Marcus sat at the small wooden desk in his new abode—an apartment, as he had heard it called—within the Grigori's headquarters. His eyes flickered across the pages of the book in front of him, a tome on spatial magic, a subject he found endlessly fascinating. He couldn't help but wonder how much easier his journey would have been if teleportation magic had existed in his world. The countless ferrystones he had spent gold on and the endless hours traveling on foot seemed almost laughable now. Shaking his head, Marcus snorted at the irony. Now that he could transport himself with ease, there was little need for it.

In this new world, Marcus had quickly learned that magic worked differently. The kind of magic he had known in his old world involved imposing one's will onto the fabric of reality. It required immense power and clarity of will. As both are often lacking in the average person, mages and sorcerers of his world had devised shortcuts to ease the process—recreating events from the past, for example, to make casting easier. The more natural and likely to occur the effect of a spell was, the less energy it required to replicate. Summoning a bolt of lightning? Simple. Calling down meteors? A massive headache.

Here, however, magic was treated like the natural sciences. Mathematical equations and formulas were used to directly predict and manipulate the flow of magic, altering reality with precision rather than force of will. Elegant, Marcus thought, his fingers tracing the glyphs on the page, studying the elaborate magical circle inscribed therein.

A knock at the door pulled Marcus out of his thoughts.

"Come in," Marcus called, his tone casual, his focus still half on the book in front of him.

The door swung open, revealing Cyran, the eight-winged fallen angel who had helped him through his recovery in this strange new world. He entered the room, his face bright with his usual curiosity, though there was a faint air of disappointment as his gaze landed on the book Marcus had been studying.

"Still burying yourself in books, I see," Cyran remarked, his Vermudian flawless. Much to Marcus' annoyance, Cyran had learned Marcus' language far faster than Marcus had learned his.

Marcus looked up with slight exasperation. "There's not much else for me to do, and the magic of your world is... well, fascinating."

Cyran nodded, leaning in to glance at the text with mild interest. "Spatial magic again? You've been at that for a while. But tell me, how's the other work coming along?" His emphasis on "other" made it clear he wasn't referring to anything arcane.

Marcus sighed, switching to halting but understandable English. "I've finished the weekly assignments you gave me." He waved dismissively; while the lessons on mundane topics—languages, culture, and history—were interesting and useful, they paled in comparison to the trove of magical knowledge he now had at his disposal.

Cyran chuckled. "You never cease to amaze me. Most people are intimidated by spatial magic—just learning enough to teleport—and here you are, treating it like a puzzle." His expression grew more serious. "By the way, Azazel wants to see you in his lab in half an hour."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "What for?"

Cyran shrugged. "He didn't say exactly, but knowing him, he probably wants to run some more tests. You're a bit of an anomaly, after all."

Marcus grimaced. He vividly remembered the battery of bizarre experiments Azazel had subjected him to upon his arrival—blood tests, strange devices they had strapped to him while he ran on a rotating track, even the uncomfortable prodding of his 'heart.'

"Fantastic," Marcus muttered sarcastically.

Cyran smiled. "It could be worse. He's been more curious than invasive lately. Besides, you might pick up some valuable knowledge about magic."

"Lucky me."

As Cyran turned to leave, he paused at the doorway, his usual curiosity surfacing again. "By the way, if you're free this evening after Azazel's... whatever it is, I'd love to talk more about your world's languages. Elvish, in particular—it's fascinating, the structure of it."

Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. "You never give up, do you?"

"Nope," Cyran replied, a wide grin on his face. "I'm a scholar of culture, Marcus. I live for this kind of thing."

As the door clicked shut, Marcus leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. His feelings were conflicted. A younger version of himself—the one who had only dreamt of being a mage—would have been envious of the sheer amount of magical knowledge at his disposal now. Yet, as an Arisen and slayer of the Pathfinder, Marcus couldn't shake the restlessness creeping in.

Marcus made his way through the labyrinthine halls of the Grigori's headquarters, letting out a sigh as he knocked on the door to Azazel's lab. He braced himself for yet another round of strange tests and even stranger questions.

The door slid open, revealing Azazel, the ever-inquisitive Fallen Angel, lounging in a chair with his feet casually propped on a sleek desk. His twelve wings stretched lazily behind him, casting long, flickering shadows on the walls. The lab itself was a maze of softly glowing tubes, humming machinery, and floating screens—more like something out of a dream than reality.

