ROLEPLAY

A growing rumor had been circulating throughout the Empire for some time. It concerned the akenakos Azazor, who had been missing for many months. His absence had been reported on his return from an expedition into the depths, in search of members of the Root Lords tribe. The group had come across a large patrol of kirostas and, faced with their numbers, he had been brought back by the Powers. But the former legionnaire was not recalled. And ever since, opinions have been rife as to what might have happened to him. Some who had taken part in the expedition had seen him collapse to the ground when the kirostas attacked, while others had seen him run like hell. The latter claim was mostly made by backbiters, too happy to see Azazor as a coward fleeing from the kitins. Others simply couldn't imagine his death and continued to believe in his return.

But for the past week, rumors had been circulating that he had been spotted in Pyr. Students at the Imperial Academy had come across him in the school. They said he looked strange and distant, that his eyes were frightening, that his face, already badly burned since his return from the Old Lands, had deepened, revealing a waxy, cadaverous complexion. Some claimed they'd seen him dragging the carcass of a deep-sea kitin down a corridor, while others argued that it was the body of a student. Sometimes he wore the white robes of the teachers in the Chamber of Truth, sometimes a heavy, bloody suit of armor. In any case, the rumor mill continued to evolve and grow richer with each passing gossip. And yet, when Academy members were questioned, no answer was given. Depending on the member, there was either a huff of contempt, a faint smile or total indifference. The rumor mill continued to swell, and the students' great game was to see who could find Azazor, each one looking for him in increasingly unlikely places and not hesitating to add new rumors to the old. People were playing scare tactics, threatening each other that Azazor would sweep them off their feet in a corridor, or claiming that he'd been hired at the Academy to punish students who weren't very studious. And it had become rare to come across students wandering alone in the corridors.

For Phaïstos, a sixteen-year-old student at the Imperial Academy, it was all folklore. The kind of nonsense the older ones tell the younger ones to frighten them. He had heard of the legends circulating about Azazor. He was said to have survived Dragon fire, a fall into a bottomless Nexus rift, poisoning and even, it was said, an encounter with fyrak himself. Yet this time, Azazor was really dead, he was convinced. You couldn't tease death and constantly escape it. Sooner or later, as his mother used to say, it catches up with you. So Phaïstos paid little heed to rumors and stayed focused on his studies. Today, he would have a new kitinology teacher, and he couldn't wait to see what he would be like. A young one, it would be a change from all those decrepit old professors he sometimes found hard to hear from the top of the lecture hall.
He lined up with the other students in front of the classroom door. There were about twenty of them, all dressed in drogeus, waiting for their new teacher to arrive. Most were sons and daughters of good families, having already spent the last eight years studying at the Academy. As they waited, chatter broke out among the ranks. The atmosphere was quite relaxed as they awaited the arrival of the new teacher.

But a few minutes later, footsteps echoed through the corridors. Heavy, martial footsteps. An imperial army officer? This was a regular occurrence, as the Academy was also a military school. The students snapped to attention as they saw a tall fyros arrive, massive in his black kostomyx. He walked like a military man, straight in his boots. A large black axe hung from his back. The fyros' face was ravaged by scars and burns. His balding forehead showed a significant indentation, as if a large thorn had been embedded in his skull before being removed. Homins in the New Lands rarely saw scars, let alone ones of this magnitude. The powerful magic of these lands usually repaired the body without a trace. Yet what everyone saw before their terrified eyes was no hallucination.
The fyros continued to advance towards them. A nightmarish vision they'd all dreaded coming across over the past week, striding forward under their horrified gaze, finally reaching their height and planting himself in front of them. They could then see that his eyes were blood-red. Many things were said about red eyes. That they carried a curse, or were a sign of great power. But there was something even more terrifying about that look. Something unhealthy. He heard one of his comrades groan beside him.
The fyros gave them a long, stern look, staring at each of them. When Phaïstos met his gaze, he felt as if he were being probed from within. A shiver ran down his spine, and tortured images permeated his mind. Like his comrades before him, he instinctively lowered his head. Then, noting that all had lowered their heads, the fyros spoke in a hoarse voice:

"My name is Azazor Eridlo Mirihus and I'm your new kitinology teacher."

A thud was heard. It was one of the students who had just fainted.

The kitinology course took place outside Pyr, at the top of a dune in the welcome shade of the olansis. The wind carried with it the smell of resin and sawdust, while the students waited in anguish. Among them, Phaïstos, a naturally curious young homin unaccustomed to austerity, watched with palpable apprehension the imposing figure of Azazor, their new kitinology teacher.

