The Slayer Ascension: Cursed and Blessed.-Chapter 63: Nightmare Edge

GAZEL shot upright from his sleep.

Cold sweat soaked him from head to toe. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths that refused to slow. Nightmare. That much was obvious. His body knew it even if his mind did not.

He tried to steady his breathing.

Failed.

Again.

What is wrong with me?

His gaze dropped to his shaking hands. For a split second, blood coated them. Thick. Dark. Fresh. His breath hitched, panic spiking, but when he blinked the blood was gone.

Nothing.

Just his hands.

Normal.

Gazel shut his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. Slowly. Again. Again. His heartbeat finally began to settle as he searched his mind for the nightmare that had dragged him out of sleep.

Nothing came.

Only fragments. Blood. Too much of it. Killing. The thick, choking smell of death that still clung to his senses.

A dry chuckle slipped from his lips.

So this is my life now. Being cursed is just the surface. Being hunted by death even in my dreams is the real price.

His thoughts steadied. His breathing evened out. His muscles finally loosened.

Then something buzzed above his head.

Once.

Twice.

A sharp hum filled the room, followed by a voice that nearly ruptured his ears.

"Attention to all in the Bulwark. All members are to gather at the Platon Summit in less than one hour. No one must fail to attend. This is mandatory."

The glowing green orb flickered.

Then went dead.

Silence returned.

Gazel stared at the orb, brows knitting.

"That's strange," he murmured.

He lifted it, turned it over, examined every inch like it might answer him if he stared hard enough. It did not. Not like he knew anything about forging or enchantments anyway. Whatever it was, it was far beyond him.

When he realized how much time he had wasted, his eyes widened.

Damn it.

He rushed to wash up, splashing water on his face, grounding himself. From the wardrobe, he pulled on a silky white top and black trousers. The fabric was smooth, almost smoky to the touch. Too refined. Too expensive.

He hesitated.

This might be the best outfit he had ever worn.

That alone reminded him where he was. Not Deodor City. Not the Trystan Manor. This was the Bulwark. One of the richest establishments in the world. He should not be surprised.

Still, something bothered him.

Inside the wardrobe, there were dozens of outfits.

All identical.

White tops. Black trousers. The Bulwark insignia stamped on the chest.

Uniforms.

After dressing, he slid on his gloves, fastened his locket, and tucked away the other things he always carried. Including the kitchen knife. He never went anywhere without it.

Old habits did not die easy.

By the time he reached the summit grounds, only a few minutes remained. But time was not what stole his attention.

The crowd did.

People of every age and size filled the area, yet there was order to it. Structure. Five columns stood in formation.

The first three columns were unmistakable.

Power rolled off them.

Warriors.

Shural.

He did not need anyone to explain that.

The fourth column held the largest number of people. They were weaker, less imposing. Not quite Shural, but not ordinary either.

Then there was the fifth column.

Like the others, it held people of different ages, sizes, and backgrounds. But something about it felt different. Harder to read. Harder to place.

Gazel stood still, eyes scanning the formation.

There were those who clearly fit the image of nobility, refined posture, polished presence. And there were those who blended better as commoners, rougher, simpler, unremarkable at a glance.

But none of them held Gazel's attention.

Instead, a few specific gazes pulled at him.

The first one was impossible to miss.

A beautiful young lady, no older than her late teens. She stood quietly among the crowd, yet attention bent toward her like gravity. People looked. Then looked again. Gazel could tell why at a glance.

She did not radiate the arrogance most nobles carried like armor. Nor did she give off the sharp fierceness of other social circles. If anything, she felt like a commoner.

But her beauty.

It eclipsed everyone around her.

Effortless. Clean. Almost unfair.

Gazel, who normally found such things petty and obnoxious, felt his gaze linger before he caught himself and looked away.

Get a grip.

The second person who caught his eye unsettled him for a different reason.

A man wearing a black blindfold.

No eyes.

Blind, without question. And yet, his smile was the brightest in the entire group. Wide. Genuine. Untouched. No one stood near him. No one spoke to him. People avoided him without even realizing it.

