Hours later, deep into the night, the girl woke up completely healed in the man's cave. The air was cold and silent. In a corner, he was training, lifting improvised weights with slow, controlled movements.

  — Thank you… for saving my life.

  The man stopped his workout and glanced at her from the corner of his eye before approaching.

  — Don't thank me. Just leave me in peace, alright? I prefer being alone. It saves me a lot of trouble.

  The girl turned her head toward the corner of the cave. There stood the staff — the relic — used as a simple coat rack, with clothes hanging carelessly from it.

  — I’m sorry, but I can't just leave you alone. You killed a troll with your bare fists… you know how to use magic… and worst of all: you use a relic from before the Demon King's death as a damn coat rack. I can't ignore that. Who are you?

  The man let out a long sigh.

  — My name is… None-of.

  — None-of?

  — Yeah. None-of your business. I thought I made that clear already. I have no intention of telling you who I am or talking to you. Just get out of here once and for all.

  The girl turned beet red, filled with rage at the man's attitude. She stood up abruptly and grabbed her staff.

  — I have to know! The Guild has to know! Either you tell me now… or I’ll have the entire Guild come here to find out.

  The man began to laugh uncontrollably at the threat.

  — Ha… ha, ha… and what are they going to do? Seeing your skills, I have no doubt that the sorcerers of this era are useless.

  — Shut up! I know I'm not the best, I know! But I'm not the only sorceress in the Guild. I'm still learning. Master Robert would defeat you! He possesses the knowledge passed down by the great Azael in his book.

  The man frowned, genuinely confused.

  — What the hell are you talking about? What book?

  — Ah, I expected nothing less from someone as ignorant as you. It’s obvious you don't know the Book of Azael, passed down from Guild Master to Guild Master for generations.

  — In this case, the ignorant one is you — he replied dryly. — There is no Book of Azael. And if there were, he would never have written it. Azael was arrogant, insufferable, and egocentric. He would never share his knowledge with anyone.

  Liria gripped her staff with fury and began to channel magic. The air in the cave became dense and hot. The crystal on her staff changed color, turning a deep red as she shouted:

  — I won't let you say those things about the Illuminated One! Sfaira Ignis!

  A fireball shot out.

  The man dodged it with ease, but the projectile slammed into a wooden crate, which exploded into pieces. Objects went flying and some fabrics began to burn.

  — Hey, hey, hey—! — he growled as he rushed to put out the fire with his bare hands.

  Among the scorched remains that fell to the ground, something metallic rolled until it stopped at the girl's feet: the metal part of an ancient medal.

  The girl looked at it closely. It was a gold medal with an inscription engraved: “Glory to the Heroes and the Coalition.”

  She picked it up carefully and slowly approached the man, who was kneeling, holding something in his hands.

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  — Why do you have this medal? — she asked. — This was only given to the Hero’s party...

  As she got closer, she saw what he was protecting: an old painting, charred at the edges by the fire she had caused. Even so, four figures could be distinguished: Aleanor, the elven archer; Mararyann, the human warrior; Albert, the priest; and Azael… right before setting off on their final adventure.

  The man didn't look at her.

  — I save your life twice… and you destroy my things? — he said in a low voice. — Just for telling the truth about him. You all treat him like he's a god… Get out of here.

  The girl squeezed the medal.

  — It's you… — she whispered. — You are Azael.

  The man stood up slowly.

  — No… — he said in a low voice. — I stopped being him a long time ago. Centuries ago.

  — Why?! — she demanded. — Why did you disappear? The world seems to be falling into a crisis like the Demon King's again and you're here… doing nothing!

  He looked at her for the first time with real annoyance.

  — Doing nothing? — he repeated. — We defeated the Demon King. I took it upon myself to cleanse the world of every remaining threat. I eliminated everything that could put you in danger… all so you could live in peace.

  He squeezed the scorched painting between his fingers.