"Ah, Marcus!" Azazel grinned as he stood up. "Perfect timing. Come on in, we need to run a few more tests."

Marcus crossed his arms, his expression wary. "More tests? Haven't you poked and prodded enough?"

Azazel waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. It's all in the name of science. You're a fascinating subject—I've never come across anyone quite like you." He gestured toward a sleek, glass-like table in the center of the room. "Just lie down for a quick scan."

Marcus eyed the table suspiciously. "You said something similar last time, right before dunking me in that tank."

Azazel chuckled. "No water this time, I promise. I think I've poked at your biology enough—now I want to get some spiritual scans of you."

Marcus blinked, confused. "Spiritual scans?"

""Exactly. I want to examine your soul. I have a thorough understanding of how souls function in this world, but, given your circumstances, I suspect yours might be... unique." Azazel's eyes gleamed with curiosity as he leaned in slightly. "I want to see just how different you really are."

Marcus hesitated, then nodded. "Fine, but I want something in return. A proper magic instructor—not these scrolls or lectures. Someone who can teach me face-to-face."

Azazel smiled, nodding eagerly. "Done. Now, get comfortable."

Marcus lay on the examination table, his arms resting at his sides as Azazel began prepping the scanning devices. Soft whirring sounds filled the room, followed by a series of beeps as glowing screens flickered to life. Azazel moved about, making adjustments, occasionally muttering to himself.

Minutes passed in silence, and Marcus grew impatient. "Azazel, is something wrong?"

Azazel's brow furrowed. "Not wrong, exactly, but unexpected." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Are you sure you're human?"

Marcus let out an exasperated sigh. "We've been over this, Azazel. Despite my... peculiar biology, I'm still human, you even confirmed it with those DNA tests. I'd have thought you, of all people, wouldn't sound like the ignorant peasants back home. 'The Arisen isn't human he has no heart, he must be undead—it's even in his name.' I got tired of that nonsense months ago."

Azazel let out an amused chuckle. "First let me say that as a non-human and the leader of a faction comprised of non-humans and various degrees of part-humans: not being human isn't a bad thing. Undead, for example, can be just as sentient, sophisticated, and compelling as you or I; they even have human DNA. Why, I once had quite the fling with a vampire countess. She was gorgeous, brilliant, utterly insatiable—"

Marcus held up a hand, grimacing. "Azazel, please. I do not need to hear about your escapades."

He smirked. "Suit yourself. But my point stands."

"Anyway, back to what I was going to explain." Azazel gestured toward one of the floating screens, which displayed a pulsating spheroid of crimson energy, waves of gold rippling across its surface. "See this? Despite some major oddities that is unmistakably the soul of a dragon. Even with the traces of humanity mixed in, there's no doubt about it." He turned to Marcus, a curious glint in his eye. "So, are you absolutely certain your parents were human? Not dragons taking human form? Are you sure you weren't adopted?"

Marcus scoffed, folding his arms. "My parents were merchants of middling success, and while they had their secrets—like any parents—I'm pretty sure turning into dragons or me being adopted wasn't one of them. I grew up watching them haggle over grain prices, not hoarding gold in some hidden cavern. I think I'd have noticed if they were secretly dragons in disguise."

Marcus paused, a contemplative look crossing his face. "Is it possible for someone's soul to be transformed into that of another race?"

"Well, yeah," Azazel responded. "Devils have their whole thing with chess pieces, and I'm pretty sure Michael is working on something similar for angels. That said, any changes to the soul would be reflected in the body—gradually, of course, not all at once. And the process isn't subtle; it's invasive, something you'd definitely notice. Your missing heart? That wouldn't be from turning into a dragon. If anything, your heart should have become larger and more like a dragon's, not vanished."

Azazel paused, his expression shifting as he studied the readings. "Actually, there's something else. Your soul contains an unusually large amount of divinity—more than even a demigod would have. But it's... just sitting there, not integrating, not interacting with the rest of your essence. Normally, divinity merges seamlessly with a soul, shaping it. But yours registers as both a dragon and a divinity, when by all logic, you should be a divine dragon. Something is keeping them separate."

