emperor of the outer world

"Kraaaa." Azazel groaned as he straightened his back, feeling the sharp ache radiating through his body. "Damn, bruh, my back's killing me. It's been a while since we got back from Black Water Bay."

He stood there, stretching against the cold wind that swept through the ruined camp. It had been ages since the northern wall campaign, and the toll was visible in every scar on his body, in every face that remained. Too many warriors had been lost, too many memories left scattered on blood-soaked battlefields.

"We've lost so many," he muttered under his breath, staring at the distant horizon. "Important warriors, good men. I bet it's time we return to camp. We can't keep fighting like this."

Azazel sighed, his mind flashing back to the events that had led them here. It all began at the onset of the nuclear war. He had thought himself capable of holding his ground, of weathering the storm until the very end. But deep down, fear had crept into his heart—not fear of the enemy, but of being betrayed, trampled underfoot by his own comrades.

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind him. "Listen, Azazel. I know your fears, but we still have a war to prepare for. We can't falter now." It was Rahel, her tone firm but not unkind. "We need to see this through. Not a single ounce of distraction—an atom of hesitation—and the world will fall into oblivion."

Azazel turned to her, frustration flaring in his voice. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child. I know how bloody this war is, Rahel. But what's the point of all this when we barely have a chance at surviving this massacre? Lord Bolton thinks we're unstoppable, but even he has to see we need more than brute force. We need a plan."

Rahel crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. "No one's stopping you from speaking your mind, Azazel. But tell me this—has anyone ever explained what actually caused this war? Do you even know why you had to watch everyone you love die? Why you had to hold their faceless bodies in your arms?"

Azazel felt his chest tighten. Her words hit too close to home. He clenched his fists, his voice dropping to a whisper. "No one told me, Rahel. None of this makes sense. None of it."

He turned away, gazing into the distance as the memories swirled in his mind. "I've been to hell, Rahel. I've seen the worst it has to offer. But not a single demon down there is as cruel as the lord of the empire. When I look at the state of things, I can't help but feel we're not entirely to blame for this calamity. Yet, even so, it's on us to put an end to it."

---

At the Morning Assembly

The morning air was thick with tension as the soldiers gathered in the camp's open yard. Warriors from every corner of the shattered world had assembled under Lord Bolton's banner, their faces hard with determination and despair. It was here that Azazel found himself standing beside Rahel.

"You seem new around here," she said, her tone casual but curious. "This must be the first time I'm seeing you. I've been here a little longer. The name's Rahel, but most people call me 'Death.' And you?"

Azazel extended a hand. "I'm Azazel, the only surviving nephew of Lord Bolton, commander of the southern fleet. It's… nice to meet you."

Rahel smirked faintly. "Nephew of Lord Bolton, huh? Guess that explains the attitude."

Azazel chuckled dryly. "Maybe. But titles don't mean much anymore, do they?"

Rahel's smirk faded as she studied him. "I've heard a lot about what's happening out there, Azazel. But tell me—do you even know what brought about this war?"

Azazel hesitated, the weight of her question settling on his shoulders. "The truth is, I don't," he admitted. "Not really. I know we're fighting, and I know what's at stake. But I don't know why."

Rahel's gaze lingered on him, her eyes piercing. "Then maybe it's time you found out."