It felt as though some divine entity had descended upon the underground colosseum.
Not a single soul dared to speak.
The weight in the air was suffocating, as if gravity itself had tripled. The torches lining the walls flared wildly, their flames twisting unnaturally.
Then, all eyes turned toward the ice throne where Azriel had once sat.
Next to it stood a little girl.
She was striking—her skin pale as snow, her jet-black hair mirrored the darkest of places in the colosseum. Her eyes, twin orbs of gold, burned like miniature suns. She seemed impossibly fragile, her small hand held tightly by a tall man beside her.
The man had ash-brown hair and stormy grey eyes, his presence so commanding yet overshadowed.
Almost no one in the colosseum spared him a second glance.
Almost all attention remained on the little girl.
It was like seeing the protagonist of a story standing next to a forgotten extra. The tall man was a mere shadow beside her radiant light.
Azriel’s eyes widened as his entire body seized up.
Around him, others looked at her with awe—except for the Four Horsemen. They stared at the man and little girl in raw terror.
Azriel’s heart pounded so violently that it reverberated through his entire frame.
‘What is this…? What is this fear?’
He had never felt such overwhelming dread, especially not from someone so small.
Suddenly, two figures appeared in the arena behind the girl and the man: Arthur and Vincent. They dropped to one knee, heads bowed low.
“H-Heptarch Iryndra… we didn’t expect you to personally come here,” Vincent stammered, his voice trembling as though even speaking her name carried a weight he could barely bear.
Azriel’s mind blanked.
‘Heptarch?’
That little girl?
It was unthinkable.
Azriel couldn’t make sense of it. She exuded no menace, no dangerous aura. Her gaze wasn’t piercing, and her demeanor seemed harmless.
And yet…
Azriel’s fear of this girl called Iryndra eclipsed even his fear of Zoran.
Famine was the first to bow, dropping to his knees in submission. Like a chain reaction, the others followed suit. Even War knelt, his bloodied face lowered in silence.
The colosseum subjects, seated just moments ago, prostrated themselves.
Azriel did not.
He couldn’t.
Her golden eyes bore into him, and he couldn’t look away.
The girl released the tall man’s hand and walked toward Azriel, her steps light and unhurried, like an excited child approaching something that had caught her curiosity. She stopped before him, tilting her head slightly as her radiant gaze locked onto his.
“Mister, did you make that throne?” she asked, it carried a weight that made Azriel’s heart tremble.
Without meaning to, Azriel nodded. The response came unbidden, almost instinctual.
Her face lit up with a dazzling smile, her joy so infectious it seemed to brighten the dim colosseum.
“Can you make me one too? I want one exactly like that!” Enjoy more content from
Her voice was hypnotic, a melody that could play endlessly without growing dull. The kneeling subjects around them were equally captivated, their silence betraying a shared longing.
Azriel forced himself to remain composed, though his words came with difficulty.
“I can… but it won’t last without my mana to sustain it.”
Her golden eyes drooped in disappointment, like a dejected child denied a toy.
‘…A Heptarch is here. Could this be it?’
Azriel’s thoughts raced.
‘Could today finally be the day I leave this place?’
Her gaze lifted again, brimming with newfound determination.
“Then, Mister, why don’t you become my big brother? That way, we can always be together, and you can make lots and lots of thrones for me!”
Silence followed her words, but somehow, it felt louder than anything before.
‘Big brother..? Me? What is she saying?’
Azriel felt as if his mental age had regressed under her radiant stare.
Then, a cautious voice broke through the stillness.
“L-Lady Iryndra… Subject 666 is vital to Project New Eden. Please reconsider.”
It was Arthur, still bowing, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.
The tall man beside Iryndra turned his sharp glare on Arthur, his tone dripping with malice.
“Speak out of turn again, Doctor, and I’ll burn the tongue from your mouth.”
Arthur didn’t react.
Iryndra blinked at Arthur, then turned back to Azriel, curiosity lighting her face.
“Mister, is your real name really 666?”
Azriel’s lips twitched slightly. He could almost hear Arthur’s thoughts.
Azriel lowered himself onto his knees to meet her eye level. A faint smile touched his lips as he spoke.
“I’m only called Subject 666 in this place, my lady. So no, I can’t be your big brother.”
Iryndra tilted her head, glancing at the others kneeling before turning back to Azriel.
“I don’t like this place. I don’t like this project. And I don’t like you having numbers in your name.”
Her tone shifted, carrying a hint of annoyance. She glanced at Arthur, her expression unintentionally endearing despite the weight of her presence.
