodded.
“…Very well.”
Rina gasped softly.
Azhareth lifted two fingers and rested them gently against her forehead.
A spark of mana passed between them—
not harmful,
but chilling,
like a pact etched into the soul.
He spoke:
“Our pact is made.”
Rina trembled.
Azhareth raised one finger.
“In exchange, Rina Everhart—
you will provide feasts like this regularly.”
Rina:
“Yes! Absolutely!”
Azhareth raised a second finger.
The air shifted.
“And the most important offering…”
Rina’s breath caught.
“…Yes…?”
Azhareth spoke with absolute, ancient seriousness:
“Ten cans of cola.
Every morning.”
Rai barked in solemn agreement.
Rina blinked.
“…C-cola?”
Azhareth nodded regally.
“The black holy water of this world.”
Rina bowed again, overwhelmed.
“I… understand.”
(Even though she didn’t. Not at all.)
But her voice was firm:
“I accept the terms of our pact.”
Azhareth leaned back slightly.
The heavy aura eased.
The ancient weight was lifted.
Rina felt her lungs fill fully for the first time since entering his home.
She rose slowly, respectfully, and stepped toward the door.
Before leaving, she turned back, her voice barely above a whisper:
“…Thank you, Raine.”
Azhareth did not reply.
But Rai waved his tail, tiny sparks dancing.
Rina smiled softly—
and stepped out into the hall.
As the door closed, a pair of eyes peeked from across the hallway.
Mira stood silently in her doorway.
Watching.
Confused.
Concerned.
“…What exactly are you?”
she whispered.