The Apostle of Insanity

The butler's voice echoed in the hallway as he knocked gently on the door, pulling Azarel back to reality.

"Young master? Do you require assistance?"

Azarel turned his head toward the door, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Adjusting his collar with newfound elegance, his smile widened further. He was already entertained.

"No, thank you. Everything is perfectly fine."

He gave the mirror one last glance, satisfied with his reflection. The game had begun, and he intended to savor every moment, every thrill, down to the very last second. Survival didn't matter. What mattered was the pleasure.

"Who cares if I'm not the hero? I'll make damn sure I'm the one they never forget."

With that thought, he stepped out of the room, ready to face the world with a newfound resolution.

Outside, the butler stood waiting patiently, his fingers lightly clasped behind his back. The door opened slowly, and Azarel appeared in the frame.

"Don't worry," Azarel said, placing a reassuring hand on the butler's shoulder. "Everything's fine."

The butler's brow furrowed briefly before he regained his composure, offering a respectful nod.

"Is the meal still ready?" Azarel asked lightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I find myself rather hungry now."

"Of course, young master. We'll warm it up for you," the butler replied, poorly masking his relief. He gave a slight bow before walking away.

Azarel lingered in the corridor for a moment, a thoughtful smile on his face. Then, taking his time, he descended the staircase to the dining room.

Upon entering, his gaze fell on the woman seated at the grand table, still in her place. She ate slowly, meticulously cutting each piece of meat on her plate.

When Azarel entered, she looked up, offering him a polite yet distant smile.

"Ah, you're back. Feeling better?" she asked, her tone courteous but devoid of genuine concern. It was clear she cared little for Azarel's well-being, her question born purely from social obligation.

Azarel returned her smile, but his was broad and intense, a grin that immediately put her on alert. She frowned slightly in response.

Without a word, Azarel moved to sit across from her. Once seated, he fixed her with an unyielding stare. His gaze was unnerving, and the room's atmosphere seemed to chill.

The woman slowly set down her knife and fork, uneasy at the sudden change in someone she'd regarded as insignificant until now. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to gauge what was amiss.

"What is it?"she finally asked, her voice colder than she intended.

Azarel didn't reply at first. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, the smile never leaving his lips. At last, he spoke, his voice low and smooth, almost a whisper.

"Tell me," he began, tilting his head slightly, "would you be interested in working for me? Becoming my subordinate?"

The woman blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected question.

"I'm quite kind to those who serve me well," he added, his tone almost playful.

For a moment, she sat in silence, trying to discern whether the young man across from her was joking or entirely serious. Finally, she shook her head, a disbelieving smile on her lips.

"Are you out of your mind?" she asked, a hint of mockery in her voice.

But rather than share in her amusement, Azarel burst into laughter, loud and genuine, filling the room with an energy far too intense for the situation.

When his laughter subsided, he locked eyes with her again. His gaze, once playful, was now cold and piercing, a dangerous glint shimmering within.

"You'd do well to take me seriously," he said softly, casually picking up a dining knife. He twirled it between his fingers, a seemingly idle gesture, but the underlying menace was unmistakable. "I don't take kindly to disrespect—or rejection."

Before he could finish his sentence, a knife flew toward him, grazing his cheek before embedding itself into the wall behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Azarel froze for a moment, hand to his cheek, surprised but still smiling. He calmly picked up a napkin and dabbed at the blood trickling down his skin. His eyes, locked on the woman, glimmered with an unsettling fascination.

The woman, in contrast, stared back with cold determination.

"I don't know what's gotten into you," she said in an icy tone, her voice trembling with restrained anger, "but let me remind you: if I determine you're useless, I have full authority from the boss to eliminate you."

Azarel didn't answer immediately. He gently laid the napkin back on the table, his smile widening as his gaze bore into hers.

"So," he finally said in a silky voice, "am I useless in your eyes?"

"Do you realize the risk you're taking right now?" she shot back.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, I'm fully aware, believe me. But, you see, there's no longer any reason for me to concern myself with those you serve. They've lost their significance."

Her jaw tightened, fury flashing in her eyes. "Are you saying you're betraying us?"

Azarel let out a light laugh, amused by her indignation.

"Betrayal is such a dramatic word. I'd call it cutting ties. They've outlived their purpose. You, on the other hand…" He leaned in, his smile turning almost seductive. "You still have a chance to be useful—to me."

A tense silence filled the air as she regarded him with open disdain. Then, with a sharp, humorless laugh, she responded.

"That's what I thought. A pathetic fool like you, unable to pull your weight. The boss insisted despite my doubts, and look at the result—a jester who's lost his mind."

Without warning, her expression darkened. Gripping the edges of the table, she heaved it to the side with startling strength, sending it crashing to the floor. The sound of splintering wood reverberated through the room.

In a fluid motion, her hand extended toward the knife embedded in the wall. It quivered briefly before snapping back into her palm with unnerving precision. Rising to her full height, she stepped toward Azarel, her strides deliberate, the blade gleaming in her hand.

Azarel, still seated, dabbed at the blood trickling from his cheek again, his calm smile unshaken. He watched her approach with a serenity that bordered on unsettling, his eyes glittering with something unreadable.

Suddenly, armed men burst into the room, led by the butler, their swords drawn. Alarm flickered across their faces as they took in the overturned table and the woman closing in on their master.

But before they could act, Azarel raised a hand, his expression composed.

"Stand down," he said almost casually. "We're just having a… discussion."

The woman's laugh cut through the tension like a blade.

"Discussion?" she mocked. "You've got a death wish, don't you? But why now?"

She stopped in front of him, raising the knife in a swift motion, its edge aimed at his throat.

"Nora."

The name fell like a thunderclap in the room, the single word freezing her in place. Her arm stopped mid-swing, the knife trembling in her grip.

Her narrowed eyes locked onto his, burning with suspicion and something close to fear.

"Where did you hear that name?" she growled, her voice low, fingers tightening around the handle until her knuckles whitened.

Azarel, calm as ever, held her gaze, his enigmatic smile deepening. He seemed to relish her disorientation.

"Where did you hear that name?" she demanded again, her voice shaking, the steel in her tone cracking.

He shrugged as though it were of no consequence.

"Oh, you'd be surprised at what I know. But what matters isn't how—I'm more interested in what I might do with that knowledge."

Her teeth clenched, and her grip on the knife grew even tighter. Fury and unease rippled through her stance.

Around them, the armed men remained motionless, unsure whether to intervene. The butler, his expression unreadable, glanced from Azarel to Nora, clearly disturbed by the turn of events.

"So, Nora," Azarel said, his voice gentle, almost friendly, "what's your next move?"

A heavy silence blanketed the room.

Slowly, she lowered the knife, but her intense gaze never left him. She stepped closer, until the air between them seemed charged with animosity.

"I should kill you for even uttering that name," she murmured, her voice a dangerous whisper. "But I'll give you five minutes. You'd better make it worth my time."

Azarel straightened slightly in his chair, the corners of his mouth curling into a pleased grin.

"That's reasonable," he said smoothly. "I think you'll find we have much to discuss. Perhaps more in common than you realize."

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion etched into every feature. "Talk."

Leaning forward, Azarel's tone dropped, quiet and compelling.

"Why waste your talent serving someone who sees you as nothing more than a tool? Consider another option. Work for someone who can offer more than hollow promises and orders barked from a throne of lies."