Beast Reborn: The Tale Of The 1st Beast Tamer

"Get up," 

Azazel groaned, his body aching. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, and he struggled to see past the smog in the air. His fingers clenched around the ashes that seemed to be all that remained of his home.

"Why?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Why should I even try?"

A shuffling noise drew his attention. A boy, no older than ten, was cowering behind a toppled well, wide eyes filled with sheer terror. The monstrous, wolf-like creature turned its head, locking onto its next prey. The child. The beast's mouth stretched.

"Please… make it stop," Azazel whispered. His nails bit into his palms, the sting a desperate attempt to cling to any sense of feeling. But no divine force listened, and no miracle was coming. 

The boy screamed as the wolf lunged. Azazel flinched, closing his eyes. There was nothing he could do. He was too weak. He had always been too weak.

"Run!" The shout burst from him without thought, useless as it was. The child scrambled backward, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere safe.

Azazel fell to his knees, the sight searing into his mind, mixing with too many other horrors he had seen. Memories of his sister's laughter, his mother's warmth, all swallowed by darkness and ruin. How many times had he begged for it to stop? How many nights had he wished for the pain to end?

A familiar roar cut through the chaos, this one deeper, more menacing. A serpentine beast descended from the sky, scales shimmering like deadly jewels, eyes gleaming with hunger. Its presence felt like a death knell, and Azazel's limbs refused to move.

"No… no more." His voice cracked. He was tired. So tired. Why did he still breathe when everyone he loved had been killed? What point was there in enduring a world that had become a nightmare?

"Make it stop." He choked on the words. "Please…"

The serpent struck, and the ground trembled. Azazel's vision blurred as grief poured out of him, mixing with a rage he could barely contain. Yet even anger felt hollow when he was so powerless.

Something shattered within him, and he stumbled to his feet. "I… I can't take this anymore." Each step felt heavier, burdened by a hopelessness that refused to release him. He drifted like a ghost through what remained of the village, until he reached the edge of a cliff overlooking the jagged rocks below.

The wind howled, beckoning. An end. A release. He closed his eyes, ready to fall, when a sudden warmth engulfed him, halting him in place. Light, brilliant and golden, exploded around him.

"Do you truly wish to surrender?" The voice, soft yet echoing, pulled him back from the brink.

Azazel blinked, stunned. Before him stood a figure bathed in radiance, wings spread wide, gleaming with celestial brilliance. Its eyes held a deep, ancient sorrow. 

"Who are you?" Azazel asked, his voice cracking.

"I am the Angel of Valhalla," the being replied, "I guard the threshold between life and death. And you, Azazel, stand at a crossroads."

Azazel's fists tightened. "A crossroads? What good does that do me? Everything I've loved is gone, destroyed by monsters I can't even hope to defeat."

The Angel's expression remained gentle, yet unyielding. "And yet, you are still here. Still breathing." It tilted its head slightly. "I offer you a choice: peace, or the power to fight back. But know that power comes with a cost."

Azazel's breath caught. "Power…?" His heart beat faster. The thought of finally being able to do something, to strike back at the beasts that had shattered his life, kindled a spark in the void of his soul.

"Yes," the Angel said. "The power to challenge the darkness. To protect those who cannot protect themselves. But it will not be easy. The trials you face will seek to break you. If you choose this path, you must be prepared for the pain, the sacrifice, and the weight of your choices."

Azazel's mind raced. Was it worth it? Could he even make a difference? The faces of the lost, of the boy cowering behind the well, swirled in his thoughts. Anger, grief, hope—they warred within him.

"I…" he hesitated, staring into the abyss. The pull of nothingness was tempting, but the Angel's gaze was unwavering, waiting.

"Fine. If I'm to live, then let me fight. Let me be more than prey."

The Angel extended a hand, light enveloping Azazel, seeping into his bones, filling the cracks in his shattered heart. For a moment, the world stood still, and in the brilliance, he found something he had thought lost: purpose.

As the light faded, Azazel stepped back from the cliff, determination etched onto his features. The Angel's voice lingered in the air, like a gentle whisper against the wind.

"Then rise, Azazel. Your battle begins now."