Haze stood in the center of the dim room, his chest bare, wearing nothing but ragged cargo pants. His shoulder-length hair, pitch black, was parted down the middle. His face was strikingly symmetrical, perfectly adhering to the classical Greco-Roman ideals of beauty.

“The way of the demon is a turbulent one,” Haze laughed, his voice strange and unnatural, before he sauntered toward Zeke. “Say, you’re that kid Ulmak looked after, aren’t you?” He leaned in closer, his dark eyes inspecting Zeke’s face with unsettling intensity.

“Yes, the same one,” Zeke replied, his voice steady.

Suddenly, tentacles erupted from the ground, spearing through Zeke’s arms, legs, and chest. They coiled around him like a savage net, pinning him in place. Zeke gasped, blood spilling from his mouth as he struggled to move. No matter how hard he tried, his magic wouldn’t respond—he couldn’t summon anything.

“Surprised, are we?” Haze smirked, his face inches from Zeke’s. “I’ve injected my mana into your body. Every vein, every artery, flooded with my mana. It’s a completely different aptitude from yours. Cool, huh?” He squatted down, stretching his limbs nonchalantly.

Zeke stood immobilized, barely clinging to consciousness as blood continued to pool at his feet.

“By the way, how’s Ulmak doing? Maybe I should pay him a visit once I’m out of here,” Haze mused, his tone disturbingly casual.

“He’s dead,” Zeke growled, barely able to speak.

“Oh? Who got him? Ludwig?” Haze asked with mild curiosity.

“I did,” Zeke spat, his composure slipping.

“Touché.” Haze squinted, his gaze sharp.

With a snap of his fingers, more spiked tendrils shot from the ground, enveloping Zeke in a cocoon of constricting force. “Bye,” Haze said casually, as the cocoon erupted with bone-like protrusions, piercing Zeke’s body in thousands of places in an instant.

Cold blood dripped to the floor, a chilling silence following.

“This…” Haze froze, his eyes wide with realization. “That fucker can reset time!” he screamed, clutching his head in frustration.

“Killing me isn’t much of an option,” Zeke said, catching his breath as the cycle reset.

“We’ll see about that,” Haze muttered, summoning a tentacle into his hand. In a blink, it morphed into a sleek blade. With a swift motion, he decapitated Zeke, the blow clean and final.

Zeke and Haze opened their eyes once more, standing in front of each other.

“Okay, what do you want?” Haze asked, his impatience evident.

“I was told I think too much like a human. I need to learn to move like a demon—whatever that means,” Zeke explained.

“Whoever told you that must’ve been a demon themselves,” Haze sighed, running a hand down his face. “Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath, “show me what you’ve got.”

Zeke stood still, carefully assessing his opponent, searching for an opening. But despite Haze’s relaxed posture, Zeke found none.

“Well? How long are you gonna make me wait?” Haze taunted, his voice brimming with irritation.

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Without hesitation, Zeke charged forward, aiming low to strike at Haze’s abdomen. But before his attack could land, Haze moved with supernatural speed, ripping Zeke’s throat out in one fluid motion.

Zeke crumpled to the ground, his body twitching as life slipped away.

What the hell was that? he thought as darkness enveloped him.

Once again, they opened their eyes, standing face to face.

“I see what you mean,” Haze remarked, stroking his chin. “You move with precision, but you don’t understand why you’re moving.”

“Why I move?” Zeke echoed, confused.

“Yeah,” Haze smirked, rushing forward with blinding speed.

Zeke braced for the attack, ready to defend, but a spike shot up from behind, piercing him instead.

Haze leaned in close. “Tell me, why did you block that?” he whispered.

“Because you were going to hit me!” Zeke groaned in pain.

“And now I’m about to kill you,” Haze replied, raising his hand as another tentacle coiled into a blade.

But Zeke reacted instinctively, a black blade emerging from the ground, forcing Haze to dodge.

“Very good,” Haze clapped mockingly. “Now try to survive.”

They opened their eyes once more.

Immediately, Zeke pulled a black blade from his pocket, slashing at Haze’s throat. Haze leaned back, narrowly avoiding the strike, before stomping the ground and impaling Zeke with a barrage of bladed tendrils.

“Again!” Haze roared.

Time after time, Zeke charged at him, only to meet the same grisly end. Hundreds of attempts passed, each failure searing deeper into Zeke’s soul. Yet, after countless deaths, something shifted. Zeke felt it—a strange rhythm, an unseen pulse that guided Haze’s every move. It wasn’t logical or material; it was an abstract current, a primal sensation deep within.

“It wants to live,” Zeke whispered, his voice filled with quiet realization.

Haze paused, sensing the change in Zeke’s demeanor. Without warning, he unleashed a volley of spikes, but Zeke deftly weaved through them, his movements fluid and instinctual.

Haze rushed at him, prepared to strike, but Zeke remained perfectly still, his eyes glowing with an eerie blue hue. He could see it—everything Haze was, everything he wasn’t.

“I can’t beat you,” Zeke whispered. “But I can still try.” He spun in a graceful pirouette, using Haze’s extended hand as leverage to strike at his throat.

But Haze’s body dissolved into a mass of tentacles, slipping through Zeke’s attack without a scratch.

“Phase,” Zeke muttered in awe.

“That’s right!” Haze laughed. “You’re catching on. Making me use a demon art is impressive on its own.” He placed a hand gently on Zeke’s head. “I’ll harm you no further.”

“But I’m not done!” Zeke protested. “I still can’t manifest my soul.”

Haze paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I see. But summoning your soul has nothing to do with training or technique. Your soul is a reflection of who you are at your core. Even if you know what it looks like or how it functions, you can’t summon it because you’ve changed.” He raised his arms. “The soul represents finality, a destination. You, however, are constantly evolving, shifting. You won’t be able to summon it until you become who you’re meant to be.”

Zeke stared at him, confused. “So… what do I do?”

“Wait,” Haze smiled softly. “This will resolve itself in time. Now, what next? What do we do from here?”

“I don’t know. Fox said you’d know what to do,” Zeke replied.

Haze groaned, shaking his head. “I swear to God… come on, we’ve got a blonde guy to rescue.”

Without another word, Haze leapt out of his cell, vanishing into the dark hallway.

Zeke followed, adjusting his mask as he ran. “By the way, why didn’t you just break out sooner?” he asked.

“No matter how many times I left, I couldn’t find an exit,” Haze explained. “This place, this prison—it’s alive. Every time I tried to escape, I’d just wander endless hallways until I ran into the Warden.”

“So even you couldn’t beat him?” Zeke asked, his voice tinged with worry.

“Oh, I beat him,” Haze smirked. “But for some reason, this place doesn’t let him die. So eventually, I gave up and returned to my cell. Which, of course, magically repaired itself the moment I stepped back in.”

As they continued through the twisting corridors, the sound of battle echoed from all directions—metal screeching, dull thuds of impacts. It was as if they were in the midst of a war, chaos erupting around them. The cacophony grew louder as they approached an opening.

They entered a vast room where Fredric was locked in combat with the Warden, the two exchanging blows in a deadly dance. The Warden’s arms sprouted blades of blood, which he wielded with terrifying precision. Fredric, keeping close to his adversary, deflected the attacks with skill, refusing to give the Warden a moment to recover.

“Watch closely,” Haze grinned, his stance shifting into something primal, animalistic. “I’m about to show you how it’s done.”