The chamber had been rebuilt.
Reinforced. Layered. Sealed with enough runes to hold back something far worse than death.
And tonight—
It still didn't feel like enough.
Azriah stood at the center of it all.
Barefoot.
Still.
Unmoving as ever.
Five years of silence… and now, finally, they were about to break it.
Above him, suspended in a cage of shifting runes, floated something that made even the most seasoned among them uneasy.
A heart.
No—
A core.
It pulsed slowly, unevenly, like it resented being alive.
Dark crimson cracks ran across its surface, leaking something that wasn't quite light… and definitely wasn't mana.
"The core of Khorne," a voice echoed through the chamber.
Low. Steady. Controlled.
All eyes shifted.
Cedric.
The man stepped forward, robes swaying slightly, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion buried beneath them.
"Five hundred years ago, during the Second Holy War, the god of battle fell."
His gaze lifted toward the core.
"And yet… it refused to die completely."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Lucky for us, the Antioch family had the foresight to preserve what remained."
High above, behind layered barriers, silhouettes watched.
Ten of them.
Still. Silent.
Watching like kings observing a sacrifice.
And at the center—
Asta.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
Cedric turned back to the chamber.
"Let's not waste time pretending this is safe," he said flatly. "It's not."
A few uneasy chuckles. Mostly silence.
"The subject—Azriah—has shown complete incompatibility with mana and divinity despite possessing perfect circuits."
He gestured toward the boy.
"A hollow vessel."
Then, toward the core.
"And this… is chaos given form."
He exhaled slowly.
"The success rate of this merge is approximately sixty percent."
"…Only sixty?" someone muttered.
Cedric shot them a glance.
"That's the optimistic estimate."
That shut them up.
"The compatibility exists," Cedric continued, "because both share one thing in common."
His voice lowered.
"They do not belong."
A pause.
Then—
"Begin the process."
The chamber lit up.
Runes flared to life one after another, forming layers upon layers of containment.
Chains of light wrapped around Azriah's body.
The core above him began to tremble.
And then—
Everything went wrong.
The mana in the air—
Vanished.
Not drained.
Not consumed.
Just—
Gone.
"…What the hell?" someone whispered.
"Where did it—"
Before anyone could finish—
Crack.
Space itself split.
Thin fractures spread across the chamber like broken glass.
Reality bent.
Twisted.
The runes flickered violently.
"Stabilize it!" Cedric barked.
"We're trying—!"
"No, you're failing, fix it!"
The artifacts surrounding Azriah—
Ancient machines, layered with decades of research—
Began to crumble.
Not explode.
Not break.
They simply… fell apart.
Like sand slipping through invisible fingers.
"…It's rejecting the environment," someone said, panic rising.
"No—this isn't rejection," Cedric snapped.
His eyes were locked on Azriah.
"…It's overwriting it."
The core pulsed violently.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
It dropped.
Straight into Azriah's chest.
No resistance.
No blood.
No sound.
It just—
Sank in.
Everything stopped.
For a single moment—
There was nothing.
No light.
No sound.
No breath.
Then—
Something moved.
Azriah's head tilted slightly.
A small motion.
Barely noticeable.
"…Did he just—"
"Shut up."
Azriah's appearance changed the moment the core settled within him—not violently, but with a quiet, unnatural certainty.
His hair, once a muted peach-black, turned into a soft, pale silver-white, almost like freshly fallen snow catching faint light. It wasn't just color—it felt weightless, as if it didn't fully belong to the world.
His skin became porcelain-pale, smooth to an unsettling degree, lacking the warmth of a living human. It gave him that distant, untouchable presence—like something carved rather than born.
But the most striking change—
His eyes.
They opened slowly, revealing a deep crimson glow, not blazing, but simmering. Controlled. Dangerous. Like violence held back by sheer will.
Not wild like a beast.
Not holy like a saint.
Something in between.
Something worse.
High above, among the watching silhouettes—
Asta's lips curved.
Slowly.
"...So," she murmured softly,
"My son… has finally woken up."