My Soul card is a Reaper-Chapter 903: Time Variant Azrael’s next mission

East Ocean City, Llyne Nation;

Through the crowded central street of Silverveil District, a lone figure walked — quiet, deliberate, the crowd parting instinctively as if moved by instinct.

He wore a hooded black coat trimmed with silver threads with a half-mask of polished metal covering the left side of his face. Beneath the hood, a pair of crimson eyes glinted faintly, appearing cold and sharp.

The 17-year-old Azrael, Azzy’s time variant and the vessel of Lucifer from a destroyed timeline, stopped before a towering building of mirrored glass. On its façade gleamed a golden insignia — Everlasting Guild, one of the most influential in Llyne.

Inside, the marble-floored lobby buzzed with adventurers from various ranks, although the most common Arcana Master seen was of Rank-4. Behind the counter stood a young receptionist with chestnut hair and an easy smile.

When her gaze landed on him, her eyes brightened, unlike the people who avoided his presence. "Ah, Mr. Azrael. Welcome back."

He nodded slightly. "Good evening."

"The President has been expecting you," she said in a polite tone yet tinged with something like reverence. "You can go straight up."

Azrael said nothing more. He turned and stepped into the elevator and pressed 6 — the doors closing with a soft chime.

Moments later, the doors slid open to a quiet corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

At the far end, behind an oak desk, sat Philip Black, the President of Everlasting — a broad-shouldered man in his forties with a calm authority that came from centuries of experience in the field.

"Mr. Azrael," Philip greeted, his voice deep, steady. "Please, have a seat."

Azrael removed his hood but kept the mask. "President Brown."

Philip slid a thick file across the desk.

"This came for you," he said. "A personal request for an exploration and hunt. You’ve been specifically named by our client."

Azrael opened the file. The first page bore the sketch of a ruined temple half-buried under swamp and vine, its entrance shaped like a howling beast. On the next pages were dossiers — faces, names, and brief skill summaries of other team members. At the end was a golden-tinged photograph of an ornate box carved with divine patterns.

Azrael read the caption aloud, his tone unreadable. "The Cursed Music Box of Semele? Never heard of it..."

Philip leaned back as he explained. "Legend says it was crafted by Apollo, a gift from Zeus to his mortal lover, Princess Semele. After Hera’s jealousy destroyed her, the god rescued the unborn Dionysus from her ashes. Hera’s curse then twisted the music box — they say it can warp fate itself, spreading misfortune to anyone who hears its song."

Azrael’s eyes flicked over the text — a deep frown forming.

"The Ruins of Marten, located in southern Iceland," Philip continued. "Recent reports of violent tremors in the area and those who explored the place all never returned except for one, who claimed that the secret facility there is no longer abandoned. Some other force took them and now, it was swarming with dozens of werewolves."

Azrael closed the file with a nod. "If that’s true, why not call the hidden clans? It’s their job to exterminate these things and bring the balance to the world, isn’t it?"

Philip gave a short laugh in response, though there was no humor in it. "They don’t interfere unless the threat crosses a certain threshold, kid. As long as the curse doesn’t get released and cause a genocide, they won’t care about the music box, and as long as the werewolves just protect the dungeon and merely kill the people who come to them, they won’t exterminate them either. Moreover, the dungeon is far away from any human civilization. So, there was no reason for hidden clans to step inside."

"Very typical of them," Azrael murmured.

"Besides," the guild president added, "contacting them isn’t exactly possible. You know how they operate — silent, detached. If they do move, it’ll be for something monumental. No one knows how they did it, but everytime they do, they leave behind quite a scene."

He paused, glancing toward the window.

"Like what happened last month. Camelot suddenly absorbed Freyles. No bloodshed, no resistance. Just done. And the Garcia family? Vanished into thin air. Nobody knows where they went. Rumor says the hidden clans are behind it."

Azrael’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes gleamed faintly under the mask.

"Is that so?" he said quietly.

Philip leaned forward. "So... what do you say, Mr. Azrael? Will you take the job?"

Azrael closed the folder, the soft snap echoing between them.

"I’ll take it," he said at last. "The box... and the werewolves. If you want the werewolves to be erased, they’ll need to be erased."

He rose to his feet, his cloak whispering across the floor.

As he turned for the door, Philip called out, "Careful out there, Azrael. Don’t be tempted by the music box. Even if it is a divine treasure, it is still cursed."

Azrael paused briefly, just long enough for the glint of his red eye to reflect off the glass. He said softly, "Don’t worry. I have no interest in divine treasures even if they weren’t cursed." His scarlet eyes glowed under the hood.

The elevator doors closed behind him — leaving the guild president staring at the faint afterimage of lightning that flickered where the boy once stood.

Meanwhile;

At Death Clan Village’s Training Grounds, Aquiloria;

The wide stone arena trembled faintly as the barrier domes sealed in place.

Azzy stood at the center — calm and relaxed with his hands resting loosely at his sides. Across from him stood five of the clan’s representatives, each bearing a different energy signature, each a powerhouse in their own right.

Malgrim, the necromancer, was the first to move. His shadow stretched unnaturally, tendrils rising like smoke. "Come forth," he intoned — and from the dark rift, an Undead Warlord emerged, towering and skeletal, its ribcage burning with violet flame. It was a Rank-9 corpse knight, a being that won’t die as long as Malgrim has soul energy in his body.

Next, Evelyn flicked her soul card, summoning a Steel Kangaroo, its iron hide clanging as it landed.

Fiona raised her ice staff, and a cold mist swirled around her as frost covered the tiles beneath. Avia, ever the silent one, flipped her curved dual daggers, pouring her dark energy into the blades.

Finally, Emiya lifted his right arm, summoning a spectral White Cauldron that floated behind her, releasing a hiss of silver vapor, toxic to everyone who breathes it.

The five of them spread out in formation.