Sugar–Coated Fog

They mounted their Khaori Bierds—riding them was no easy task.

Understandably so.

These beasts could run at speeds that tore through wind like thunder. Riding them felt less like horseback and more like trying to stay aboard a crashing comet. But despite the chaos, Azriel and Leirza held their own.

Leirza estimated the travel time to Chronisca would now be cut in half—maybe more.

Good. They couldn't afford to waste time.

As the sun dipped into the earth and the stars scattered above, the birds began to tire. Eventually, the two arrived at a small town nestled between rocky ridges—surprisingly untouched by the "Marching of Death" incident.

Although the incident's name had begun to spread in hushed tones, its documentation remained forbidden. Even still, fear couldn't fully silence the people anymore.

Voices stirred, even if only whispers.

This town—unlike many—had become a refuge. Unity, in a divided world? Odd, yes. But comforting.

Kindness here was suspicious. Perhaps the people just weren't used to strangers. Or maybe they'd learned to be careful.

Azriel and Leirza stepped through the gates.

Instantly, tension struck.

An older man, the apparent town adviser, drew his sword—followed by several wary warriors.

"HEY! LEAVE THIS PLACE AT ONCE! I DON'T CARE IF YOU'VE TAMED THAT BEAST—YOU CAN'T TAKE US ALL!"

Azriel blinked. What?!

Leirza was about to explain—but Azriel raised a hand, stopping him.

After all, if Signo taught him anything, it's that his tongue was sharper than his sword.

The moonlight caught his tousled hair as he stepped forward like a theatrical prince.

"Whoa, whoa—easy, mister!"

"You've got us all wrong. My twin brother and I are survivors!"

He pointed to the faint bullet hole scar on his forehead.

"See this? That's where I almost lost the top of my head!"

"And my brother? He's mute now… and missing an arm!"

Leirza, always one for method acting, casually dissolved one of his arms into voidlime fluid, staring blankly ahead.

Gasps filled the air.

"Oh my goodness! Forgive us!"

The advisor bowed.

"We thought you were raiders—riding in on that monstrous Khaori Bierd… it's massive!"

Azriel scratched his head.

"Yeah, yeah. We, uh… stole it from the knights!"

"Poor thing was enslaved. Befriended us along the way."

The villagers nodded in awe. Leirza just stared at him.

How is this working?

I have no idea, Azriel thought smugly.

The whispers began.

"Hey… they're kind of cute."

"Poor souls… so young."

"Wait—did you see that scar?!"

Eventually, they were allowed inside.

Warm food was given. The birds were fed and housed. For once, peace wrapped around Azriel like a blanket. But… this was still Signo.

And peace?

Always meant someone was about to reap it.

They remembered what the whisperspike said—that some resistance members had been fighting off remnants of the army.

And remnants meant dispersal.

As if summoned by fate, a low growl echoed from the forest.

A knight.

Alone, but just as menacing.

It roared, a guttural beast-like howl—one that sent many villagers into a panic. Eyes widened. Panic set in. Some fell to their knees.

Azriel simply sighed, drawing his sword.

Leirza, still one-armed and in character, reshaped his limb and readied his blade.

"Let's kill this thing and get some sleep."

Leirza nodded—and vanished in a blur.

He severed the knight's legs in one clean motion.

Azriel followed up, slicing clean through the neck.

The knight's body dropped, heavy and final.

Dead.

Gasps rippled through the village.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT DIED THAT EASILY!"

"STRONG AND CUTE? WHAT AN AMAZING BLOODLINE!"

"THAT WAS INCREDIBLE!!"

The crowd erupted in cheers, clapping, pointing, and muttering admiration. They had no idea Azriel was a wanted man—and he preferred to keep it that way.

He waved, pretending to be humble.

This is fine… just don't find out who I am.

Leirza just looked at Azriel and gave him a thumbs up.

Night fell, and the road was covered in tents. The villagers slept outside, some sharing food, others huddling close for warmth. Azriel and Leirza shared a tent, simple and quiet.

"You really don't sleep, huh?" Azriel asked, lying back on the bedroll.

"Correct. I'll keep guard."

"Alright, good night."

"Good night."

Azriel drifted off. But Leirza, as always, remained still—awake, watchful. Azriel never questioned it.

The next morning, Azriel awoke to an empty tent. No sign of Leirza.

He raised his hand trying to summon him—nothing.

This time he recalled, Still nothing.

Azriel's eyes narrowed. They'd tested the distance once: Leirza could only be recalled within 500 meters.

He stepped outside, calling out again with urgency. Finally, a single trail of voidslime flickered into his palm—faint, distorted. It was near the adviser's house.

Azriel rushed there and knocked firmly.

