Azog tightly gripped the box of potions; every vial seemed to carry a heavy fate.
His hands trembled slightly; cold sweat slid down his forehead.
He heard the faint gunshots and wails coming from the harbor district.
At the same time he sensed another clamor—the hurried footsteps of the demonkin residents inside the containment zone.
They poured out of the residential buildings in an orderly yet panicked stream, surging toward the harbor.
This was their only chance to escape this hellish containment zone.
Fragments of memory surged like a tide, carrying Azog back to that night.
One month earlier a mysterious man in a white robe and hood had suddenly appeared before Azog.
He called himself the White Wizard, a member of the Mutual Aid Society, come to liberate his fellow demonkin suffering in the Kent containment zone.
At first Azog’s heart was full of doubt.
From the moment of his birth he had lived inside the walls of the containment zone, indoctrinated with the belief that demonkin were born sinners, allowed to exist in the human world only because of the mercy of Saint Christine.
The scriptures said that only by piously serving the United Kingdom for an entire lifetime would a demonkin’s soul be pardoned and ascend to heaven after death.
Yet when the White Wizard slowly removed his hood and revealed those misshapen pointed horns, Azog could barely suppress the urge to kneel—it was an instinct engraved in his orc bloodline.
He recognized that this was a pure-blooded demon.
Of the five generations of Demon Kings, three had been demons; the demon race was the most ancient and most noble bloodline of the Demon Realm.
Other demonkin were born with an instinctive reverence toward them.
Pages from history textbooks flashed through Azog’s mind.
In the Battle of Agte seventy years earlier the allied forces of the various nations, under the fire-rose banner of Queen Christine, had jointly annihilated the Demon King and slain every last demon.
And at this moment a living demon stood before him, gazing at him with those molten-lava eyes.
The White Wizard’s words were earnest and powerful.
He told Azog that only the Mutual Aid Society could truly save those fellow demonkin living in suffering.
Azog was deeply moved; that longing for freedom was instantly ignited.
He told the White Wizard everything about the Kent containment zone without the slightest reservation.
The White Wizard listened and nodded lightly, then took out a box of potions from his bosom and handed it to Azog.
He told Azog that after injecting the potions he would be able to pilot that set of steam armor and become the guardian deity covering the escape of his fellow demonkin onto the ships.
Intoxicated by the vision of liberating the demonkin, Azog naturally did not refuse.
At this moment, with a heavy sigh, Azog resolutely injected the potions into his body one after another.
The potions rapidly spread through him, bringing a pain beyond description—like ten thousand venomous insects rampaging inside his body, or like molten lava flowing through every inch of his blood vessels, scorching his soul.
Azog’s green skin began to twist violently; black scales squeezed out from his pores, gleaming with a heart-palpitating cold luster.
He clenched his teeth so that no cry of pain would escape his lips, staggered to his feet, and walked toward that long-abandoned set of steam armor.
The armor appeared especially solemn under the dim light; the traces of years of erosion seemed to recount its former glory and vicissitudes.
This set of steam armor had been won by Dewitt at the Iron Spear Society’s casino.
It had been the family heirloom of a destitute Iberian merchant who, after losing everything, had staked it at the tables.
It was said that his father had once been the knight of this very set of armor, serving in the imperial Order of the Hundred Flowers.
Old Dewitt was an old man who loved the United Kingdom and had little interest in these imperial toys; the maintenance of the armor had always been handled by Azog, who attended him closely.
Azog was very familiar with this set of armor, as if it were an old friend.
Steam armor, as the name implied, was mechanical armor driven by a steam core.
Compared with traditional plate armor, its weight could reach several hundred kilograms; when a knight donned steam armor his stature could even become several times that of an ordinary person.
They could scale mountains, climb enemy walls, and take the head of the enemy commander amid a thousand troops and ten thousand horses, like the god of death on the battlefield.
These steel-forged behemoths originated from the Lucis Empire; the Steam Knights were the Empire’s most elite troops, representing the pinnacle of Southern Continent military power and technology.
Northern Continent people reverently called them “Iron Puppets.”
The Lucis imperial family tightly controlled the energy technology of steam armor; even if an armor frame or wreckage were stolen, it could never be awakened into a god of death on the battlefield.
Yet at this moment Azog believed the White Wizard’s potions would allow him to awaken this steam-spewing god of death.
Azog stepped on the foot pedal; the various components of the armor unlocked, like the skeleton of a giant opening and swallowing his entire body.
The faceplate descended with darkness from above; this set of steam armor, abandoned for decades, once again welcomed its knight.
In the complete darkness Azog heard the sounds of metal fastening and bolts tightening.
He felt an icy mechanical serpent crawl up his spine; that thing pressed tightly against his backbone, then thrust out steel needles—hundreds of fine needles piercing into his vertebrae.
Perhaps because of the potions, Azog felt no pain at all.
When the final fine needle pierced into his spine, a strange world descended upon him from every direction.
All sorts of inconceivable scenes flashed and vanished before his eyes; eerie songs rang in his ears.
He could not understand that unfamiliar language, yet he could comprehend the meaning of the lyrics.
“A blood-colored shadow spreads over the crown.
Young king, have you been wounded by the thorns within the diadem?
Soul and sword are steeped in the blood of enemies and kin alike.
The throne stands eternal; the family is gone.
O King of the pitch-black legions of demons, where now is that toppled high tower?”
At this moment he seemed to stand upon an endless wasteland and saw a gigantic demon god beheaded by a tiny figure holding a sword of light.
It seemed as if a rain of blood fell from the sky; the mountain-like body of the demon god collapsed, and horned demons were born from its corpse in a baptism of blood.
In the next instant he stood in a palace hall surrounded by circling crows; the King of Asuras led the legions of demons in building houses, and majestic palaces rose from the ground.
In the next moment the ground beneath his feet became an endless sea of grass; the Khan of the orcs rode a white giant wolf and gazed into the distance, behind him thousands of valiant wolf cavalry.
In a flash he again saw the great army beneath the fire-rose banner besieging a fortress in a sea of flames; the white-haired Saint King and the hero holding the holy sword stood side by side in a death struggle against the final Demon King.
At last everything ended; the world once more sank into darkness.
In the silent air a series of fine yet clear cracks suddenly sounded from inside the armor—that was high-pressure steam gradually forcing its way through every corner of the entire suit, pouring through the whole body of the armor like blood and granting it new life.
Beginning from the wrists, the armor slowly turned with Azog’s movements; his perception extended to the extremities of the steel body.
Azog slowly stood up.
He could feel the entire suit of armor operating at high speed amid noise; gates opened and closed everywhere, spewing forth scorching steam.
At this moment the god of death that had lain silent for many years was resurrected.
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