Chapter 337: The Lesser Tragedy

Instructor Ranni seemed at a loss for words. Azriel regarded her calmly on the surface, but inside...

Everything was a mess. His vision blurred. Tears pressed against his eyes without permission. His throat burned and itched. His whole body felt as if it were melting in fire—and yet he was numb, and not numb at all.

Azriel was in pain.

He was

feeling

pain, which was wrong. Ever since he’d first escaped the Forest of Eternity, his sensitivity to pain had been almost nothing. That was why most of the wounds he took fighting Corven and his soul echoes hadn’t slowed him down. But now... the poison had twisted something. It had multiplied his pain a hundredfold. If

he

could barely stand the touch of air, how would a normal person survive it? They would kill themselves just to stop the pain of breathing—because breathing for Azriel had become a labor. His lungs felt like charcoal.

"I—" Ranni started suddenly, catching his attention through the faint ringing in his ears.

"I don’t think this is the right moment to discuss what’s on my mind."

"Trust me, Instructor," he rasped. "There’s no better moment than now. You won’t get many chances... after this."

She stared at him, confused, then bit her lip, hesitating.

"I... insist," he said.

"Talk."

With that permission, she nodded hard, lifted her head, and met his gaze, steady and serious.

"Not being able to take down Master Corven—has that made you so disappointed and frustrated with me?"

Azriel blinked, trying to force clarity back into his sight as her words settled.

"Is that why you said all those things to me before?"

"What do you... mean?" He held back a cough.

"You were cruel," she said. Before he could protest, she added, "Not instructive—cruel. You weren’t like that before we entered this forest. From where I’m standing, it’s because we failed in your eyes. You didn’t want to let him go. I’m an instructor; I’ve had countless students lash out at me and my colleagues. And most of the time, they aren’t lashing out because of us. It’s because of something else."

"..."

"Am I right, Your Highness?"

Azriel sighed.

"I stated facts. Nothing more."

Ranni pressed her lips together.

"...Are you really going to try to kill the little girl?"

He kept his eyes on her, working to steady his breath.

"You think I won’t?"

She shook her head.

"No. I know you will. And I know you know it’s a mistake—something you’ll regret—and you’ll still do it. You’ll tell yourself, and everyone else, that it was cold logic. That it had to be done."

"Do you believe... it doesn’t?"

"Is the Immortal Eyepatch truly that great a threat?" she asked.

"I know he’s dangerous. Her Highness, Princess Jasmine, has hunted him for a while. But I don’t see why killing him requires this. I believe he can be contained without killing a child."

"Are you so against killing, Instructor?"

Again, she shook her head.

"No. I’ve killed—many—and I’ll do what must be done here. But killing shouldn’t be the first answer, especially not when the trade is a little girl for a villain. If you kill a child just to take down the Immortal Eyepatch, it will do more harm than good. It won’t be worth it."

Azriel coughed into his fist, blood bright against his knuckles, then clenched his jaw.

"More harm? Not worth it? I’ve researched him—not just because my... sister is chasing him. I know what kind of man that eyepatch-wearing devil is. Men like him become... the worst kind of problem. Right now he might look manageable, but I believe he’s the greatest threat to any of us leaving this scenario alive. So I’m simply—"

"Causing a lesser tragedy to prevent a greater one," Ranni finished.

He fell quiet and gave a faint nod.

"Is that really it?" she asked.

"...What do you mean?"

"Is it truly just cold logic? Nothing else?"

"What are you talking about?" he said, and he didn’t bother to hide the displeasure.

"I don’t know," she admitted. "Maybe it’s a stupid feeling. But for a moment—thinking about you, and about them—I wondered if you wanted one of them dead, maybe both, for another reason." She grimaced.

"I know it doesn’t make sense. Ignore me. You don’t even know them well enough to bear a grudge."

Azriel clenched his teeth until his jaw ached.

"...Don’t do it."

Ranni suddenly looked at him with a pleading gaze.

"Don’t proceed with this, Your Highness, please... Just take the health potions. We will find another way for Cadet Yelena, and I’ll make sure the others are extra cautious... You don’t have to go further with this."

"...No. We can take that risk. You don’t know what might happen."

"But—"

"You should go. I’ll meet you with the others."

Her eyes flew wide.

"What!? No! I should stay and hel—"

"No. I don’t need help. I can do this on my own."

"I really think you should recon—"

"No. I’ll meet you later. You’re wasting time arguing. Either I die because the poison seeps too deep, or because the Marquis’s body infects the forest."

Ranni stared at him, helpless and frustrated. Then, seeing he wouldn’t move, she pressed her lips together, rose, and turned toward the door.

Azriel watched her through the pull of sleep at the edge of his eyes. She reached the frame, stopped, and turned back with an expression that said a choice had finally settled.

"I don’t understand you well enough yet, Your Highness, but..."

She paused, then tried again.

"Cadet Azriel, I won’t give up on her. And I won’t give up on you. I won’t give up on either of you."

He frowned.

"I want to understand my strongest student better," she said.

"So please—don’t give up on yourself, or on anyone else."

Before he could answer, she opened the door and stepped out.

"...."

And then, at last, Azriel was alone in the cabin.

Once more, the Son of Death sat alone in a cabin inside the Forest of Eternity.

After a few more moments—until he could no longer feel her presence at all—

"Ha—hahahahaha!"

Azriel couldn’t hold the laugh back. Who would’ve thought...

He’d be here again—back in a room, forced into pain.

Bam—!

He snatched a wooden cup from the floor and hurled it at the door. It shattered. The laugh died. He glared at the frame.

"Khh...!" He grimaced as the motion sent needles of agony through his arm, lighting every nerve.

He ground his teeth, riding the wave until it passed.

"Don’t give up...? When did I ever say I was giving up?"

