At the time when Nozras ascended to the throne, the capital was splendid.
The brown stone walls and the other towers overlooked the city. The sun was blazing, and the temperature kept rising as everyone awaited the arrival of the king.
However, no one seemed to care about the heat. Nozras was the one who maintained the pressure.
The three clans were positioned around the steps of the hill. Kinra on the left, Morbir on the right, and finally, Valon surrounded the throne.
Valon, Kinra, and Morbir themselves were present, encircling the throne.
Valon had short black hair and green eyes, which matched his outfit perfectly. And his face possessed a harmonious beauty.
He wore an emerald‑tinted uwagi, dark and saturated, like the eternal foliage of an ancient cedar. The green was not bright but contained, deep like the color of disciplined silence and his inner balance. The texture of the fabric, sturdy and slightly grainy, recalled the garments warriors wore both for training and for discreet missions.
The bands running along the sleeves and the edges of the jacket were ivory white.
The garment was crossed over his torso, held by a simple belt tied at the waist. Nothing floated, nothing dangled, but every piece seemed adjusted to answer the urgency of a controlled movement. The sleeves, falling just above the wrists, hinted at forearms accustomed to wielding the sword or blocking strikes, tanned by exercises and battles.
At the shoulders, the straight cut shaped a firm, almost hieratic silhouette, without exaggeration. It was the attire of a fighter who, without seeking to be seen, could not be ignored. He wore an expression that was calm yet emotionless, as if the world did not seem to reach him.
Kinra was on his left, behind the throne. He wore roughly the same clothes, but his were blue. A blue that recalled the sea. As if he were a small wave striking the shore from time to time. However, the clan leader in charge of the army and armaments could just as easily reveal himself to be a true tsunami.
His calm and cunning face seemed to predict a sneaky attack from behind. He had long hair tied in a ponytail, swaying with the country's hot and dry wind.
On his right stood Morbir. He was the darkest and youngest of the three. But he was also undoubtedly the most talented.
The combat master Morbir was a young man with a dark face and often seemed angry. His uwagi was black and purple, as if he did not want to let any color escape. He stared straight ahead with an enraged gaze.
Suddenly, he felt a hand pinch his cheek and jolted to the side.
"Hey, Kinra!"
The clan leader grinned viciously.
"Calm down, little genius. You're too tense. Is it because you didn't want Nozras to win?"
"I won't allow that. Nozras is too strong anyway. I'm pissed because I have to stand next to you two for the ceremony."
Valon didn't say a word, seeming to look past the argument between the other two.
"It has begun."
Thousands of soldiers struck the ground with the tips of their spears. The sound echoed throughout the entire capital. Even the civilians began to stomp their feet. In the distance, at the great gate of the capital, an immense silhouette appeared. It stood over two meters fifty and was wider than two refrigerators. Its imposing build made everyone around shiver, even tremble. Every time he passed, one could not tear their eyes away from the great king.
A man appeared. Or rather, a monster. He looked more like an entity of war. A celestial being. From the height of his massive frame, a face rose. A calm expression, yet one of infinite superiority, rested upon it. His reddish‑ginger hair had been damaged by the countless battles he had fought. However, it was said that his hair had turned red because of the amount of blood he had spilled, which had eventually fused with it.
No one truly knew.
His eyes were brown, but through them one could see a determined gaze. Like a powerful flame burning without restraint. His brown skin shone majestically under the sun. He wore a thick, dark fabric draped around his hips in a style inspired by Spartan armor. It was slit on the left side, revealing a deep gash. Frayed ribbons hung at the back, like remnants of an ancient royal cloak.
Along with that came martial boots. High, made of a matte alloy and engraved with warrior symbols. At the joint of each knee, a small crystalline lens was embedded.
He had a belt made of Netherite. It was black and imposing. It did not match well with the rest, for everything else bathed in a vivid blood‑red color. But since it was Nozras who wore it, it did not matter.
Needless to say, very few garments suited the giant king. It was already a miracle that this tunic had been crafted. Yet Nozras wore nothing on top. His assaulting muscles reflected the sunlight. Those spectacular scars made him as beautiful as a work of art. But Nozras did not care. He had no jewelry or necklace. No tattoos or piercings. There was nothing to add.
He walked with force as the rhythm of the strikes multiplied.
Morbir looked at Valon and then asked:
"Hey? You were the one in charge of giving a name to this coronation chant… What did you call all this?"
Valon smiled. His face showed a satisfied expression. Then he spoke in a calm voice.
"The King's Cry. I called it: the King's Cry."
Soon, the strikes, becoming faster and faster, changed. A single strike echoed through the capital. Then two quick ones made by half the people present during the short moment when another strike by everyone had to follow. Then again two heavy strikes came in succession before hearing once more the two spaced heavy strikes. All of this in a low and constant rhythm that no longer increased.
It was heavy, loud, imposing, and dark. It was as authoritative as Nozras himself, and it suited him perfectly.
Suddenly, the people began to sing. The voices were deep, yet the whole was harmonious. There were not many words in this chant, but there was great strength within it.
The King has arrived to the greatest throne
His pride left his enemies behind
The blood made them pay what they owed to the core
The sun will not cry for the corpses
All across the capital, Nathanaël could hear a chant rising. As if a royal presence were approaching. A presence he suddenly found difficult to endure.
He panicked at the idea of seeing yet another overwhelmingly powerful enemy arrive while he was already struggling against Azraël.
"Why are they all singing?"
