My Soul card is a Reaper-Chapter 1050: The Interclan Tournament (Part-1)
He reached the room where he sensed Leiza’s presence.
Inside, she was sleeping deeply, her breathing steady, her expression peaceful in a way that felt almost cruel. She looked untouched by tragedy, untouched by memory, like the world had wrapped her in ignorance as a mercy.
Azzy sat beside her slowly, his hand lifting to brush her hair aside, careful and trembling.
For a second, the illusion of Artaigne overlapped her face, and Azzy’s expression hardened instantly, his eyes turning sharp with pain.
"What happened back then?" he whispered, voice shaking. "I remembered up to the engagement ceremony... but then it showed me your death."
His fingers tightened against the bedsheet.
"And if you reincarnated..." he muttered, his voice lowering further, almost fearful of the next words, "then what about Eon? What happened to her?"
His chest tightened violently, and a deep unease spread through him like a sickness, because the emotions from the dream weren’t fading. They were sinking into him, rooting themselves into his bones, and the thought that Eon, the sister he loved more than anything, was not by his side now made his skin crawl.
Azzy’s breathing grew heavier.
His thoughts spiraled.
Devorah.
Raphael.
The past.
The Archangels.
That prison.
That street.
That rain.
The more he tried to calm himself, the more his mind dragged him toward the worst possibility.
If he couldn’t find answers, he might have to force them out of time itself.
He might have to return.
Azzy squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched, and he stood up slowly, stepping away from the bed as if he feared he might shatter if he stayed there any longer.
In the end, he sat down on the floor nearby, crossed his legs, and forced himself into meditation, pushing down the storm of emotions with sheer willpower.
One hour passed.
When Azzy finally opened his eyes again, the tears had dried.
His breathing was steady.
His expression was calmer.
But the coldness in his gaze had deepened.
Because calm did not mean peace.
It only meant he was ready to move.
*
The tournament began in a low-key manner.
The grand arena was filled with the banners of the hidden clans fluttering above the stone walls.
On the massive stage below, the arena floor had been reinforced with seals that glowed faintly beneath the stone, designed to withstand even Rank-7 clashes without collapsing. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞
The barriers surrounding the battleground shimmered like invisible walls of glass, and the sky above was clear, almost mockingly peaceful.
At the very top of the arena, the VIP section stood like a throne room made of glass.
A single enormous box, transparent on all sides, suspended above the stadium like a jewel in the air.
Inside it, the leaders of the hidden world had gathered.
Asgardian Clan.
The Blood Clan.
The Kuru Clan.
The Sun Clan.
The Dragon Clan.
The Elven Clan.
The Minamoto Clan.
The Moon Clan.
Each of them had arrived with a plus one, an heir, an elder, or a confidant, and each of them sat with the quiet confidence of someone who had ruled their people through centuries of war and betrayal.
Yet despite their pride, despite their titles, there was one empty space in the glass chamber that made the atmosphere strangely unsettled.
The Death Clan’s seat.
Empty.
A short woman with a face like a doll, the head of the Moon Clan, tapped her fingers against the armrest of her chair with a slow rhythm that carried impatience.
"They’re late," she said coolly. "As usual."
Across from her, the leader of the Asgardians, a broad-shouldered man whose golden cloak seemed to glow faintly even indoors, let out a low scoff.
"Late?" he repeated. "That Azrael really thinks he is above us, doesn’t he? he was the host here, and he didn’t arrive before us. It was almost as if he wanted to insult us."
The head of the Dragon Clan, a stern figure with crimson eyes and scales faintly visible along his neck, leaned back with his arms crossed.
"Well, it is a fact that Lord Azrael is well above all of us," he said. "He is a demigod, after all."
The Minamoto Clan head, Shuichi, spoke calmly. "Relax. Azrael isn’t the type to do such things. Had any of you possessed the power of a demigod, which one of us wouldn’t outrightly parade ourselves and outrightly insult others?"
At his words, a strange silence fell into the chamber.