Still, his smile never faded.

It felt out of place.

Creepy, if Gazel was being honest.

His gaze moved again.

And froze.

A young man around his age.

Golden blond hair. Perfect features. Painfully handsome. The kind of face that made people forget how to breathe. Girls crowded around him openly, shamelessly seeking his attention.

He did not acknowledge a single one.

Cold. Detached. As if the world around him did not exist.

Gazel stared longer than he meant to.

Then the bastard looked back.

Their eyes met.

The blond did not frown. Did not sneer. His expression did not change at all. That same distant, otherworldly calm remained on his face.

Gazel was the one who looked away.

His face burned green with envy.

"Bastard," he hissed under his breath.

Not because the guy was better looking. He could live with that.

But because no one was paying Gazel any attention at all. As if he did not exist.

Just as the thought settled, a familiar voice slammed into his ears.

"GAZELLLLL."

Blaze popped out from the side, red hair blazing like a signal fire as he slid up beside him.

Seeing Gazel's tightly restrained expression, Blaze misunderstood immediately.

"Oh. My bad, man. How's the headache? Is it gone?"

Gazel nodded once.

Then asked, "Do you care to explain what this gathering is?"

Blaze blinked. Then grinned.

Of course he knew.

The red haired idiot always did.

He launched into an explanation, thorough and annoyingly accurate. The first three columns were Shural, classified by rank and tier. Stronger ones forward. Weaker ones behind. Simple hierarchy.

The fourth column, larger than all the others combined, was made up of family members of Shural. Those deemed too vulnerable to live outside the Bulwark. Once someone became blessed, their family became targets. Magnets for demons.

Protection had a price.

"And our column?" Gazel asked, pointing to the one they stood in.

It was the smallest. Almost unnoticeable compared to the others. Yet it still numbered in the hundreds.

Blaze hesitated.

Then said it.

"All newly blessed humans."

Gazel's expression twisted.

Only these survived.

Hundreds of survivors sounded impressive. Until one remembered the scale of the demon rampage. Hundreds were nothing. Survivors counted in scraps.

He said nothing.

His mind drifted elsewhere.

"Hey, do you notice that beauty?"

Blaze tugged at Gazel's sleeve, trying to whisper. Failed miserably. His voice was too deep, too loud, and it carried just far enough to earn them several looks of open contempt.

Gazel facepalmed inwardly.

Idiot.

Still, he replied. "Who in their right mind wouldn't notice her? She's practically stealing the spotlight."

Along with a few others.

He glanced sideways and caught Blaze's expression. Barely concealed envy. Green, just like his own had been earlier.

So Gazel took the chance.

"I thought the Chosen were supposed to be well known. Respected," he said lightly. "You were meant to be the one stealing the spotlight, not them."

Blaze stiffened.

"…I know, right?"

His shoulders slumped.

"But it's not fair," Blaze muttered, pointing vaguely into the crowd. "Some people are just way too otherworldly."

His finger drifted first to the girl. Every movement she made, every smile, looked capable of melting hearts. Then it shifted to the blond youth. Cold. Detached. Completely indifferent to the attention swarming him. As if nothing in the world was worthy of his care.

Unbothered.

Unreachable.

Both Gazel and Blaze sulked at the same time.

Then Blaze straightened suddenly.

"Hey, man," he said, righteous fury creeping into his voice. "You shouldn't look at me like that."

"And why not?" Gazel asked.

Blaze pointed deeper into the crowd.

"Because since you got here, that young lady over there has been staring at you nonstop."

His smile looked strained.

Gazel followed his gaze.

His breath caught.

There was a young lady standing there.

But she was not staring with dreamy eyes.

She was not staring at all.

Her face was blank. Empty. No emotion. No life. As if she was alive, yet not truly there. Her gaze met Gazel's, flat and expressionless.

It sent a chill straight down his spine.

Who would call that pretty?

She was terrifying.

"Damn you, Blaze," Gazel cursed silently, his throat dry.

The girl didn't look away though.

To be continued...

Author's Note:

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