CHAPTER 121: JOINING THE FURIOUS FIVE

She had cried on the day the Prince went missing.

She had cried for so long that she couldn’t even remember when she stopped.

Her pillow had been soaked with tears, her throat had gone raw from muffled screams, and her heart had cracked in ways she didn’t think possible.

She was meant to be his personal attendant — his shield, his comfort, the only woman he would ever need at his side.

But he had been stolen from her.

Stolen by treachery, stolen by lies, stolen by the very blood of his own house.

And the boy she had loved since childhood, the one she had devoted her heart to without hesitation, had vanished into the void.

Her hands had been empty, powerless to stop him.

Anya’s tears had long since dried, but the bitterness remained, poisoning her veins with every breath.

He had taken that from her — he, the traitor, the usurper, the monster who dared to believe himself more worthy.

He had taken away her childhood love.

He had taken away her purpose.

So what could she do but curse? Curse him, curse herself, curse the goddess for allowing her weakness.

The only thing she hated more than him was the fact that she hadn’t been the one to kill him herself.

Now, at last, he lay in ruin before her.

Anya turned slowly to the Patriarch, her face calm, expression unreadable.

She bent down on one knee and bowed low.

"My lord," she said evenly, her voice firm despite the trembling inside her, "please forgive me."

Azariah’s expression was carved from stone.

His jaw was set, his shoulders rigid, his eyes smoldering with restrained fury — not at her, but at the truth.

At the betrayal of his own brother.

For a long, suffocating moment, no one moved.

Then his voice came, deep and cold as a mountain. "Proceed."

Her eyes lit up.

A grin crept across her lips, but it wasn’t the smile of relief or the warmth of joy.

No — this grin was wide, unhinged and feral.

It was the face of a woman who had been denied too long and had finally been handed the thing she desired most.

Diana, unable to stomach what was about to happen, took hold of Ellie’s head and buried her daughter’s face in her stomach, shielding her from the sight.

The child shivered, confused, while Diana whispered soothing words into her hair.

Anya’s blade spun in her hand, the steel catching the light with a cold gleam.

She stepped forward.

With a single precise strike, she drove her weapon through the decapitated head, destroying it in an instant.

But she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t stop.

What followed was no clean execution.

There was no warrior’s mercy.

It was desecration.

Steel cut again and again, slashing flesh already lifeless.

The sound of tearing muscle echoed in the chamber, wet and savage.

Bones cracked, limbs bent at grotesque angles, the body that had once housed her enemy reduced to nothing more than unrecognizable pieces.

Her blade struck until her arms shook, until the stone beneath was slick with blood, until there was nothing left but ruin.

Her breaths came ragged, each one tinged with manic laughter that bubbled from her throat despite herself.

When at last she stopped, when the final piece of Dante’s body fell to the ground in mangled ruin, she stood tall, chest heaving, a satisfied smile etched across her face.

The chamber was silent.

Even among the Furious Five countless turned four, warriors who had seen endless battles, there was unease in their eyes.

...

Azel was back in the meeting hall.

Despite the fact that he was already healed, Anya supported him at his side, clinging to his arm as though he might vanish again if she let go.

She was smiling.

It was a wide smile not similar to the frenzied grin of before yet the madness in her eyes had not faded.

"Well..." Azariah finally spoke, his voice slower now, his anger tempered by grief.

He bowed his head slightly toward Azel, something almost no one in the region had ever seen.

"My son, I apologize for what has happened. It was because of my brother that you were lost."

"Father," Azel replied, his tone calm, though his mind was still replaying the fight. "It’s not your fault. No one could have predicted it. And besides..."

His eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling, "I’ve already dealt with the problem."

Azariah’s gaze lingered on him, searching, weighing.

He had more questions — too many. How had Azel learned such a devastating technique?

Where had he gained the strength to perform it?

Was it truly the goddess who had guided him, what the hell was going on?

But the Patriarch did not ask.

Who was he to ask another warrior the source of his strength?

Instead, he straightened and addressed the chamber.

"The Furious Five need a new addition." His voice rang clear, a command rather than a suggestion. "And since these hunting grounds have proven too easy for you, my son, how about you join them — and venture deeper into the frozen wilds?"

"I accept," Azel said without hesitation.

His body still ached from the Star Strike, but his eyes gleamed with quiet resolve.

If there were stronger beasts in the depths of winter, then that was where he needed to be.

"Patriarch," Anya’s voice rang out boldly. She did not falter as she bowed and looked at him. "Will I be permitted to accompany the prince?"

Azariah studied her for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Then he nodded. "Of course. You are his personal attendant after all."

Her smile widened. Her grip on Azel’s arm tightened like iron.

The meeting concluded, Azel rose from his seat, Anya still clinging close.

They had barely stepped into the corridor when a shadow blocked their path.

A towering figure loomed over them — the bulky swordsman, his golden eyes sharp and assessing.

He stared down at Azel, his expression unreadable, until suddenly he broke into a booming laugh.

"Hoho~!" he bellowed. "Your hands... they are most fit for a sword!"

The man reached out and seized Azel’s hands, turning them over, tracing the lines of his palms and the callouses on his skin.

"Yes, yes... these are a swordsman’s hands if I’ve ever seen them."

Before Azel could reply, another voice cut in.

"No," said the spearman, his tone sharp but almost teasing.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he inspected Azel’s hands himself.

"Look here — the contours, the spacing of the fingers, the spread of muscle along the thumb. These are the marks of a spearman. Only those who have grasped a true spear know these signs."

He grinned, confident in his judgment.

But Veyra was already at Azel’s side, brushing both men aside with a scoff.

She grabbed his wrist, dragging his hand into her own. "Idiots. A bone sickle would fit him far better."

She tilted her head, her sharp eyes flashing with mischief. "Besides... he’s just my type. He should use what I use."

A silence fell.

Then a ghostly voice cut through it, soft and tired.

"No."

Everyone froze.

From the shadows stepped the youngest of the Furious Five, his movements so silent he seemed less man and more specter.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, his expression weary, but when he looked at Azel, there was something sharp behind them.

"No," he repeated, his tone calm, unwavering. "Daggers suit you best."

The others waited for Azel’s reaction.

He glanced at the boy, then at his own hands, and nodded without hesitation. "Daggers then."

Almost immediately, Azariah’s hand came down on his head with a sharp bonk.

The warriors laughed and even Anya chuckled.

But despite Azariah being calm... inside he was seething.

’I can’t forgive you, brother. For trying to take my son from me. For trying to tear this family apart. I pray the goddess traps your soul and leaves you to rot in endless frost.’