System's POV

Somewhere in the Cygni Continent, eight Azothralls gathered underneath a spacious cavern.

These were the surviving Azothralls from the time Thirteen had attempted to ambush them using Princess Laventia’s clone as bait.

The young man might’ve failed to wipe them out, but these alien-like monsters no longer dared to come out, deciding to keep a low profile since then.

At the moment, they were discussing something very important.

The Golden Azothrall, who goes by the name Azoh’Dar, asked its subordinates if they wished to join the Artemian Army, who had arrived in Pangea.

They had stolen some communicators from the Wanderers, so they were up to date with the latest events happening in the surface world.

The most logical move was to join their Master to conquer the continent.

But after everything that they had been through, Azoh’Dar and his subordinates had learned many things.

The Artemians were a warlike race. While the chances of Azothralls being accepted into their folds were high, the likelihood of them being killed to set an example, that failure would not be tolerated, was higher.

It might sound illogical, but this was the truth.

Also, once the Artemians had built a base, nothing would stop them from creating more Azothralls, which would become the bulk of their army.

Azoh’Dar was born from a Chandrean High Priestess who possessed Holy Power.

This was why it knew that all the Artemians needed to do was to capture Chandreans who met the conditions to create more golden Azothralls just like it.

Although these women would take half a year to give birth to one, their growth would rise drastically once they were born.

‘Mother might be here as well,’ Azoh’Dar thought.

The concept of having parents was very new to it. It only learned about this concept after understanding the culture of Wanderers and their children.

Frankly, it didn’t know what to think about its biological mother, who was forced to give birth to an abomination.

Azoh’Dar was certain that its mother had no love for it, and it was fine with that.

These monsters were just like Zion, who didn’t understand the concept of love.

For them, the members of the other races were just a means to increase their population.

Even the Jinns that they had captured were the same.

They were just an end to a means.

But things were different now. Their intelligence had evolved after consuming Jinns, and they no longer acted purely on instinct.

What they wanted now was to survive, and that survival would be decided by the choice they would make today.

“Should we return?” Azoh’Dar asked its subordinates.

A few minutes later, one of the Azothralls voiced out its thoughts.

“You might be spared because you are special,” the Azothrall replied. “But not us. We are easily mass-produced creatures, and the Artemian Army had no lack of subjects like us.”

The other Azothralls nodded in agreement.

They were born from a laboratory, while Azoh’Dar was born from the womb of a High Priestess of Chandrea.

It wasn’t a mass-produced existence, making him somewhat special to the Artemians.

Also, its strength was a Rank 9 Sovereign, which would be quite useful for the conquest of the continent… and perhaps, the world as a whole.

Another Azothrall, who was the most slender of them all, raised its voice.

It was a female Azothrall, one of the few that had been recently created to allow them to increase their population by targeting male creatures who possessed holy or divine powers.

“If we go back, we will become pawns again,” the female Azothrall said. “Expendable, silent, and erased when no longer needed. I say we carve our own fate.”

The idea was radical, basically heretical.

For creatures created to obey, bred for conquest and death, the concept of choosing their own path was foreign, but it made sense to them now.

Azoh’Dar did not speak for a while.

Instead, it looked at each of its subordinates.

All of them were alien in form, but their gazes held familiar glints on them—clarity, thought, and will.

“They will come eventually,” another Azothrall said grimly. “Whether we serve them or not, the Artemians do not leave unfinished work behind.”

Azoh’Dar nodded slowly. “Then we must become something they do not expect.”

“What do you mean?” the female Azothrall asked.

Azoh’Dar rose from the obsidian slab it had been seated on. Its golden hide shimmered like a radiant curse in the half-light of the cavern.

“We are not only weapons anymore,” Azoh’Dar said.

“We didn’t only gain power from the Jinns we consumed. We absorbed their cultures and intelligence as well. Maybe I’m affected by their memories, but I no longer want to live only to serve our Masters, like we did in the past. We struggled and acquired free will—and I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”

Silence descended inside the cavern. All the Azothralls were trying to digest their leader’s words, and the more they thought about it, the more they clung to something else that was also foreign to them.

That was none other than Hope.

Azoh’Dar tapped the communicator on its wrist, and a projection of the Cygni Continent appeared on the wall of the cavern.

“We will not rejoin the Artemians,” Azoh’Dar declared. “We will become a third force. We’ll patiently hide as we prepare.”

“Against the Artemians?” the female Azothrall asked, its tone uncertain.

Azoh’Dar’s many eyes narrowed. “Against anyone who dares to use us again.”

It wasn’t a rebellion born from emotion.

They simply wanted survival. Something they never dreamed of as the killing machines they used to be.

A flicker of fear passed through the gathered Azothralls, but also… relief.

If they returned, they would die or be enslaved.

If they resisted, they might still die.

But at least they would die with names.

Azoh’Dar turned, facing its subordinates.

“First, we follow the custom of Wanderers,” Azoh’Dar said. “Let’s give each other names. You already know that my name is Azoh’Dar. That makes me different from the rest because I have an identity.”

It then pointed at its subordinates one by one.

“None of you have names,” Azoh’Dar stated. “I think everyone needs a name. All of you need an identity. That will be the first step to true freedom.”

The Azothralls glanced at each other, fear and excitement seen in their eyes.

Names.

They never had one.

They were merely called Azothralls as a whole.

A single entity.

A creature created for battle.

The Artemians’ killing machines.

But they were no longer mere killing machines.

“Then, what kind of names should we have?” the female Azothrall asked, unsure of what name it wanted to give itself.

Azoh’Dar tilted its head slightly, then pressed its clawed hand to the side of its face, mimicking the gesture it had seen Wanderers do when thinking deeply.

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