Signo—a world without remorse, where life holds no sacred value. It is a pebble tossed by fate, shattered by cruelty, and constantly teetering on the edge of oblivion. Death looms in every shadow, especially under the presence of the Vanderes—outerworldly invaders who hunger for this world.
And yet, there was hope.
Hope born from seven figures who rose above the ashes—mages of terrifying power who claimed each of Signo's seven continents. Known as the Seven Graces, or the Seven Kings, they were hailed as gods among mortals. Beacons of salvation, they waged war against the monstrous invaders and were worshiped by the people. Songs were sung in their names. Statues were raised in their image.
"They are the heroes of this world! Who could ever hate them?! Who would dare speak against gods?"
But behind the praise… there was fear. A deeper dread than what the Vanderes inspired.
"Who knew one of the Seven Kings—these so-called protectors of Signo—could be so cruel?!"
A child's voice trembled in the silence, hidden beneath the floorboards of a humble home.
He had just watched his parents die… again and again. Tortured. Mutilated. Resurrected. Repeated like a twisted game by the Mage of Life. There were no words to comfort him. No hands to cover his eyes. Only silent sobs in the dark.
"Azriel…"
His mother's final whisper. The last word he'd ever hear from her.
Above him, the woman with green hair stopped reviving them. She smiled as she stepped out of the home, a soft laugh following her.
"Turns out they weren't secret Vanderes after all!" she declared gleefully.
Her loyal followers cackled with her—cruel and unashamed. Below, hidden in horror, Azriel's mind screamed:
Why them?! HOW COULD THEY BE VANDERES?! They can't even use magic! How could they be outsiders?!
But he said nothing. His instincts kept him quiet. His silence kept him alive.
Years passed.
Azriel, now seventeen, had long left the ruins of Old Brass, his home reduced to ash. A nomad with no purpose, he eventually wandered to the city of Reigo—known as the City of Refugees.
Despite the early morning, Reigo was alive with energy. Blimps soared overhead, street-performing automatons danced on cobbled roads, and voices filled the air. Reigo, heart of the continent Evascera, was a haven of steampunk marvels and diversity: warriors, mages, inventors, and nobles alike lived shoulder to shoulder.
Azriel's wide eyes reflected the city's lights.
"Woah…" he whispered.
Still without a clear path, he scouted the city for work. But he was no warrior, no mage, and not clever enough to be an inventor. Hours passed. Doors closed. Signs turned away. Until—
He stumbled across a modest bar tucked between larger buildings. Its sign creaked overhead: The Quiet Helm.
Curious, Azriel stepped inside. "Hello?!"
Behind the counter, a grizzled man stood hammering a beam into place. Without turning, he called out, "You're early. Looking for a job?"
Azriel blinked, surprised, before remembering the rumors. This man fought the Vanderes.
"Yes… I am."
The man smiled and extended his hand. "Name's Gio Marren. And you?"
"Azriel Caelum. Pleasure to meet you."
They shook hands, and something unspoken passed between them.
The interview was short, informal. Gio was sharp-eyed and intuitive.
"You don't know a damn thing about bartending," he said. "But I can tell—you've got the will to learn."
Azriel smiled for the first time in days. And Gio, unexpectedly, smiled back.
The hours passed. Azriel learned quickly under Gio's guidance, and by nightfall, the bar had taken its first steps toward life. As they closed up, Azriel folded his apron, ready to head out.
The last chair was tucked in. The last glass, cleaned. The warmth of the bar still lingered in the air, but the night outside chilled the windowpanes.
Azriel wiped down the counter, quietly focused, his hands moving on their own. Gio leaned back against the bar wall, watching the boy with something between curiosity and concern.
"Hey, kid," Gio said suddenly, his voice softer now.
Azriel looked up. "Yeah?"
"Come here for a sec."
Azriel walked over, removing his apron, expecting instructions. Instead, Gio just looked at him for a moment, as if trying to read something buried beneath his skin.
