"—the very same technique the great prophet, Azrael Vau-Leotard, wielded in battle."
"Azrael?" Izikel's eyes gleamed, lit with curiosity and awe.
The same technique used by the man in the legend. The False Prophet himself.
Azrael was more than just powerful—he was a force of nature. He fought in the blood-soaked chaos of the Three Moon Heretic War seventy years ago, carving a legacy through countless victories and helping bring that brutal conflict to an end.
To the world, he was a hero—an enigmatic warrior blessed with unnatural strength. But Izikel knew the truth. He knew where Azrael's power came from… and the dark price he paid to keep it.
When Azrael ignited his Altar, he earned the attribute The One Who Dreams. A Dreamer, just like Izikel.
He possessed the same Blessings—and even more. With them, he could perform miracles through dreams, shaping reality with mere thought. And from all accounts, he wielded that ability with terrifying precision.
Azrael was a scholar of his own power. He studied the mechanics of dreaming, dissected miracles like a surgeon, and integrated them with his swordplay until he became nearly untouchable.
But even Azrael had his limits. His Altar's flames, the very source of his divine strength, began to fade.
And if those flames ever died out… so would he.
In desperation, he fed the flames energy—slaying Divine Beasts, offering up rare Divine Minerals. But nothing worked.
Until he made a terrible discovery.
There was only one true form of worship to a chaos god: the sacrifice of another Divine Believer upon the Altar.
That act had a name.
Worship by Chaos.
'I wonder if Dremlin knows this,' Izikel thought grimly. 'Not that he'd even care'
He pushed the thoughts aside as Dremlin continued speaking.
"The truth is, I was never formally taught the technique," Dremlin said. "After Master Azrael passed—only teaching your grandfather the basics—the original sword pattern was nearly lost. But your grandfather was a genius. With my help, he reconstructed the form from fragments."
Izikel recalled what the Legion commander had said about his grandfather, 'wasn't he only 9 years old… he really must have been a genius,'
He stepped forward and adjusted his stance. "Stand back. I'll show you."
Dremlin bent his knees, grounding himself. His feet dug into the dirt, then exploded forward like a launched missile, piercing through the air with a stabbing thrust.
The speed was breathtaking—almost unreal.
Then, with a fluid twist, he shifted stance and brought his sword down in a brutal arc. The ground cracked under the sheer force of the strike.
"That was amazing!" Izikel exclaimed, his eyes wide with admiration.
"Thank you, Master Izikel," Dremlin said with a respectful nod. "Although I doubt you'll master it in just two weeks, even learning the basics might aid you on your journey."
He raised his sword again. "Now, let's begin."
They clashed.
Again. And again.
Each strike rattled Izikel to his core. The shock of impact burned through his arms, blisters rising on his hands. His muscles screamed, his bones vibrated with every hit.
When he could no longer lift his sword, Lyzah was there—healing him, only so the process could repeat.
Hours passed like a blur of agony.
Finally, when his body could take no more, he was released from the torment.
He showered, exhaustion weighing heavy on his shoulders. With a towel draped around his neck, he made his way toward the Altar cave.
He needed to return the Vau-Leotard Diary. No one else could be allowed to stumble across it by accident.
Now that training was over, it was time to dive back into the legend—the story of Azrael, his great-grandfather.
Izikel wasn't just interested because of its historic value. It was more than that.
It was a damn good story.
A badass protagonist who didn't give a damn about anyone or anything—just power.
"Maybe I'm enjoying the story a little too much," Izikel muttered with a grin, flipping to the next page. "But who wouldn't?"
He scanned the entry. Azrael had fought a hundred men while grievously wounded—and still managed to kill several of the Heretic leaders.
Incredible.
If you ignored all the horrible things he did—something Izikel struggled with—he was practically the stuff of legends. Fortunately, reading about him felt more like enjoying a dark fantasy novel than absorbing grim history.
But his fascination wasn't just about the thrill. It solved a real, urgent problem.
Izikel saw three clear paths to power.
The first was sword training. Judging by today's ordeal, that would take forever.
"Maybe I should focus on my gun instead. Way more efficient"
The second was waiting for his first Trial, since your soul energy would increase with each trial you overcome. But according to Sophia, there was no predicting when that might arrive—weeks, maybe months.
And the third…
The third was dreaming. Performing miracles. Like he did during Dream Divination.
That moment had revealed something vital: new miracles unlocked new Blessings in his Fate Scripture.
Meaning he had to innovate—to experiment—finding fresh ways to apply his Dreamer attribute.
But that came with two big problems.
First, trial and error with soul energy was risky. And second, he had no way to measure how much energy each miracle would cost.
Originally, he planned to wait until his Trial, where his soul energy would naturally increase—less risk that way.
But now?
Now he had the book.
Azrael had already done the hard work. He'd recorded dozens of miracles, documented their stages, and when it was safe to attempt them.
Most were useless to Izikel now— since they required his to overcome his first Trial—but the knowledge alone was priceless.