The adviser greeted him with a forced smile, half-polite, half-nervous. "Ah, the town's hero! What brings you—"

Azriel's eyes glinted with suspicion.

"Where's my brother?"

"Oh, uh, I saw him going to your mounts..."

Azriel's expression darkened.

"Don't lie. We're connected. I know when he's in danger."

His fist shattered the doorframe.

"SHOW. ME. HIM."

Reluctantly, the adviser stepped aside. Inside, a trap door creaked open.

Suddenly, two brutes lunged from the shadows and kicked Azriel down into the basement.

He tumbled down the stone steps, landing hard—and there he saw him.

Leirza, bound in chains, one arm missing. He was silent, still—but very much alive.

Blood stained the floor. A room off to the side showed human parts dangling like meat in a butcher's display, visible through a small glass window.

"You're... cannibals," Azriel spat, disgust coating his voice.

"Strong, but foolish," one of the warriors said smugly. "We've seen your type. You can only fight with your brother. And you came here without a sword? Without a plan? Some pretty-boy hero."

Another chuckled darkly. "I wonder how he tastes."

They laughed. Azriel's gaze turned cold. He looked at Leirza.

"You could've ended the act earlier, you know."

Leirza's body shimmered—melting through the chains into his full voidslime form. The warriors stepped back, horrified.

"Th-that's why he didn't bleed!"

Leirza cracked his neck, voice like ice. "I knew you were suspicious. No village should hold that many refugees without a catch. This is Neuraleth."

One of the cannibals barked, "Get them!"

The adviser cast a buff spell over his warriors. Azriel stood, fists clenched. Leirza summoned a blade from his body.

"You want one?" Leirza asked.

"Nah," Azriel smirked. "Fists today."

"Tch. Me too, then."

The basement erupted into chaos.

Twelve cannibals charged.

Azriel dodged a blade, ducked, and slammed his knee into one warrior's stomach. He spun, elbowed another in the jaw, then kicked a third across the room. Leirza moved like a shadow—arms shifting into tentacles of voidslime, choking two enemies at once, smashing a third into the wall.

"You're outnumbered!" one shouted.

"But you're outclassed," Azriel replied coldly.

The adviser tried to run.

Azriel didn't let him.

He grabbed a stunned warrior and hurled him like a cannonball—crushing the adviser against the wall with a sickening crunch.

One by one, the rest fell—groaning, broken, unconscious.

Once the fight was done, they dragged the battered cannibals out into the sunlight. The town's real guards arrived, confused and horrified.

"These... people..." Azriel panted. "They were feeding on your refugees."

The guards were stunned—ignorant of what had happened beneath their own feet. But the evidence was undeniable. They took the criminals away, dumbfounded.

Azriel looked at Leirza.

"You okay?"

Leirza nodded. "They underestimated the 'quiet one.'"

Azriel chuckled weakly, wiping blood that wasn't his from his mouth. "Good thing you're loud when it counts."

He's becoming more human he smiled internally wait is he using my catchphrases-

And elsewhere in the world where hope flickered like ash—two hearts searched still.

Somewhere deep in the fractured lands of Neuraleth, where the moonlight bled pale across the ruins of silent towers, a woman with silver hair sat on her knees, trembling beside a makeshift campfire that had long since died.

Lysara's voice cracked against the cold wind, "Why haven't we received a signal yet…?"

Gio, once a titan of wrath and war, now knelt beside her—not as a soldier, but as a father in all but blood. His face was tired, lined with battle and grief, yet his hand found her shoulder with steady strength.

"Lysara… he's made it back from worse."

"No, Gio! You don't understand—he always sends a signal across the continent when he revives! A whisper, a pulse, something!" Her tears fell like shattered starlight, trembling on her cheeks. "But this time, there was nothing."

Gio looked into the dying embers, his voice barely a murmur. "Do you remember the first time he saved us? When he didn't even know how to hold a sword properly? That kid… he still stood in front of death like it meant nothing."

"He's more than a hero," Lysara whispered. "He's... everything."

"Exactly." Gio's voice deepened, like distant thunder. "That's why we can't fall apart. If—if this is the one time he doesn't come back... do you think he'd want us like this? Broken? Lost?"

She shook her head slowly, sniffling.

"No…"

"He's not gone," Gio added firmly, "Not until Signo itself crumbles. That kid's soul is stitched into the bones of this world. Maybe we can't hear him yet—but he's out there. And until we find him, we fight. For him. For the others. For what we still have left."

"…Then let's become stronger," Lysara said at last, her tears drying in the wind, "Not just for him—but so when he returns… he finds us standing proud. Not weeping."

They both looked out toward the jagged horizon—where the borders of Chronisca waited, and perhaps, so did Azriel.