"You've seen things, haven't you?" Gio said, not unkindly.
Azriel's heart paused. His fingers tightened around the apron. "What makes you say that?"
"I've met all kinds," Gio said, voice low. "Soldiers who couldn't sleep because of the screams they heard. Widows who laughed a little too hard just to stop from crying. Kids who've lost everything but still carry themselves like they owe the world something. You've got that look."
Azriel didn't reply, but the subtle twitch in his jaw gave him away.
Gio didn't press. Instead, he nodded slowly. "You don't talk about your parents. I figured there was a reason."
Azriel opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn't sure why, but something in Gio's tone made it hard to keep his guard up.
"They were… good people," Azriel said at last, voice shaky. "They didn't deserve what happened."
Gio nodded. "Most good ones don't."
There was a long silence between them. Not awkward—just full. Heavy.
"I thought I was ready," Azriel said, barely above a whisper. "To leave all of that behind. But I see the way people walk around here, the way they laugh so freely, and I wonder what it'd be like to… feel normal."
Gio studied him, then pulled two mismatched mugs from beneath the bar. He poured water into both and slid one across the counter.
"Well, 'normal' is just what people call the kind of pain they've grown used to," Gio said. "This city's full of people pretending they don't hurt."
Azriel took the mug, hands shaking slightly. "You talk like someone who knows pain too."
"I've fought monsters," Gio said, his eyes far away for a moment. "Not all of them had fangs. Some wore smiles and called themselves heroes."
Azriel blinked. For a second, he saw something in Gio's eyes—a flicker of the same haunted light in his own.
Gio softened. "But hey, pain's not all bad. It teaches you what matters. Teaches you how to stand back up."
Azriel looked at him, really looked, and for the first time in a long while… believed someone meant what they said.
"I've been running for ten years," Azriel said. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do now."
Gio gave a slow nod. "Then stop running. Start learning. Stick around. You might find there's more to life than surviving."
Azriel gave a half-smile. "You always give this kind of talk to strangers?"
"Only to the ones who look like they need someone to believe in them."
Azriel hesitated… then extended his hand again, this time with a firmer grip.
"Thank you, Gio."
Gio shook it. "Welcome to The Quiet Helm, Azriel Caelum. You've got a home here—so long as you want one."
The night air was crisp as Azriel walked the street. But peace didn't last long.
Two drunken warriors, stumbling out of a tavern, bumped into him.
"HEY, WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING!" one of them barked.
Azriel kept calm. "Forgive me. It's been a long day."
The second one snarled. "WE'RE THE ONES OUT HERE FIGHTING BEASTS SO YOU CAN SLEEP SAFE!"
One of them shoved him. Azriel looked around desperately—and spotted an enforcer.
"Officer! Help!"
The enforcer glanced at the warriors… then turned away.
Azriel's heart sank.
The warriors grinned cruelly. One of them cracked a chain from his gauntlet and whipped it around Azriel's leg, yanking him off balance. Then came fists. Kicks. Laughs.
Pain. Fear.
His mind screamed again—not just in pain, but in memory. His parents. The Mage of Life. The screams. The helplessness.
And then—something changed.
Azriel pushed back. Weak, trembling—but no longer frozen. He fought back. A punch. A shove. He didn't hurt them, but he didn't stay still either.
Boom.
A gunshot rang out.
The bullet hit him in the head.
Azriel collapsed.
The warriors walked away like nothing happened. The enforcer remained unmoved.
Blood pooled beneath him.
"…Mom… Dad…" he whispered.
Then—silence.
Three hours later, in a dark alleyway, his body stirred.
Azriel gasped.
Eyes wide, breath frantic—he was alive.
"How…?"
His fingers trembled as he touched his head. The wound was gone… but the scar remained.
"It was real…"
Confused, shaken, and terrified, Azriel stared into the night sky.
He had died.
And yet here he was.
Alive.
A single question echoed in his soul:
"What am I…?"