Azazor was everything one could imagine of a brutal warrior: an imposing build, reinforced by heavy black armor etched with the marks of past battles. His hardscrabble face, pockmarked with scars and burns, was a living map of unequal combat against kitins. He held his axe firmly in both hands, a massive weapon adorned with what he had called a "dragon's tooth". The axe seemed almost alive in the harsh morning light, and he wielded it with as much ease as another teacher would have wielded a walking stick. When he spoke, his hoarse voice cracked like a whip:

- Stop yawning at the kitins, you toubs! Today, we're going to see what you've got, or whether you'll end up like those morons who throw themselves headlong into a colony of kirostas. Grab your sticks and shields!

The tone was dry, brutal, and the students obeyed in silence, their eyes glazed over. Phaïstos, though terrified and having no idea what he had planned, felt a strange admiration for this homin who seemed to have seen hell and back. Beneath his fear lay a genuine thirst for learning.

Azazor began his lecture by walking ahead of them, his every step pounding the sawdust like a war drum.

- Kitins," he growled, "are not creatures you can underestimate. Any one of them, even the smallest, can tear your leg off. They have a strategy, a hierarchy and, above all, a group intelligence that none of you can hope to surpass. Your only chance? Learn to understand them. And to outsmart them.

Then, without warning, he swung his axe at Phaïstos.

- You, youngster. Think you can outrun a kincher? Explain their strategy of encirclement.

Caught off guard, Phaïstos felt his heart pounding in his chest. Yet he summoned up his courage and stammered out an answer, remembering the textbooks he had devoured.

- Uh... kinchers... they... attack by forming a circle around their prey to... cut off any escape. Then, the fastest... uh... throw themselves forward to... weaken...

Azazor interrupted him with a roar.

- Louder, Phaestus! Your whispers won't stop them!

The teenager straightened up, the gaze of his comrades burning into his back. This time, his voice was more confident.

- The kinchers surround their prey to exhaust it and cut off any retreat! The fastest strike first, while the others... keep their distance to block any escape.

A silence followed, then Azazor nodded slowly.

- Not too bad. But never forget: it's not by reciting that you'll live. It's by doing! Now, let's get down to business.

The group emerged from the reassuring shade of the olansis into the sweltering heat of the desert. The scorching light of the day was relentless at this hour of the day, and the sawdust kicked up by the wind seemed to cling to their skin in a sticky layer. Azazor was relentless.

- You're going to play a battle against kinchers," he announced, a cruel sneer on his face. Some of you will be kitins, others prey. And to motivate you, know that I won't hesitate to strike. A kitin never holds back, so I won't either.

The students organized themselves, some taking up sticks and adopting threatening postures, imitating the kinchers with varying degrees of success. Others, including Phaïstos, prepared to play the role of prey, their muscles tense with nervousness.

- Start!" shouted Azazor.

Chaos ensued immediately. The kinchers pounced on their comrades, simulating bites and pawing. But Azazor wasn't faking it. His axe struck with the flat of the blade at stragglers and those who dared to slow down.

- Faster, faster! You call that a dodge?" he roared as he brought his axe down on the trembling shield of a student, who wobbled under the impact before falling to his knees.

Phaïstos, short of breath, narrowly dodged a student playing kincher. He turned just in time to see Azazor hit another classmate on the shoulder, sending him rolling into the sawdust.

- Get up!" spat the kitinology professor. A kitin doesn't give you time to whine! You're allowed to fall, but if you stay down, you die!

Heat, burning sawdust and pain weighed heavily on the group. Several students were on the ground, injured or exhausted, but Azazor didn't care about their condition. He pursued relentlessly, barking orders, hitting, correcting.

- If you can't survive here, in this exercise, you're screwed in a real fight! he growled.

Phaïstos was in pain, his muscles screaming, but he found himself captivated. Azazor's every word and gesture seemed to be a lesson forged in blood and experience. He wasn't just a warrior - he was a survivor.

When the session finally came to an end, the students collapsed in the sawdust, panting and their skin covered in bruises. Phaïstos, exhausted but on his feet, felt a glimmer of pride. He had stood his ground.

Azazor towered over them, the cold sharpness of judgment in his gaze. Red, terrifying eyes.

- Not bad for a first day. But remember: in the face of kitins, hesitation is death. Rest if you can. Tomorrow will be worse.

Despite the brutality of the training, Phaïstos felt a strange gratitude. Azazor wasn't trying to break them. He was forging them.

a presence in the distance