The Heavenly Meridian Academy prided itself on neutrality.
Its spires touched the clouds not in defiance of Heaven, but in respectful proximity. Students from every faction graced its halls—righteous cultivators, demonic practitioners, imperial scions, even those with draconic bloodlines concealed beneath false identities.
Today, the academy hosted a ceremony.
A coronation without a crown.
Heaven's New Candidate.
Golden banners unfurled against the azure sky. Fate arrays hummed with ancient power. Elders displayed smiles stretched too wide across their faces.
The world watched with bated breath.
Azrael arrived late.
Alone.
Clad in simple attire, his aura suppressed to the point of deliberate insult.
Whispers rippled through the gathered crowd.
"Is that him?" a young disciple murmured.
"He looks... ordinary," another replied, disappointment evident.
"Perhaps Heaven overreacted?" suggested a third.
On the dais, the new candidate—radiant and trembling with borrowed destiny—felt his confidence waver the moment Azrael's penetrating gaze brushed against him.
Just a glance.
That was enough.
The ceremony commenced.
An elder raised his ornate staff. "By Heaven's recognition—"
Azrael coughed.
Softly.
The sound carried through the hushed hall.
The fate array flickered uncertainly.
The elder frowned, momentary confusion crossing his weathered face. "—we anoint—"
Azrael sighed with quiet impatience.
"Can we skip the theater?" he asked mildly. "You're embarrassing him."
Gasps erupted.
Outrage flared.
Heaven's emissary descended in a blinding blaze of light. "Anomaly, you stand in sacred—"
Azrael looked up.
The emissary froze mid-sentence.
For the first time, Azrael ceased his suppression.
Not completely.
Just enough.
The academy groaned as ancient dragon pressure descended like a massive hand on the world's neck. Students collapsed to their knees. Elders choked on their own authority.
"This," Azrael said calmly, "is me being patient."
He stepped forward with measured grace.
The new candidate screamed as his borrowed fate unraveled—golden threads snapping, divine light bleeding away into nothingness.
Azrael didn't claim it.
He returned it to Heaven.
"Refund," he stated simply.
Silence engulfed the hall.
Then terror spread like wildfire.
In the stands, Jin Yao observed with widening eyes.
Everything he had been—everything Heaven had promised him—burned to ash in that singular moment.
The candidate sobbed, broken and diminished.
Heaven's emissary retreated with undisguised fear.
And Azrael stood unmoved, a mountain amid chaos.
Jin Yao understood then.
This is what real choosing looks like.
He dropped to one knee.
Not physically.
Internally.
The final provocation arrived swiftly.
A Heaven-sanctioned strike team breached the imperial palace walls.
They didn't target Azrael.
They targeted his family.
That was their fatal error.
Azrael sensed it instantly.
The world turned cold as winter.
He vanished without a trace.
They discovered him in the palace corridor—robes torn, eyes glowing with faint golden light, dragon marks tracing his skin like living scripture.
The strike team never launched their attack.
They couldn't even draw breath.
Azrael stood between them and the imperial chambers, his expression utterly vacant.
"You threatened what's mine," he said softly.
The pressure intensified beyond measure.
Reality folded upon itself.
When the guards arrived later, the corridor appeared pristine.
The strike team had vanished.
Not dead.
Unwritten from existence.
Empress Lilith gazed at her son—truly saw him.
"You don't pretend anymore," she remarked quietly.
Azrael's gaze softened—reserved only for her.
"I never did," he replied. "I just didn't need to remind the world."
Seraphina stood beside him, steady and unafraid of his true nature.
Nyxara watched from the shadows, eyes burning with devotion honed into resolute purpose.
Above them all, Heaven recoiled in dismay.
The campaign had failed its first genuine clash.
And everyone—ally and enemy alike—comprehended one truth:
The Third Prince had abandoned his facade of weakness.
The aftermath of the academy incident spread not as rumor.
It spread as immutable law.
Throughout empires and sects, fate-readers found their calculations shattering. Diviners coughed crimson blood. Heaven-certified destiny compasses spun uselessly, their needles snapping as if personally offended.
One conclusion emerged everywhere, whispered in either fear or reverence:
The Third Prince has stepped beyond correction.
Azrael stood at the highest terrace of the Eternal Nocturne Palace, observing clouds drifting beneath him. The empire breathed in harmony with his presence—calm, expansive, certain.
"They won't strike directly for some time," Ashara reported, consulting her intelligence scrolls. "Heaven's forces are consolidating assets eastward. Old battlegrounds. Ancient treaties."
Azrael nodded thoughtfully. "They're searching for places where the rules remain... flexible."
Nyxara leaned against a marble pillar, arms folded across her chest. "Places where bloodlines disappear without notice."
"Exactly."
Seraphina frowned, concern etching her features. "So we move first."
Azrael smiled faintly. "We already are."
The Eastern Expanse existed as a land Heaven preferred to forget.
Dragon graves dotted its landscape.
Broken sects littered its history.
Cities rose atop sealed disasters.
It was also where Heaven once raised—and subsequently abandoned—its most promising champions.
Including Jin Yao's mother.
She lived now in quiet obscurity, protected by Heaven's residual favor yet stripped of significance. A living relic. A reminder Heaven refused to acknowledge.
Jin Yao knelt before her in a candlelit room.
"They've replaced me," he confessed hoarsely.
She touched his cheek, her eyes sad yet resolute. "Heaven replaces everyone eventually."
His fists clenched in frustration.
"They won't replace him," Jin Yao whispered.
She froze.
"...Who?"
"The Third Prince."
Silence stretched between them.
Fear flickered across her face.
Not fear of Azrael's power.
But of his inevitability.
Far away, Azrael sensed the emotional spike like a tuning fork resonating.
"Ah," he murmured. "There it is."
Nyxara glanced at him curiously. "You're pulling him closer."
"He's doing that himself."
Ashara raised an eyebrow. "And his mother?"
Azrael's penetrating gaze turned eastward.
"She's standing at a crossroads Heaven abandoned," he stated calmly. "I'm just... reopening the road."
The empire prepared with quiet efficiency.
No mass mobilization disturbed the peace.
No declarations announced intentions.
Instead:
Trade routes shifted eastward.
Dragonkin emissaries emerged from mythical seclusion.
Demonic contracts underwent renegotiation—on Azrael's explicit terms.
Seraphina observed these developments with a mixture of awe and unease.
"You're not conquering," she noted. "You're re-centering the world."
Azrael met her perceptive eyes.
"Conquest invites resistance," he replied. "Gravity invites orbit."
She maintained her gaze.
"I'm still here."
His smile softened—dangerous yet intimate.
"I know."
Above the world, Heaven convened in urgent session.
Assets burned too rapidly.
Influence bled away.
Faith eroded from its foundations.
A final directive emerged—older than scripture itself.
Activate the Eastern Failsafes.
If the Anomaly advances... let the world pay the price.
Azrael perceived the directive like distant thunder across his consciousness.
He inhaled slowly, satisfaction evident.
"Good," he said. "I was hoping they'd choose that."
The dragon within him stirred—vast, patient, and unmistakably amused.