  — And what did you do with the fruit of my work? Nothing. You didn't advance. You didn't grow. Maybe because you felt safe… or because you believed that if everything went wrong, I would come back to save you again. Like a god.

  His voice hardened.

  — But I am not a god. And I’m tired of saving you.

  The girl knelt before him.

  — Sir… I… I'm so sorry for what I did. I didn't want to upset or offend you. It's just that…

  — That is exactly the problem — he interrupted. — You treat me like a god, a divine being. Stand up. I don't deserve it… nor do I want bows from anyone.

  She swallowed hard and stood up, still nervous.

  — Master Azael… I understand that you're upset, and I get it. But we need your help again. If a threat like the Demon King arises, in the Coalition's current state… it would be the end.

  Azael looked at the painting of his former companions for a few seconds. His gaze lingered on each face, and for a moment, the weary hermit vanished, replaced by the ghost of the man he once was.

  He remembered the world he had once fought for—a world he had spent decades scouring, long after the great conflict had ended, hunting down every shadow and nightmare just so people could sleep in peace. He had bled for them, but more importantly, they had bled.

  His eyes finally came to a rest on Mararyann, the human warrior. Even after five centuries, the memory of her was a dull ache in his chest, a lingering shadow of a feeling he had never quite been able to bury. He remembered the weight of her hand on his shoulder and the silence that followed when that weight was gone. It was a love left suspended in time, a debt to the dead that he could never truly repay.

  The silence in the cave stretched, heavy with the ghosts of the past. Finally, Azael let out a breath that sounded older than he looked.

  — It’s fine — he said at last. — I'll come back. I’ll help however I can. But on one condition.

  — Really? Of course, sir, ask for whatever you wish.

  — I won't use my magic. And no one can know who I am. Understood?

  — What!? — she exclaimed. — I understand the identity part, but… what will we do without your magic?

  — Easy — he replied calmly. — I'll join the Warriors' Guild. That's how I'll help.

  The girl couldn't believe what she was hearing. The most powerful magical being wanted to be a simple warrior… but well, having him even as a warrior was better than nothing.

  — Alright, but we might have a problem — she said. — The guilds, especially the warriors' guilds, have certain age requirements to join. I know you're in good shape, but still… you look like an old man.

  — Old man? — he replied dryly. — That's very rude of you. I'm only 525 years old.

  — You say it like it's nothing! — she exclaimed, incredulous.

  — Relax, I'll take care of that. Now rest; we leave early in the morning.

  The next morning, a young man with short white hair and blue eyes was trying to wake her up.

  — Hey… hey… wake up! It’s late!

  The girl bolted upright, startled.

  — What… what… what’s happening?!

  She stared at the young man for a few seconds.

  — Who are you?… Oh, I know, you must be Master Azael's apprentice. Is he ready to leave yet?

  — Apprentice? What the hell are you talking about? It's me, Azael!

  The girl froze, staring in disbelief at what she was seeing.

  — How… how is that possible? You were an old man last night! Is it a rejuvenation spell?

  — No… — he replied calmly. — 500 years ago, my body stopped aging, for reasons I don't care to share with you. Combined with my involuntary regeneration, caused by those same reasons, I am immortal. Last night I didn't look young simply because I hadn't trimmed my beard or hair in over 80 years.

  Azael took his magic staff and, reciting a few words in a low voice, began the incantation:

  — Polymorph.

  Its appearance changed instantly, becoming a simple, old wooden stick.

  — How did you do that!? — she exclaimed.

  — It’s just a polymorph spell — he replied with disdain. — Seriously… you don't know something so basic? What kind of mages are there nowadays?

  She opened her mouth to argue, but quickly realized it would be a waste of time.

  — Let's go — said Azael, firmly.

  — Aren't we going to eat any breakfast first…? — she asked in a pleading voice. — I'm hungry.

  — I don't care. Walk, before I change my mind and leave you to your own devices.