He snarled. How dare she say that to him. If anything, he should have said it to

her

.

Clicking his tongue, he summoned Crazy Flask, yanked it open, and drank. The liquor scorched his throat raw, ripping a fresh seam of torment down his chest. He choked and hacked, spilling the rest as it dripped onto the floor.

He wheezed until air returned. Then, all at once, his mana surged back through him, flooding his soul veins. Reckless to drain himself and refill in a single rush—but he had no choice.

When the rush settled, he stood, tightening his grip on the flask. Pain answered him instantly.

"Hoo..."

’Breathe... just breathe...’

He lifted the flask over his head, tilted it, and let the alcohol cascade. It struck his scalp and ran like a waterfall over stone, sluicing down his burned skin.

"...!"

His eyes flew wide; tears blurred everything.

"Kgah... agh...!"

His body trembled. It felt like a swarm of ants biting and stabbing, each drop a sting.

"...Fuck!"

He dropped the flask. It thudded and rolled, spilling a gleaming trail. He staggered and sat hard.

"Haa... haa.. haa..!"

He dragged breath after breath. He had to numb himself, even a little. The poison would likely bind faster where the blood sat thickest—hardening it. Washing might strip the loose filth and leave only the clotted patches he needed to cut away.

Now he was in pain and reeking of liquor.

"Fuck. Fuck..."

He bit his lip and shaped a small dagger of ice. The flask kept dripping onto the boards. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"Ahh... fuck..." His hands shook. Alcohol crawled along his skin. The blade tremored in his grip.

He dropped it, grabbed a cloth from his storage ring inside his torn pants, rolled it, shoved half between his teeth, and bit down hard.

A full-length mirror leaned against the wall. He caught a glimpse of himself—pale as flour, eyes fever-glossed.

He set the dagger just beneath his left ribs where the blood had hardened. He shut his eyes tight.

Then—slowly—he drove the blade into his skin.

"Mnghf!" Fire tore through him, clashing with the blade’s cold. He kept going, jaw crushing the cloth, body shaking. He peeled the strip back—slow, miserable inches, like skinning a fruit.

Halfway, the dagger clattered from his fingers. He fell back; the cloth slipped from his teeth.

"Argh! Khah—gahh!

Fuck!

Ahhh—dammit—fuck...!"

He convulsed, panting. In the mirror, his skin hung loose, a pale flap like a potato peel; blood oozed hot and thin. Eyes bloodshot, he snatched the dagger and, in one motion, sliced clean.

For a heartbeat he felt nothing—watched the patch drop to the floor.

Then—

"Arghhhhh!"

He curled and rolled, drowning in fire. Everything hurt. Screaming hurt. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Being awake hurt. Being alive hurt.

It took a full minute to claw back to stillness. He forced his gaze to the wound: no purple marbling, no seep. He wiped it anyway; the sting knifed deep. He flipped the cloth and bit down again.

And then he did what he hadn’t meant to do.

He stabbed himself.

"Hnggg!"

He dug the point into the flesh—kept his body as still as he could while tears broke free and streaked hot and cold down his face.

Hands shaking violently, he tugged his storage ring free and let it fall. From it he took a tiny chest, smaller than a child’s palm. He clutched it tight, then eased it open.

Inside lay a teardrop of blue crystal, shimmering like held breath. He lifted it carefully, willing his fingers steady. From the ring he then drew a single beautiful feather. He found another empty storage ring in his storage ring.

He slid both keepsakes into the empty ring.

Slowly—

he guided it toward the open wound.

Cold metal kissed the raw inside of him. He screamed—and buried it there.

Then he sealed the cut with ice.

Pressing his trembling hand to the wound, Azriel lay on his back and dragged breath after breath into his lungs.

He needed time. He needed to be alone to do this.

When he realized the Marquis’s blood could be poisonous, he used it as an opportunity to hide the phoenix’s tear and feather—because he knew he wouldn’t get many safer chances than this. It was the only way to buy himself a little time and do this.

His gaze found the storage ring on the floor.

’Should I... take the health potions?’

It was too much. The pain was too much. His sensitivity had spiked so high that everything was too much. Azriel covered his eyes with his forearm; his face twisted.

"Dammit..." His voice cracked.

His other hand thudded weakly against the boards.

"Why me...?"

...

"Why do I have to suffer so much...?"

...

"Why am I the Son of Death?"

...

"Why do you love me so much?"

...

"Why do you keep toying with me?"

...

"Why someone as insignificant as me?"

...

"Why won’t any of you let me be?"

...

"Why is no one telling me anything?"

...

"Why... is all of this happening to me?"

...

...

...

...

No one answered.

And yet he felt their eyes. He shouldn’t have—but it was there, like a fever-dream gaze upon his skin. Maybe it was only his mind playing tricks.

"Pollux... you’re listening, right?"

...

"You made a deal with her, didn’t you?"

With the goddess of death.

...

"What deal did you make?"

...

"What does it have to do with me?"

...

"What... could she offer someone like you—"

Someone who let his world be destroyed.

...

"What are you planning?"

...

"Please... just tell me something. Anything."

...

"Don’t kill them... please."

...

Pollux did not answer.

No one did.

Sobs shook the boy on the cabin floor.

"Even... even if you do all of this to me... I won’t give up. I can’t. Just—please—don’t take them from me..."

...

"Please..."

Please answer.

...Someone.

In time, the tears ran out. Crying hurt, and there was nothing left to spill. He was forced back to the dagger, to shaving the poison from his skin—some of it only crusted on the surface, some of it driven deeper so he had to cut deeper.

He screamed. If anyone heard, no one replied. Pain—

that was all this cursed forest would share.

He was the last to be in the Forest of Eternity, and his final hour within it—

—felt like an eternity.