CHAPTER 918: THE HORUS TEMPLE ARC (PART-13)

His voice came out cold. "You may have forgotten that you were once human," he said, every word sharp and deliberate. "But don’t forget this. I am also human."

The Werewolf Lord snarled, taking a step back unconsciously. Azzy’s aura pressed down on him like gravity itself.

"I won’t let you defile the body of a man who fought with honor," Azzy continued, his tone lower, darker. "He deserves respect. Not your teeth."

The beast growled but didn’t speak. His instincts screamed at him — this wasn’t a mortal he could intimidate. This was something higher, older... something that had already claimed death as its domain.

So the Werewolf Lord stayed still.

Azzy shifted his gaze to the team inside the barrier — their faces pale, their tears still fresh.

"I’m sending you all away now," he said flatly. "Cooperate."

"W–wait," Iphi stammered, eyes red. "What about Cap—?"

Azzy didn’t answer. He lifted his hand, and the golden barrier rippled, folding inward. The air itself twisted like liquid glass as he drew a circle midair.

A black vortex opened, forming a pocket dimension.

Before anyone could react, he gestured with two fingers. The entire squad — Iphi, Jaden, Celia, and the others — were pulled in, vanishing in streaks of light.

The vortex sealed with a quiet hum.

Then, Azzy compressed it into a faint, glowing sphere — a small, self-contained pocket of frozen time — and tucked it into his coat.

Azzy then glanced at the imprisoned devil, who could still only dart his eyes left and right. The hourglass was seen hovering around the place. With a snap of his fingers, the hourglass disappeared into his body.

After giving a final glance at Werewolf lord, Azzy shook his head and exhaled once. And disappeared.

When he reappeared, the world had changed.

Gone was the temple of blood and frost — replaced by a cold, barren desert, under a colorless sky.

Azzy gently laid Cyro’s lifeless body on the ground. The man looked peaceful, like a soldier who had finally found rest after years of marching.

Taking a deep breath, he muttered. "The Reaper."

Shhhhkkk—

A massive scythe materialized in his grip as his human form turned into a specter, the form of The Reaper. In a slow, ritual motion, Azzy tapped Cyro’s chest with the blade’s edge. A pulse of death energy rippled outward, flowing into the corpse.

Usually, the death energy causes nothing but destruction, but here... it changed completely. He whispered to himself. "The soul lingers for a day before the grim reaper comes to claim it... So, there was plenty of time, but why wait anyway... however, I need to concentrate. I never did it before..."

Taking a deep breath, Azzy concentrated on the task.

The scythe glowed faintly. A dim, bluish light began to lift from Cyro’s chest.

"Whoa... it works?" Azzy blinked in surprise, seeing success on the first try. After becoming a demigod and expelling the reaper’s consciousness, Azzy had received knowledge automatically of every power he had. But he never got an occasion to apply it.

As his attempt turned successful, Cyro’s soul drifted upward, still bound faintly to its body by silvery threads. His spirit looked exactly as he had in life — still wearing his battle uniform, his expression calm, but surprised.

He blinked, staring at the scythe-wielding figure before him.

"So..." he said, his voice faint, echoing like wind across a canyon, "you’re actually a Grim Reaper... not human after all."

Azzy didn’t answer. He simply stood there, silent, eyes half-lidded under his hood.

Cyro looked at his own body — still lying peacefully on the sand — and then, straightening his translucent form, he bowed deeply. "Regardless... thank you for preserving my mortal remains."

For a while, Azzy stayed silent, but then, he said, "Mr. David, there exists a soul skill in my arsenal, a resurrection technique."

Cyro looked up, startled. "Resurrection?"

Azzy nodded once. "It allows me to drag a soul back from the afterlife and return it to its preserved vessel — provided the soul hasn’t yet been judged by the Death God."

He paused, tapping the butt of his scythe lightly against the sand. The faint thrum of divine energy rippled outward, vibrating in the air.

"At this moment," Azzy continued, "your soul is still unjudged. It lingers between worlds. That means I can bring you back."

Cyro’s eyes widened — the faint light of hope mixed with disbelief. "You mean... I can live again?"

Azzy’s gaze sharpened. "Yes. But understand this, Mr. David... Not only does this act go against the laws of nature," he said, "but it also violates the rules of the world itself. I cannot interfere in mortal affairs — not directly. So if I resurrect you, you must erase your mortal identity. Forever"

The desert wind stilled. Even the air seemed to stop breathing.

Azzy went on, voice low but absolute.

"You will serve our Hidden Clan of Death as a Shadow Protector until you make the breakthrough to the demigod realm. You will no longer be David or Cyro. You will only be a shadow who will guard the people. This is the price you must pay to live again. However, as the shadow protector, you will become the pillar of our people, and one day, maybe a protector of the human race. Whether you take this chance or not is entirely up to you."

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then Azzy added softly, almost as an afterthought, "By the way, you will also be allowed to watch over your loved ones from the shadows and help them if necessary— as long as they do not harm the world. That is the benefit I am willing to give to you, but nothing more."

Cyro’s soul trembled faintly for a moment.

Azzy said nothing more. He stood quietly, letting the man weigh the choice. But the pause didn’t even last ten seconds.

Without hesitation, Cyro dropped to one knee before him and bowed his head. His spectral form flickered faintly as he said. "Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace. I accept your offer."

Azzy blinked once, mildly surprised. "You made the decision rather quickly. I didn’t say you have ten seconds this time."

A faint, tired smile crossed Cyro’s spectral face as he answered. "There’s no need to think, Your Grace. I have no family left to return to. No one is waiting for me. I’m... alone."

Azzy studied him for a moment before nodding. "Very well. Then let it be done."

He raised his scythe, the blade humming in vibration as Azzy’s deep voice rolled across the barren landscape:

"Soul skill: Resurrection"

A blinding pulse of black-and-gold light erupted from the ground. The sand beneath Cyro’s body rippled like water as the faint soul threads stretched downward, connecting spirit to flesh.

Cyro’s spectral form was pulled — slowly at first, then violently — back into his lifeless body. His chest rose sharply with a gasp as life returned to him.

His fingers twitched. His eyes flew open.

The captain — once dead — was alive again.

Azzy stepped forward and lowered his palm over the man’s chest. A soft emerald glow emanated from his forehead before life force entered Cyro. The result: The torn flesh mended. The shattered bones reformed. The frostbitten blood began to flow again.

When Azzy withdrew his hand, not a single wound remained.

Cyro sat up slowly, blinking as he stared at his own body — his hands, his legs, his scars now gone. "This... this is..."

He trailed off, awestruck by the sudden development.

Cyro then immediately dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the sand.

"Greetings, Your Grace," he said solemnly. "Please... grant me the name by which I shall live this next life."

Azzy regarded him quietly, the faint shimmer of the scythe reflecting in his eyes.

Then he spoke, his voice final and resonant — the kind of tone that carved truth into reality.

"From this moment," he said, "David and Cyro are no more."

He lifted his scythe slightly, resting the blade’s edge on the sand beside the kneeling man.

"From this day forth, you shall be known as Varn — the Ice Knight of Death."

A surge of dark-blue energy enveloped Cyro... no, Varn... marking him with the mark of a black cloud on his wrist, the Mark of the Shadow Guards of Aquiloria.

When the ritual is over, Varn bowed deeply once again. "Since you trust me with such job, I will fulfill it to my best. from now onwards, my life belonged to you, Milord."