The last sigil of the summoning circle pulsed once…
…and then shattered like crystal against thunder.
A ripple echoed through the land, rippling outward with impossible gravity. Even the winds fled.
Azrador's form — no longer incomplete — now stood in its full terrifying glory.
He was not colossal. He was not towering.
He was simply undeniable.
A figure shaped like a man, sculpted from obsidian flame and shadowed divinity. His black skin shimmered like oiled glass under lightning. Two wings — not feathered, but etched with living runes — extended from his back, casting no shadow and yet darkening the very light that touched them. His face… was not hidden, but somehow unreadable, like trying to stare into truth itself.
He was beauty and terror, poise and ruin, elegance forged in chaos.
And he was whole.
The World Tree trembled behind him, her divine aura humming at the edge of awe and reverence. Even she, guardian of the world, had recognized what now stood within her domain.
Azrador slowly looked toward the angels — still kneeling, bleeding, their halos cracked like broken glass.
A flicker of something almost human passed through his crimson eyes.
Pity.
One of the angels raised his head — face pale, armor broken, but pride still burning in his golden gaze.
He forced himself to stand, shaking, breath shallow.
"…Primordial." His voice carried both caution and defiance. "I… acknowledge your descent."
Azrador tilted his head slightly. Silent.
The angel's voice tightened. "I will offer you a chance. Release the divine pressure suffocating us… and I shall show you mercy in defeat."
Behind him, Arthur Pendragon's eyes widened. "He's… lost his mind."
The Dragon Monarch snarled, "Fool."
The Demon Lord just watched — as still as death.
The angel turned his gaze upward — toward the branches of the World Tree.
"Lady Mother," he said, voice softer, respectful but strained. "Permit this one request. Withdraw your divine pressure. Let us fight with honor."
Azrador remained still.
Then… bowed his head slightly toward the Tree.
"Lady Mother," he echoed. "I ask your grace to yield, if only for this display."
A moment passed.
And then the suppression lifted.
The angels gasped as their bodies rose off the ground, lungs filling with breath. One stepped back in relief.
But the standing angel… roared.
A blast of holy light erupted around him, wings spreading wide as a massive greatsword of divine energy formed in his grip — its length taller than three men, its edge so pure it sang.
He raised it high.
The air split.
A blinding pillar of golden destruction — so radiant it turned night to day — screamed down toward Azrador.
The Elven King cried out, shielding his face.
Even the Dragon Monarch clenched his fists.
It would obliterate the entire ritual site if it landed.
But Azrador…
…simply lifted his hand.
His palm shimmered with purple-black corruption — swirling, languid, unhurried.
And then…
silence.
The divine beam vanished as it touched his palm — like water vanishing into sand.
No explosion. No sound.
Nothing.
The angel's eyes bulged.
"That… that's impossible," he choked. "You didn't even use your Law. You didn't use anything—"
Azrador stepped forward slowly.
"I used what was appropriate," he said gently.
Then, colder: "What kind of adult must go all out… when facing a child?"
The angel stumbled back, gasping.
"You— You arrogant monster!"
Azrador's steps echoed like war drums.
"You call it arrogance," he said, voice velvet wrapped around thunder. "I call it Pride."
Another step. And another.
The angel collapsed, knees buckling. His sword disintegrated.
Azrador stopped only when he loomed directly above him — the corrupted winds around his body licking the angel's broken armor like shadowed flame.
"You failed your mission," he said, voice neither cruel nor angry. Just… inevitable. "And yet you were spared."
He raised his hand — not in attack, but in decree.
"Carry a message."
The words were not spoken — they were engraved onto the soul.
A moment passed.
The angels' halos pulsed once.
And deep within their divine cores, Azrador's corruption took root — silent, formless, waiting.
Invisible.
They would not feel it now.
But should they return to Heaven…
Should they try to speak of this day…
They would erode.
Fade into nothing.
And worse — the rot would spread.
Any angel near them at that moment would suffer.
Even their Archangel superior… even he would not escape untouched.
Far above, in the sky, a ripple of light flickered.
Somewhere… the heavens had stirred.
And bled.
Azrador turned from the angels without further word.
They collapsed in place, weeping — one in despair, one in pure horror.
Behind him, not a soul spoke.
Not Arthur.
Not the Demon Lord.
Not even the Dragon Monarch.
The air was still — not from peace, but paralysis.
Then Azrador raised his hand.
His voice, calm and eternal, rang like a bell across the clearing.
"I am Azrador, the Primordial of Pride."
"I bow to no throne."
"I kneel to no law."
"I serve no god."
His eyes burned like distant suns.
"This world… is under my protection."
And as his corrupted wings spread wide, blotting out the moonlight itself, the ground beneath every Transcendent shivered.
A new force had entered the game.
Not as a pawn.
But as a king.