Chapter eight — Half Truths
"…Devour."
The lie came out smoother this time—more confident.
Azeroth felt a faint tug of guilt for lying to his parents, but it faded quickly. He wasn't trying to be deceitful; it was just that he had no choice. He couldn't exactly tell the truth, could he?
"And the description?" Darius asked.
"It says I've awakened the embodiment of consumption," Azeroth replied evenly. "The effect is to become what I eat."
"Hmm…" Darius murmured, brows furrowing in thought.
"I've heard of traits with similarities to yours," he said slowly. "But they're incredibly rare among humans. Could become either a liability or a blessing—depending on the specifics."
Turning to his wife, he added, "What do you think, honey?"
"I'm not sure," Serena admitted softly. "But he could always try it out. Right?"
Her voice carried that familiar warmth—soft, steady, protective.
With his sisters away and Azeroth usually buried in training, moments like this were rare. Now that she finally had him close, Serena wasn't letting go.
"Alright," Darius sighed. "We'll leave that to Bran for now. He should know what to do."
They fell into a comfortable silence, simply enjoying one another's presence. Serena continued to cradle Azeroth, while Darius watched with faint, barely concealed jealousy toward his own son.
"By the way, Father," Azeroth asked suddenly, lifting his head from his mother's bosom, "how is the training going?"
"Oh? That?" Darius replied. "It's going well. Those… firearms—are surprisingly easy to use."
"That's good. That's good," Azeroth nodded.
Darius chuckled. "Seriously though, how did you even come up with that?"
"Ha… ha…" Azeroth laughed awkwardly, scratching his head.
It felt strange—being praised for something he had merely borrowed.
But just like with his trait, even if this time it was intentional, he couldn't exactly tell them he'd taken the idea from another world right?
Doing so would just open a can of worms he wasn't quite ready to unlock.
"Luck," he said at last. "Just luck."
"I highly doubt that," Darius replied with a grin. "My son is just that much of a genius."
"Of course he is," Serena said proudly, running her fingers through Azeroth's hair. "He's my son, after all."
Azeroth swallowed.
He was enjoying this far too much—being held like this, fussed over like a child.
A mummy's boy through and through.
He relaxed completely, purring contentedly in her arms, leaving Darius sitting there like an awkward third wheel.
Unable to endure it any longer, Darius clapped his hands sharply.
"Enough of that! It's time to celebrate! Where are the maids?"
————————
By the time the "celebration" ended, Azeroth could barely walk.
With the last scraps of his strength, he staggered through the corridors—each step unsteady, the halls far too long and far too bright.
What was meant to be a simple celebration had somehow escalated into a full-blown party.
His father and Bran—two full-grown men—had dragged the festivities far past midnight before finally releasing him.
As for why he was drunk?
Well... this world was no Earth.
Its logic, rules, and customs didn't apply here—especially not to an evolved being.
In fact, Bran had practically forced a cup into his hands, saying something along the lines of:
"It's your own celebration and you don't want to drink? What nonsense!"
Stumbling into his room, Azeroth fumbled with the door, shut it behind him, took the world's fastest shower, and collapsed onto the bed in his birthday suit.
Completely done.
Completely exhausted.
And completely unaware that tomorrow…
The changes he had instinctively felt—the same ones that led him to introduce guns to this world…
Would begin to accelerate.
—————————
Rest settled thick over the Clinton estate.
The celebration faded; the halls quickly went quiet.
Well almost.
In the rear wing, shadows moved. A figure slipped silently through the stone corridors, steps light and deliberate. Clad in plain servant's linen, nothing about them stood out.
They passed by some other servants on the way, each greeting them warmly. They were very popular it seems.
They stopped at a small door and slipped inside the cramped servant quarters: four narrow beds, one cracked window, the lingering scent of soap and old fabric.
Nothing unusual-perfect for what came next.
The figure crossed to the farthest bed, crouched, and lifted a loose floor plank.
Beneath was a wooden box wrapped in cloth.
Inside lay a dull-gray crystal: a
communication crystal, designed to carry messages across impossible distances.
The figure pressed the crystal between their palms, injecting a thread of essence. It flared, pulsing with an inner light.
A distorted, distant voice echoed:
"STATUS."
The figure inhaled deeply.
"I… I have something to report."
And with that and many more, a chain of events had quietly begun.
One that was about to make Azeroth's peaceful life…
well, less peaceful.
— Elsewhere —
The bright sun shone over Jayl Town, located at the outskirts of the Clinton viscounty.
Under normal circumstances, it was a bustling place—its position bordering two other viscounties made it a natural crossroads for merchants, adventurers, couriers, and wandering sellswords.
Today, however, was not one of those days.
The streets were empty.
Taverns stood cold and deserted.
Most buildings had their doors and windows tightly shut, and those that didn't revealed interiors that were unnaturally dark—far darker than the time of day should allow.
A hollowness had settled over the town like a suffocating blanket.
The cold that lingered wasn't merely physical. It crept beneath the skin, gnawing at nerves and sinking into the soul. With every shift of the wind came faint whispers—indistinct, unintelligible, yet unmistakably present.
Something was very wrong.
In a modest building near the center of town, a group of six huddled around a struggling fire, drawn close together in a futile attempt to keep the chill at bay.
"I don't know how long we can survive like this…" a woman said quietly, her voice trembling.
A man across from her let out a weary sigh.
"Not long," he admitted. "The food stores are nearly gone, and…"
He hesitated.
"…we lost another family today."
A heavy silence followed.
Finally, someone asked, "Do you think the viscount has received the message yet?"
"We can only hope," the man replied grimly. "Otherwise…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.