Meanwhile, the Blood Clan’s leader sat quietly at the edge of the discussion, his hands folded, his expression controlled, though his eyes flickered now and then with something darker.
The Kuru Clan’s New leader, Parikshit, a thin man with sunken eyes and a permanent half-smile that never looked friendly, leaned forward slightly, his voice dripping with amusement.
"Maybe Azrael is having second thoughts about the tournament. I mean, if we see it... Technically, using the very cores he gave us a while ago, we upgraded our strength, and now our participants’ strength is clearly above the representatives of the Daeth clan, except for that beautiful young lady..."
Neymeryn Searvale, the King of Elves, frowned at those words. "Be careful with your words," he warned. "Azrael is not someone you can speak about such things."
The Kuru leader, however, chuckled. "Relax, Lord Searvale. Don’t have to be all jumpy..."
Then suddenly...
Space trembled inside the VIP glass box.
A ripple spread through the air like a stone dropped into a still lake, and every leader’s head snapped toward the source at once.
Instinctively, several of them tensed and gripped the armrests, and some of them stood up, their bodies reacting before their minds could catch up.
A portal opened soon after
And from that tear, two figures stepped out.
Azzy walked out first.
His expression was calm as always, his black hair slightly tousled, his eyes unreadable.
But it wasn’t Azzy that made the room freeze.
It was the man who stepped out behind him.
Qridus Garcia.
The former monarch of the Death Clan.
He walked with slow steps, his hands behind his back, his white hair flowing neatly, his posture upright, and his gaze sharp enough to make even demigods feel like children.
There was no pressure spilling out of him aggressively, but the authority he carried was worse than an aura.
It was the kind of presence that didn’t need to prove itself.
The moment the leaders recognized him, every single one of them stood fully in respect and a bit of fear.
Azzy gave a small nod, his tone calm and polite.
"My apologies," he said. "We arrived late."
His eyes swept over the leaders, then he added smoothly, "I had to pick up our ancestor to bring him here."
No one spoke.
No one dared comment.
Because Azzy didn’t say it like a threat.
He said it like a casual fact.
And somehow that made it worse.
Qridus stepped forward slowly, his eyes scanning the chamber, taking in faces, clothing, posture, and aura like he was reading a book he had once memorized. Then he smiled faintly, the expression carrying mild surprise rather than warmth.
"There are a lot of new faces," Qridus remarked, voice deep and steady. "Everything changed in just two decades."
The leaders exchanged glances.
Two decades.
To them, that wasn’t long.
To someone Qridus who lived for 9000 years, it sounded like a blink.
Then his gaze shifted.
It stopped on Francis Blood.
And in that moment, the atmosphere tightened.
Qridus’ eyes narrowed slightly, and his lips curved into something almost amused.
"Ah," he said. "Hello there... old friend Francis."
Francis Blood’s body stiffened, and for the first time since the conversation began, his mask slipped slightly. A faint tremor ran through his fingers, subtle but real, and his smile widened forcibly as he stepped forward.
"Lord Qridus," Francis greeted politely, bowing with perfect respect instead of how he used to greet Qridus back in the Death Clan. "It has been a long time."
Qridus chuckled softly. "It has."
Remia, seated near Azzy’s side, rose as well, her expression calm but respectful. Qridus’ gaze flickered toward her, and his smile softened into something genuinely familiar.
"It’s been a while," he said. "Little Remia. How are you?"
Remia nodded casually, not as nervous as the others, her voice steady. "How is your health, Uncle?"
Qridus spread his arms slightly, as if presenting himself like proof.
"Well," he said with a faint laugh, "as you can see... better than ever."
Qridus turned his gaze toward the others, and his voice carried effortless authority.
"Don’t need to feel pressured," he said calmly. "After a hundred thousand years, we all came together for a battle exchange, and obviously... I wouldn’t want to miss it."
The words sounded polite.
But the weight behind them felt like a warning.
The atmosphere became awkward.
