Chapter 145: Onward to Khemara
Once the meal was finished and the domestic warmth faded into the stone walls of the estate, the true grind began.
Azriel stepped through the silver barrier of the training grounds, leaving behind the playful banter of the dining hall for cold, unforgiving steel.
Vesperia stood waiting, her casual silk replaced by practical combat gear, her eyes stripped of motherly fondness and sharpened into those of a ruthless Overlord.
Every flaw in his footwork, every microsecond of hesitation he had shown in the dungeon depths was laid bare.
Vesperia pointed them out with brutal precision, striking where his guard lagged, correcting the angle of his wrists, and forcing him to adapt under overwhelming pressure.
Yet Azriel possessed the Warrior’s Instinct passive skill.
Where an ordinary prodigy would require months to shave a millimeter off an inefficient swing, Azriel needed to see the mistake only once.
His body memorized the correction instantaneously, muscle fibers firing with terrifying economy.
From the silver barrier, he plunged into the next dungeon, bathing in blood and kinetic fury, pushing his limits against hordes of subterranean horrors until the system flared with a level-up notification.
He developed a relentless, grinding cycle:,dive into the depths, harvest levels, return to the silver barrier, dissect his mistakes under Vesperia’s guidance, refine his forms, and dive back in.
He had also completely overhauled his signature weapon.
Armed with the insights granted by his Warrior’s Instinct, Azriel had drafted precise blueprints detailing radical modifications for both his gauntlets and the kusarigama.
Rosalind hadn’t spared an ounce of her ducal authority, handing the schematics directly to the foremost master craftsman in her duchy.
The old smith, a legendary artisan who had forged blades for high nobility for decades, was so stunned by the sheer ingenuity of Azriel’s design that the schematics triggered an unprecedented moment of forging enlightenment.
The craftsman had locked himself away for weeks, pouring every drop of his mastery into birthing a masterpiece tailored purely for Azriel’s lethal style.
Both Vesperia and Rosalind watched this transformation unfold with growing awe.
Out in the estate corridors, he was still the same relaxed, roguish man who showered them with affection, wrapped his arms around their waists, and shared their beds.
But beneath the surface, an apex predator was emerging.
A beastman was shedding the pampered status his gender carried in Tartarus and becoming a true, unbridled beast.
Watching him hone his senses to a razor’s edge granted both women a chilling revelation.
They had always known an S-rank talent combined with an SSS+ bloodline was extraordinary, but witnessing it in motion was something else entirely.
Whatever followed in Azriel’s wake in this world would not be peace or gentle diplomacy, it would be glorious, unstoppable chaos.
Months passed in this crucible of iron, blood, and shared nights, until the apex of his current trial was reached.
Deep inside a jagged cavern of an instance dungeon, the corpse of a Level 24 Broodmother Spider lay motionless, its massive chitin carapace shattered and oozing dark ichor across the stone floor.
Azriel sat casually atop the beast’s collapsed head, one knee drawn up, his dark hair damp with sweat.
A dense, suffocating aura of slaughter coiled around him like black smoke, the cold, unfeeling edge of a killer who had wiped out an entire nest single-handedly.
The air shifted, and the crisp click of leather boots echoed against the cavern floor.
Vesperia strode up the mountain of carcasses, clad in skin-tight brown leather armor that accentuated every deadly, mature curve of her body.
On the ring finger of her left hand, a silver band caught the dim cavern light, crafted in the exact, delicate design as the one Azriel had gifted to Rosalind, bearing a matching violet dawn-gem that hummed softly against her skin.
Without a word of hesitation, the Matriarch climbed onto the spider’s skull and sat squarely across his lap, wrapping an arm around his broad neck.
The moment her skin touched his, the suffocating, murderous pressure radiating from Azriel vanished entirely.
The chilling aura melted away, replaced by the warm, affectionate gaze of a man holding his woman.
He leaned forward, capturing her full lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of cavern dust and sweet lavender.
Vesperia broke the kiss by a fraction, her golden slit-pupils dancing with feline amusement as her hand rested against his chest.
"Should we go, daddy~?" she purred, the teasing cadence rolling effortlessly off her tongue.
Azriel chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath her palm as he gave her waist a firm, possessive squeeze.
"Sure, mommy~"
He reached out, his hand resting flat against the spider’s ruined chitin.
The system recognized the kill, and a cascade of rare drop orbs materialized into the air.
Without bothering to inspect the loot, Azriel waved his hand, sweeping every item directly into his spatial ring.
The ring itself had been altered, Vesperia, refusing to be outdone by her daughter, had taken the original ring Rosalind crafted for him and reworked its focal point.
