Then came the shrieking.
Not from Kaiser. From Azhdar.
The great wyvern—towering shadow, burning eyes, wings like folded night—threw back its head and screamed.
Azhdar's body convulsed—as if it were struggling to hold itself together.
Its master's energy was disappearing.
And so did it as it slowly dissolving into smoke.
Ayumu ran down from the throne until she reached Kaiser's side. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands hovering over his chest, afraid to touch but was terribly worried.
Then the bone in the djinn's hand began to change.
It levitated—rising from those shadowy fingers like a feather caught in an updraft. The pale white bone soon darkened and turned smoke. It swirled and coiled, expanding outward, growing larger, denser, until it took a shape the size of a human.
But it was not human. It is a shadow-like form—featureless at first, shifting like ink in water. Then two slits formed where eyes should be. And those eyes opened.
Red.
Just like Kaiser's.
The being knelt in front of its unconscious master, its form still unstable, still half-smoke, half-shadow. But the posture was unmistakable: a soldier kneeling before a king. A servant before its lord.
Kaiser's vision was fading . He was gasping because of the pain still echoing through his chest where that bone had been. But he saw. Through the haze and agony, his wish had come true.
At the cost of his ribcage.
The djinn spoke, its ancient voice carrying across the silent chamber.
"You now have a loyal follower. Made from a part of you. It will follow your every beckoning, have its own mind, but never betray you. Give it a name… and it shall have a voice."
Kaiser was weak. His eyelids fluttered. He was about to faint.
But then he saw her. Ayumu. Kneeling next to him, worried about him.
Deep down—beneath the pain, something warm flickered.
He then mustered the last of his energy. His lips parted. His voice came out as a whisper—raw, broken, but clear enough.
"Yo-your name… will be… Noctis."
The shadow being looked at Kaiser.
Those red eyes—so like his master's—blinked once. Slowly. Deliberately. Then the being bowed its head—a slight incline, but one that carried the weight of an oath.
"I shall serve you… Master," it said. The voice was raspy.
Then Kaiser's eyes closed. His body went limp. He fainted—lying motionless on the cold stone floor.
The shadow being—Noctis—dissolved soon after, melting back into smoke.
Ayumu reached down and took Kaiser's wrist between her trembling fingers. She pressed two fingertips to his pulse—waiting, counting, listening. Then she exhaled—a long, shaky breath.
"Nothing is wrong," she said quietly, almost to herself. "He is just tired from the pain. He will wake in a few hours."
She looked up at the djinn. Her soft features hardened—just slightly—into a look of protest.
"That was not very nice, Mighty Djinn."
The djinn grinned—wide and unapologetic.
"As I told you, Ayumu. All wishes come at a price."
Ayumu pouted—a genuine, childish pout—and looked back at the others. Her voice carried across the chamber, gentle but firm.
"It is your turn now to make your wishes. But please… be careful with what you wish for. Everything comes at a price."
The group exchanged glances.
Levain was the first to speak. "Maybe… before we make our wishes, we need to consult with Lady Ayumu first."
The others nodded in unison. Even Fifi, who still eyed the djinn with deep suspicion, gave a reluctant nod.
What they had just witnessed with Kaiser had terrified them. To lose a rib bone—pulled out like a splinter, clean and bloodless—that must have hurt beyond words!
They were not about to make the same mistake.
One by one, they gathered around Ayumu—huddled together on the gold-strewn floor, voices low. They discussed. They weighed every word before it could become a wish.
And one by one, when they were ready, they turned to face the djinn.
Drobar stepped forward first, his heavy boots crunching on scattered gold.
"I wish for a powerful sword," he said, his voice carrying across the chamber. "One that can absorb power and repel it. A sword imbedded with magic that can tell truth from lies with a glow. But—" he raised a finger, "—not have a mind of its own."
The djinn's white eyes flickered with something like approval.
"A warrior's wish. Practical." The shadow being tilted its head. "The price is your current sword. The one you cherish and carries your memories."
Drobar's hand went to his hip. His fingers wrapped around the worn leather grip of his blade—the first sword his father had gifted him for winning his first battle. For becoming a man. The metal was scratched. The pommel was dull. But every mark told a story.
He drew it slowly. Held it in both hands. For a long moment, he simply looked at it.
Then he laid it at the djinn's feet.
"Take it," he said quietly.
The sword dissolved into shadow—absorbed by the djinn's form without a sound.
Drobar's jaw tightened. But now in his hand, a new sword materialized: darker, sleeker, humming with contained power. Drobar tested its weight. Nodded.
Levain came next, wringing his hands.
"I wish for an object I can store water in," he said, "but not heavy to carry. I travel often, and water is life."
The djinn raised a shadowy hand. A small pot appeared—plain clay, unremarkable, looking for all the world like something you might buy from a village merchant.
"It looks empty," the djinn said. "But it is an endless pot. It can carry a small lake's worth of water inside it. Never heavy. Never spilling."
Levain's eyes lit up. "And the price?"
The djinn's smile was almost gentle. "A lock of your hair. A large one."
Levain hesitated. His hand went to his long blue hair—his pride, his vanity, the thing people complimented first when they met him. But he nodded and tied his hair.
The djinn reached out. Its shadowy fingers closed around a thick section of Levain's hair. And pulled.
No scissors. No blade. The hair simply parted. Levain's hair now flowed above his shoulders.
Fifi slowlly and cowardly came forward. He was trembling.
"I—I wish," he stammered, then took a breath and steadied himself. "I wish for me to be able to memorize more things. And absorb knowledge faster. Knowledge is power...you know..."
The djinn's white eyes blinked.
"A pricy wish. The price is a pint of your blood."
Fifi went pale. His tiny hands shook. But he flew closer, extending one small arm toward the djinn's massive shadowy hand.
They shook hands.
Fifi squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for pain—for a needle, a cut, something. But there was nothing. Just a cold sensation, like plunging his arm into winter water. When he opened his eyes, the djinn had released him.
No blood was visible. Not a single drop on the floor, on his skin, on the djinn's hand.
But Fifi's head spun. His vision dimmed. He swayed in the air, then dropped—fainting onto a soft pile of gold coins. His chest rose and fell. Alive. But pale.
"Lost blood," Rhea said from the throne, already reaching for a healing spell. "Not life-threatening. He will wake."
Osmond stepped forward last among the men. He did not tremble. He did not hesitate. His voice was low and steady.
"I wish for an armor. Lightweight. Able to repel any magic or attacks."
The djinn studied him for a long moment.
"A powerful defense. The price…" The djinn's gaze lingered on Osmond's face. "Maybe your eye?"
Osmond went still. The others gasped.
But Osmond did not argue. He simply reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a small object—a pendant, old and worn, carved from a single piece of dark wood. A family heirloom. Passed down for generations. The one thing he treasured above all else.
"This is the price," he said, holding it out. "I will get in trouble for losing it. But the price is worth it."
The djinn's white eyes narrowed. Then—it accepted.
The pendant dissolved into shadow. In its place, a suit of armor materialized around Osmond's body—so light he barely felt it, yet dense with protective magic. He flexed his arms. Nodded.