The Game's Extra: Azhriel Odyssey-Chapter 45: Changed.

He picked up the gloves carefully, holding them like something precious.

They shimmered softly—gold and silver light pulsing gently across the fabric. When his fingers brushed them, he found them soft, almost weightless, yet strangely firm, like they’d never tear no matter what tried.

A small glow blinked in front of his eyes as the system displayed their description.

---

[The Parting Gift of the Witch]

Forged from rare magical silk and enchanted threads, these gloves are nearly impossible to destroy. If torn, they mend themselves. If burned, they restore with a touch of the owner’s mana.

Rank: SS+

Effects:

• Smooths the flow of mana, making circulation easier.

• Keeps the hands warm in winter, and cool in summer.

• Can block a fatal strike once. (Cooldown: 7 days)

• (Identification???) (Inject mana to reveal it.)

---

Azhriel’s brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering in his calm eyes.

"SS rank... and that third effect..." he murmured.

He slid the gloves on slowly.

They fit like they were made for him.

Soft. Comfortable.

He let his mana seep into the gloves—slow, steady.

At once, the threads came alive. Golden light flared across his right hand, while silver across the left. Soft at first, then pulsing brighter.

Azhriel watched in silence as something formed on the back of his right glove—a crest drawn in pure gold.

A star, with its five ends reaching and locking into a perfect circle. Across it, two staffs crossed each other—one crowned with a sun, the other with a moon. While, vines curled gently around the ring, like it had been grown rather than made.

He recognized it instantly.

The Royal Crest of the Witches.

The symbol of the CrownHearts.

His mother’s bloodline.

Then the left glove lit up.

A cold silver glow rippled outward, forming another crest.

This one had sharp lines—twin swords crossed over hexagonal patterns like a ring and in the very center, a single delicate snowflake bloomed.

It was the Crest of the Theodores.

Or as the world whispered in their another name:

The Ashraeths.

His father’s legacy.

’So this... this is what the "Identification" meant.’

Two large legacies, lighting up like silent echoes—claimed, and accepted.

He stared at the crests, both glowing proudly for a moment longer... then, as his mana pulled back, they faded—retreating into the soft golden and silver lines of the gloves.

But Azhriel knew.

The power they marked didn’t fade.

It was simply waiting.

The ring sat cold and smooth in his palm, its black surface gleaming faintly, laced with delicate, glowing azure lines that pulsed like veins. Azhriel could feel it right away—it was no ordinary ring. The weight of space hummed inside it.

A translucent screen flickered into view.

---

[The Sigil’s Accessory]

Crafted by a forgotten sage and master of magical engineering, this ring is a treasure kingdoms would wage war for.

Rank: SS

Abilities:

1. Boundless Storage — Contains an internal space vast enough to hold entire cities.

2. Restoration Pulse — Heals injuries upon activation, regardless of severity—unless the heart or head is completely destroyed.

3. Chrono Break — Rewinds or halts time for 10 seconds. Usable only once every full moon.

---

"Woah..." Azhriel blinked, eyebrows lifting.

Reverse time? Full body regeneration?

He stared at the simple ring in disbelief, shaking his head slightly. "Thank you... mother. Father."

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how they had secured such a relic. With a curious thought, he pushed his mana into it.

Click.

The space unfolded before him—limitless and shimmering.

And what lay inside made his breath catch.

"...Damn."

Piled high like mountains, gold shimmered under the ambient light. Not only coins. Bars. Thousands of them. Enough wealth to buy entire noble provinces.

But that wasn’t all.

Rows of potions shimmered with light, elixirs stored in crystal flasks, artifacts bound in silk cloths, tomes glowing with age-old magic, and herbs so rare they only grew once in a century.

It was a treasure hoard fit for a emperor—or a continent.

But what caught his attention the most—was the sword.

It was simple. Unadorned. An ordinary black hilt and a sheathed blade resting atop the highest pile of gold, like it didn’t belong there.

Yet its presence...it spoke something else.

Azhriel reached in.

He pulled it free.

The moment the blade left its sheath, a sharp breath escaped his Azhriel’s lips.

It was cold—no, freezing. Not the kind of cold one felt in winter, but a biting, soul-deep chill, like the heart of a glacier had been forged into a weapon.

A screen appeared before him:

---

[Frost Born]

Forged with the essence of eternal ice—stronger than even an elder ice dragon’s breath. Crafted by one of the greatest blacksmiths in recorded history.

Rank: None (Growth-Type)

An evolving artifact. Its strength changes with its wielder.

---

His eyes widened.

A growth-type artifact... They were rarer than elixirs—living weapons that grew stronger alongside their chosen wielder, bonding through blood and soul.

He didn’t hesitate.

Biting his thumb, he let a drop of blood roll along the edge of the white blade. The sword drank it like it had been starved for centuries.

Then—silence.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then a pulse.

A deep, resonating hum echoed through the air, as if the sword had exhaled. Cold mist spilled around Azhriel’s feet, spiraling up like dancing fog.

His heartbeat quickened as he felt it—a connection. A faint thread of mana linked the weapon to his very soul. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

And then, without warning, the sword shimmered.

It dissolved into countless motes of cold blue light, each one glittering softly like snowflakes. They gathered, and sank into his chest.

Azhriel clutched his shirt instinctively, eyes wide.

He could feel it. Not just as a weapon—but as something alive, resting within him. Waiting.

He smirked, just a little.

"...Looks like I’ve got a partner now."

It was a gift.

A gift that made his heart ache and smile at the same time.

A gift from the people he could no longer touch, yet who had never truly left his side.

Azhriel looked down at his hands—one bearing the ring of space and time, the other wearing the gloves that once belonged to a witch of legend. Within his chest, the frost-born blade pulsed quietly, like a heartbeat aligned with his own.

He exhaled.

Gratitude. Pain. Strength.

Then, just as he moved to rise from the grave, a voice rang out—low, firm, and deep, echoing through the wind like thunder wrapped in velvet.

"You’ve changed."

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