The central gem now shimmered with an intoxicating blend of both women’s essences, the striking gold of their feline eyes swirled seamlessly alongside veins of pure white and liquid silver, representing their shared aether.
With the cavern cleared and the spoils claimed, Azriel stood, letting Vesperia slide down to his side.
Hand in hand, their fingers interlocked and their rings catching the ambient mana glow, they turned toward the shimmering blue exit portal, ready to step back into the world they were destined to upend.
The spatial threshold collapsed behind them with a muffled sonic pop, leaving Azriel and Vesperia standing in the crisp mountain air of the estate’s private grounds.
The pine-scented breeze cut through the lingering stench of spider ichor, cooling the residual aether humming along Azriel’s skin.
They had barely caught their breath when the atmosphere fractured.
A jagged tear of silver and obsidian ripped open the open air, humming with dense spatial compression.
Rosalind stepped through the rift with effortless poise, draped in traveling silks of pristine white and sharp gold. The spatial fissure stitched itself shut behind her without a trace.
Her golden slit-pupils locked onto Azriel instantly.
Paying no mind to the lingering ozone in the air, she glided over and slid smoothly against his open side, tucking herself against his flank.
Her hands wrapped around his waist, her cheek finding its familiar place against his broad chest with an uncharacteristic, feline purr.
"How was the run?" she asked softly, her gaze flicking up to assess him.
Azriel rolled his shoulder, unbothered.
It was alright. Boss was on the softer side."
Vesperia scoffed playfully from his other side, leaning into his arm.
"Or you’ve simply mutated into an absolute monster, Azriel. Don’t be modest."
Azriel’s lips curved into a faint smirk. "Maybe."
Rosalind’s palm smoothed over his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath the linen.
"Well, everything is prepared. The long-distance spatial formation is primed and stable. We take it straight to Khemara, the imperial heart of the Sekhmet Empire."
Her ears twitched backward, adopting the sharp tone of a reigning sovereign.
"The Ancient Beasts Academy tournament begins tomorrow at dawn. The men’s division won’t start until the matriarchal brackets conclude, naturally, but empire protocol demands the ducal houses arrive a day early. More importantly... you need to meet your partner. My daughter, Eleanor."
Azriel’s violet eyes sharpened with genuine intrigue. "I’ve been curious to see what your girl is like."
Rosalind let out a heavy, exasperated sigh, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.
"She’s a hopeless battlehead, Azriel. Genuinely insufferable when it comes to combat. She doesn’t care for court politics, ball ceremonies, or lineage duties, all she thinks about is cracking skulls and breaking thresholds. When I contacted her yesterday, she claimed she was mid-raid in some desolate desert crypt and told me she’d meet us at the capital."
Rosalind looked up, a rueful, tender smile tugging at her mouth.
"She’s terrifyingly like you."
Azriel let out a low chuckle, his arm tightening around her waist with pure, roguish arrogance.
"Heh. That just means she’ll be that much quicker to conquer."
Vesperia chuckled along, a sultry, knowing gleam flashing in her golden eyes as she looked at him.
"Oh, you only hope she will be easy to conquer, little monster. The girl inherited all of her mother’s stubbornness, and none of her patience. In fact, knowing Eleanor, she’ll probably challenge you the second you lock eyes just to see if you’re worthy of breathing the same air."
Azriel playfully flexed an arm, his lips curving into a cocky grin.
"Then I’ll just fight back and beat my worthiness into her."
"She’s an Adept, Azriel," Rosalind chimed in dryly, tilting her head up at him. "Level thirty-five."
Azriel’s confident grin froze, his smile turning slightly strained.
"Right... well. I’ll just have to give it my absolute best, then."
Taking on a Level 35 Adept was no joke.
Unlike mere Awakened, Adepts had cleared the dreaded threshold, granting them the ability to command raw, external aether, a fundamental leap in combat power that ordinary mana manipulation simply couldn’t match.
Once a hunter hit Level 25, the Tartarus system issued an ascension quest.
Some candidates received straightforward trials, while others were cursed with bizarre, lethal ordeals.
Only after surviving that crucible did one earn the title of Adept and unlock the true secrets of aetheric manipulation.
Azriel had ground his way through weeks of relentless dungeon raids just to reach Level 24.
With the system’s experience curve ballooning exponentially with every rank, that final step to Level 25 felt like dragging an anchor uphill.
Rosalind shook her head with a soft sigh, though the faint blush dusting the tips of her white ears betrayed her quiet amusement.
She gave his hand a playful, possessive squeeze.
"Let’s get going," she murmured.