Azazeal's sharp eyes dripped with hatred and exhilaration as they locked onto the familiar yet unfamiliar figure before him.
The person he hated most was nearly unrecognizable—ethereal, otherworldly.
He stood tall, rivaling his own height, with long, glowing blond hair cascading over his shoulders and deep cyan eyes now flecked with red. Yet one thing was unmistakable: despite the pure, almost divine appearance, there was nothing pure under it. The aura he radiated was dark—just like his own.
Azazeal landed on the ground, his gaze staring into the cyan eyes before him.
"Congratulations for reaching the End."
Disdain flashed in his obsidian eyes. Who imagined he would be talking so casually when he finally stood before this bastard?
Maybe this was the calm before hell.
He tsked, a mocking glint in his eyes.
"Even after stealing from so many, you're still third in line to reach it. But you know what. Hah. You weren't even supposed to be among the three meant to reach it."