Azraël seemed even more panicked than he was.
He knew these elevations were not for him. This chant—he knew its history. He knew its strength. And for nothing in the world would he have wanted it to be sung on this day.
**
Nozras climbed the steps of the capital, always looking upward. The world was still singing the chant. On loop, faster and faster. The strikes drew closer together, and the chant accelerated.
**
Nathanaël looked around him. The chant was becoming more and more powerful, and it made his head hurt. He had never heard such a choral, and an immense influx of thoughts flooded his mind.
Why on this day? Were they celebrating a new king? Who? Azraël? Azraüs? Someone else? Zvrag?
He firmly believed that the nation of war would fight until the end of the world. So why was this happening now? Were they united, or was this the end of the world?
Nathanaël held his head as the chant reached its peak.
Suddenly, he felt a presence climbing the broken steps of the throne.
**
Nozras continued climbing all the way to the top. The hill didn't even seem to be a challenge for him. The inhabitants kept singing, and it didn't seem to reach him at all.
Then suddenly, the chants stopped:
Nozras had arrived.
A woman with blond hair and brown eyes stepped forward. She was beautiful and meticulous. Tall and slender but not thin. She was probably the tallest woman in the world, yet her height remained ridiculous compared to Nozras. Her long blond hair was braided magnificently, resembling waves crossing over the surface of a lake.
Nozras could see her face when she approached to place a necklace around his neck, as well as a special cape. Her face was calm and splendid. Her features seemed fine and precise, like a sculpture.
Her eyes met those of her husband.
Rita Obu, as she was named, then gave the king a blood‑red cape marked with symbols, the one in the center being a lores opening its mouth, roaring forward. The necklace, meanwhile, was made in black, covering most of the king's torso. It was an arc of a circle whose edges had been cut straight, then reworked to resemble rectangles stacked on top of one another. In truth, they were several arcs of circles layered together, whose ends were not straight but slanted. They went from the smallest at the bottom to the largest at the top.
A precious stone lay at the center of the necklace. It was a ruby. Three others were attached to the chain supporting the necklace—two on its right, one on its left.
Then Rita Obu placed a crown on him. Forged from gold so pure it seemed to capture the sunlight within its heart, every curve and motif intertwined like a silent melody, exalting the majesty it embodied.
Its delicate branches rose like the wings of a phoenix, adorned with fine engravings of arabesques and illuminations, recalling both nature and ancient magic. Interlaced among the golden waves, countless gems sparkled: rubies burning like flames of war, deep sapphires reminiscent of the starry night, and radiant emeralds, green as the untouched forest. Each seemed to hold a fragment of a soul, vibrating with a secret, almost living energy. At the top, a single diamond cut in the shape of a star captured and redistributed the ambient light, casting a thousand glimmers across the room, like constellations captured to adorn the head of the one who would wear it. This crown was a symbol, the promise of an immortal reign, an inheritance forged in the eternal brilliance of gold and the power of precious stones.
And yet this crown was destined to disappear.
**
Nathanaël and Azraël both looked toward the place where the newcomer was supposed to stand. The steps of the capital had never looked so frightening. The strikes multiplied, accelerating, and the words of the chant imposed a rhythm that pressed down on the two fighters. Soon, Nathanaël forgot that he hadn't breathed for a full minute.
Azraël wasn't in good shape either.
"A king? Why a king now? It can't be… unless he's back?"
He looked behind him and saw that Reno's body was still lying there at the side of the throne.
"Who? Then who is it?"
Azraël refocused on the steps.
The footsteps grew heavier and heavier. The chant was reaching its end. The suspense was at its peak, and the hearts of Azraël and Nathanaël became so heavy that it was difficult for them to remain standing.
"Whoever it is, the amount of aura he'll gain after this will be colossal. Let's hope he isn't a competent user."
Soon, they saw him, and their eyes widened.
It was a young man who seemed even younger than him. His face was rather handsome, and his eyes were a piercing blue. He had marks on his face—two kinds of serpents were tattooed around his neck, giving the illusion that they were strangling him. The snakes' fangs were on his face: two above, two below. His body was extremely well built, but his face… his face was no longer childlike at all. It was mature and calm.
"Az… Azraüs?"
The well‑built young man stood there at the top of the steps. Azraël looked at him as if all of this were a joke. As soon as he set foot on the ground, the chant stopped.
After all, the king had reached the summit.
"It's… it's just you…"
Azraüs walked toward them, Man‑Eater in his right hand. It scraped the ground with a sharp noise, sending sparks along the way.
Nathanaël observed him closely. Something had changed in him. His aura was different. It swayed with calm and coordination above him and around him. It was a dark blue, but also slightly black. His calm was only a façade—Nathanaël could tell. In reality, the aura seemed on the verge of unleashing itself. Its calm waves foretold a tsunami.
He couldn't say what had happened, but he vaguely understood that Nozras was recognizing a new king in Azraüs. Why? He had no idea. Maybe Azraël's strange, non‑human powers were putting pressure on them. Maybe they finally wanted to see an end to all this torment. Or maybe someone had forced them to do it after so many years. Such precise timing could only come from someone who had read the book. Someone who knew the end of the world would be around this date. Someone who wanted to put an end to Nozras's fury after so long.
Azraüs looked calmly at Nathanaël. Flames seemed to dance in his eyes. Dark, unusual flames.
"Nathy…"
"What?"
Then he said in a calm tone, with a wide smile:
"Let's finish this quickly."