Marcus exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure about the divinity, but there is one event that comes to mind in regards to the dragon part. One moment that could have changed my soul... It's also how I lost my heart."

"Oh?" Azazel sounded intrigued.

"I was trained as a sorcerer at the Royal Academy of Vernworth. Despite their modest success as merchants, my parents couldn't afford the tuition, but I was fortunate enough to earn a sponsorship from the army in exchange for four years of service. Upon completing my education, I was stationed at the garrison in Melve village—just in time for a dragon to descend upon it. It razed half the village, slaughtered most of the garrison, and, at the end of the carnage, it drove its claw into my chest and tore my heart from my body, then ate it. That was the moment I became the Arisen."

Marcus continued, "I wasn't alone. There were others like me—other Arisen—though we were few and scattered throughout the land. In my search for answers, I spoke with them, read old records, and pieced together the truth. The connection between an Arisen and the dragon that takes their heart is absolute, a fate neither can escape. We are destined to fight, to reclaim what was stolen. And if we fail—if the dragon delivers the final blow—our fate is sealed. Those killed by their dragon don't simply die; they return as draconic shadows of their former selves. They become Drakes."

"Hm, some kind of magical restraint preventing the physical transformation until certain conditions are met? That would explain the other anomaly. The removal of the heart must be the core of the binding—hearts are the core of a dragon's magic. Without one, the transformation might be stalled."

Azazel paused, rubbing his chin before turning to Marcus. "So, what happened to the Arisen who actually managed to slay their dragon?"

"As far as I know, they 'ascend above the world and become the new Seneschal.' It seems to be tied to overseeing the world's order in some way, but I don't fully understand it. My only source was a ghost who had almost completely lost his mind, so his explanation was less than helpful." Marcus answered.

"Ah ha, the pieces are finally coming together! The dragon takes your heart and revives you with its draconic essence, starting your transformation and embedding divinity in your soul. But without a heart, the change is limited to the soul—your body never fully becomes that of a dragon. If an Arisen is killed by their dragon, their heart is returned, completing the transformation into a dragon. But if an Arisen kills their dragon, they take the place of this 'Seneschal,' which allows the divinity to fully integrate." Azazel's eyes gleamed with excitement before he added, "Of course, this is just a theory—but I think it holds up."

Marcus lay still on the bed, mulling over Azazel's theory. "That does make some sense. But here's a thought—the Seneschal acknowledged me as his successor before my dragon died. And it died when I killed myself—" Azazel shot him a look. "—it made sense at the time, and I got better. But I'm still like this. So what's going to happen to me?"

Azazel shrugged. "I have no idea. My research on souls has mostly focused on how they interact with Sacred Gears. The magic of reincarnation isn't something I've studied in depth, and I haven't had much opportunity to explore divinity either. That said, you seem stable and haven't exploded yet, so I think you'll be fine."

Marcus groaned, rubbing his temples. "Great."

Azazel laughed, his wings stretching behind him as he jotted down notes. "But think of the possibilities, Marcus. The ranks of the most powerful are filled with dragons and divinites. Hell, the two most powerful beings in this existence are the Dragon Gods."

Marcus sat back in his chair after meeting with Cyran again, his mind still buzzing from their conversation about his world and its cultures. He closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting on how much had changed since he arrived here.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a loud crash, jolting Marcus out of his thoughts. Instinctively, he shot up, summoning Grianmhar, his Magickal Bow, to his hand. In a flash, he drew the bowstring to full draw, Seeker bolts forming in its center, ready to strike.

But just as quickly as the tension built, it faded. Marcus let the bow dissipate into sparks when he saw who it was—Azazel, grinning like a madman.

Marcus groaned, lowering his guard. "What are you doing here?"

Azazel's enthusiasm was palpable as he beamed pointing at Marcus. "You, Marcus, are my new research assistant! And I, Azazel, am your new magical instructor."

Marcus blinked, incredulous. "Wait, what? You?"

Azazel's grin only widened. "Yes, me! Starting tomorrow. So, get some rest tonight because tomorrow we're diving into serious training."

Marcus rubbed his temples. "Training in magic?"

Azazel winked. "That too."

And with that, Azazel left, leaving Marcus alone with the realization that his foreseeable future promised to be much anything but calm.