“I’m taking him with me.”
Arthur opened his mouth to protest.
“But—”
“Shut up.”
The command silenced him instantly.
Azriel frowned, his thoughts racing.
‘What just happened?’
For a brief moment, he sensed the mana in the air shift. Arthur hadn’t fallen silent because of her words alone.
Iryndra turned her attention back to Azriel, her innocent golden gaze unwavering. She extended a small hand toward him.
“Mister, hand.”
Hesitating, Azriel glanced at the others, still kneeling, before gingerly taking her hand in his.
The moment their hands touched, his vision blurred.
When he blinked, he was no longer in the underground colosseum.
Azriel gulped, his eyes scanning the small, cozy cottage made of polished wood. It was simple, almost too simple—bare walls, no decorations, and only two wooden chairs positioned near a modest fireplace that crackled softly.
He glanced down, realizing he was still holding the little girl’s hand. The warmth of her small, delicate fingers sent a strange unease through him.
“W-where are we?” he asked, his voice tinged with hesitation.
Iryndra giggled lightly, her laugh soft and melodic, placing a finger to her lips.
“This is my secret hiding place,” she said, her tone almost playful. “I come here when I want to be alone.”
Azriel blinked, perplexed.
‘Hiding place?’
“Come! Let’s sit, mister!”
She let go of his hand and scampered toward one of the wooden chairs. Azriel followed, his eyes never leaving her. Despite the fear and caution bubbling within him, he couldn’t shake the strange worry that lingered—a feeling that she might trip, fall, or somehow hurt herself.
She looked so fragile. So… human.
Azriel approached the chair, noticing her struggle to climb onto it. Without thinking, he stepped forward, gently lifting her by the armpits and setting her down.
Her golden eyes blinked up at him, momentarily startled. Then, a soft giggle escaped her lips.
“Thank you, mister.”
Azriel paused, his own expression mirroring hers.
‘Why did I do that?’
Shaking off the thought, he nodded awkwardly and took the seat opposite hers. The warmth of the fireplace brushed against his skin, soothing yet surreal.
‘This is her secret place…’ he murmured internally, glancing around again.
‘So… we’re not in the facility anymore?’
His thoughts churned, unable to process everything that had just happened. He was no longer in that cursed underground prison, yet there was no joy.
Looking across the flickering flames, Azriel met Iryndra’s gaze. Her innocent, radiant eyes held his attention, making it hard to form his next words. Finally, he broke the silence.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked softly.
Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she looked away, almost shy.
“I don’t know… It’s just… when I saw you, mister, I felt… comfortable. Warm. I don’t really understand it myself, but… I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”
She hesitated, then peeked up at him nervously.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Azriel’s heart ached at her question.
‘What is this feeling?’
Her every action seemed to tug at strings he didn’t even know he had. The fear he’d felt before was gone, replaced by something far more confusing.
“No,” he said gently.
“You did nothing wrong. You’re a Heptarch, after all. And I’m just a subject who—”
“Please don’t call me that,” Iryndra interrupted, her tone quiet but firm. She frowned, her small hands curling into fists on her lap.
“The only reason I’m a Heptarch is because they made me one. I only joined them because…”
Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip, averting her gaze again.
Azriel waited patiently, sensing the weight of her hesitation.
Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Because they promised me a family.”
“…!”
“But they lied,” she continued, her tone trembling.
“They only use me for my powers and keep me close to control me.”
Her vulnerability struck him like a blade. She looked so small, so fragile.
‘Is this a trick?’ he wondered, but the thought dissolved almost as quickly as it formed. He couldn’t feel any deceit from her, and that scared him more than anything else.
“That man,” he said carefully, “the one you called your father—?”
She shook her head quickly, her eyes glistening with sadness.
“I only say that so they don’t grow suspicious. If I act obedient, they let me have some freedom. At least for a little while.”
Azriel raised an eyebrow, surprised.
‘She is an intelligent kid…’
Most children her age would have lashed out or tried to escape, but she had chosen a subtler, more dangerous path.
Neo Genesis wouldn’t hesitate to tighten the leash around her neck if they ever suspected rebellion.
“Why are you telling me this?” Azriel asked after a moment.
“You should know talking to strangers like this could backfire. I might try to take advantage of you.”
To his surprise, she smiled faintly, but it was a sad smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Because I felt like I could trust you,” she said simply.
“It’s lonely, being alone all the time…”
She paused, her golden eyes meeting his.
“And…”
Azriel’s chest tightened as she continued, her voice so quiet it was almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire.
“I’m going to die.”