The Game's Extra: Azhriel Odyssey-Chapter 43: Grave.

Videllia composed herself with a quiet inhale, smoothing the faint flush from her face.

"Ahem, jokes aside," she said, her tone shifting back to professional. "Congratulations for passing your trial. Ah—" she paused, realizing she hadn’t asked his name.

"It’s Azhriel," he answered casually, as if expecting that.

’Didn’t even check the name on the list, huh?’ he thought with a flicker of amusement. Somehow, it suited her—someone who always flowed more with instinct than paperwork.

"So, Azhriel," she repeated, nodding slightly, "congrats. Your next trial will be in three hours, at the main arena. You can ask someone if you don’t know the way."

Ting

Just as she finished saying this, rhe system’s soft chime rang in his head.

"Thanks." He gave a short nod in return before turning and walking off, his steps steady.

Videllia watched his back for a moment longer than necessary, her smile faint and thoughtful.

****

Azhriel leaned back against the broad trunk of the tree, eyes half-lidded beneath the dappled light that filtered through the leaves overhead.

His fingers moved almost absentmindedly as he brought up the system screen that shimmered faintly before him.

A single notification pulsed softly at the corner. Curious, he tapped it.

——————

Quest:

[Go to your mother’s grave.]

Reward: ????

Penalty: None

——————

His brows drew together.

"...What?"

The words stared back at him—simple, quiet, heavy. For a second, his mind blanked. Then the thought struck like a hammer.

’My mother’s grave... here? In the Academy?’

Azhriel sat upright, blinking at the glowing screen. He didn’t even glance at the reward or care about the absence of a penalty. His gaze remained locked on one line.

Go to your mother’s grave.

The rest of the world faded. The sound of birds, the laughter of other students in the distance, even the faint breeze that stirred the grass—all of it slipped away as a strange weight settled in his chest.

He had lived inside the Academy walls for as long as he could remember. But not once, not even once, had he ever heard of his mother’s grave being here. Not from the professors. Not from Headmaster. Not even in whispers.

"...How?" he muttered under his breath, voice barely above a whisper.

A strange feeling crept up inside him, he know it wasn’t his fault yet—a quiet blend of guilt, longing, and something else he couldn’t name filled his heart.

His hand tightened into a fist beside him. The bark of the tree pressed into his back, grounding him in the moment.

Azhriel’s fingers hovered for only a second before he tapped the screen.

Tap.

The glowing interface shifted, revealing a map. A small red dot blinked softly—behind the Academy grounds, right near the edge of the cliffs. A place students rarely ventured to. Quiet. Secluded.

His breath hitched.

Without hesitation, he turned.

And ran.

He sprinted through the courtyard, past the stone pathways and open gardens, dodging groups of students without sparing a glance.

The sound of laughter, idle chatter, and distant training faded behind him. His only focus was that blinking red mark on the map—and what waited there.

The wind tugged at his shirt. His footsteps echoed through the narrow paths lined with trees. He didn’t stop.

Not once.

Soon, the stone tiles beneath his feet gave way to soft earth. The path turned rugged, the trees grew denser, and beyond them—the world opened to a cliff’s edge, where the sky met the earth in a sweeping view of the land below.

And there it was.

A small gravestone, simple and clean, stood at the far end.

Quiet. Undisturbed.

He slowed, breath heavy, heart louder than ever.

The name carved on the stone glinted faintly in the sunlight.

Cassandra CrownHeart.

Azhriel’s steps slowed as he neared the gravestone, breath shallow, heart pounding in a quiet rhythm. The wind at the cliffside brushed his hair back gently, but there was something else—

A sound.

Clink.

His body tensed.

He turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing.

From the edge of the grave’s shadow, the air shimmered like disturbed water. Dark tendrils of magic rippled out, coiling and twisting like ink spilled into light. They gathered, rising from the earth in unnatural silence.

The shadow thickened.

Then it moved.

A form emerged—humanoid, tall, cloaked in a shifting mass of stars and void. Its armor wasn’t metal, but something far more ancient.

It looked as if it were made from the cosmos itself. Purple, black, and speckled with distant glimmers—like a knight forged from the night sky itself.

Azhriel’s eyes widened slightly.

That figure... he remembered it.

It was the same knight who had once carried him as a child. The one who had brought him to the Academy’s headmaster so many years ago.

The knight didn’t draw a weapon. It simply stood there—silent, towering, and waiting. The grave was behind it, guarded like a sacred relic.

Azhriel exhaled slowly, the cold wind brushing past his cheek. He knew what this was—what the knight waited for.

Proof.

Not of strength.

But of blood.

He raised his hand, and in the next breath, activated the first phase of his bloodline— The Celestial.

The shift was immediate.

The air grew dense, vibrating with a quiet pressure. Space itself seemed to shimmer faintly around him, like ripples spreading over a still lake. Light bent at the edges of his presence, and a faint silver glow curled around his body like drifting stardust.

His mana flowed, smooth and controlled, pouring from his hand in a stream of pale brilliance. He extended it—not as an attack, but a declaration.

The knight sensing it, didn’t move at first.

Then... it did.

With a sharp shring, the knight drew its blade—silent, graceful, without threat. It stepped forward, each movement precise and deliberate.

The ground beneath its feet didn’t shake, yet the weight of its presence pressed down like a mountain.

Azhriel stood still.

The knight stopped just a step away from him.

And then—clang.

It drove its sword into the ground.

He Kneeled.

The starlit armor lowered itself, head bowed before him. No words. No oath. Just recognition—etched in that single act of reverence.

The guardian had accepted him.

Azhriel, was son of the one buried here.

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