The Apostle of Insanity

Azarel lay sprawled across his bed, arms outstretched, his right hand casually draped over his face. Through the gaps between his fingers, a peculiar smile played on his lips—a smile that carried a disquieting edge, like that of a child toying with forbidden thoughts.

Earlier, he had taken a risk—a dangerous one. And now his heart was still pounding, beating like a war drum in his chest.

His wide-open eyes stared at the ceiling as his thoughts swirled in chaotic patterns. The room was silent, save for the sound of his breathing, steady yet tinged with the remnants of excitement. He basked in the moment, savoring the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"That was... exhilarating," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

He blinked, his grin widening further. "Though, it would've been even more fun if Nora had been a bit less cooperative," he chuckled softly before cutting himself off with a shake of his head. His hand slipped from his face, falling onto his chest.

"Still... the outcome isn't too bad," he admitted, stretching lazily.

In this world he had been reborn into, everything felt like a massive game of chess, and Azarel considered himself a master player. He wielded an advantage so rare and formidable that few could even comprehend it, let alone challenge it: a near-omniscient weapon.

This weapon wasn't forged of steel or magic. It was his unique edge as someone reincarnated into a fictional world—an arsenal of knowledge that had allowed him to deceive and ensnare Nora, the infamous Scarlet Witch.

Oh, Nora wasn't a major player in the original story. She was just a supporting character, another piece on the chessboard of this world. But Azarel remembered her.

In the original narrative, she had earned her title because of her terrifying yet cursed power—a gift bound by a malicious curse placed on her by her own father. Every use of her abilities came at a tremendous, excruciating cost.

Azarel closed his eyes, recalling her role in the story. According to the novel, it was the enigmatic leader of the Shadows who had initially offered her a temporary reprieve, supplying potions to suppress the curse in exchange for her loyalty. It was a relationship of dependency, one that crumbled when the story's protagonist destroyed the Shadow organization, confronted Nora, and freed her from her curse after a one-sided battle.

Azarel's grin widened as he replayed those events in his mind. He had opted to imitate the protagonist's approach—an elegantly simple strategy for someone like him. After all, his role in this world wasn't just anyone's.

Although this world had the trappings of a classic medieval fantasy, its reality was more complex. Hidden behind the surface were rare beings—individuals who could manipulate the life force that permeated every living being, object, and entity.

And Azarel was one of these rare few.

A smirk twisted his lips as he opened his eyes and sat up, his muscles taut from the lingering thrill. "The ironic part," he mused, his tone dipping into something darker, "is that this body never even realized its potential."

Azarel shook his head, amusement mingling with contempt as he thought about his predecessor. The original Azarel had been a failure—a pitiable fool whose missteps had led to a miserable death, stripped of everything by the story's protagonist.

"Because of that weakness, he died pathetic and forgotten," Azarel continued, his smirk hardening into a sneer.

Finally, he rose from the bed, his gaze distant yet sharp. "But an ending like that…" He let his words hang for a moment before finishing with a flicker of determination in his eyes. "...isn't for me."

Running a hand through his hair, Azarel's mind shifted toward his next move.

Yes, he had a plan.

His actions weren't whimsical. While fun was undoubtedly his ultimate goal, acting without strategy was a recipe for dullness. Manipulation and orchestration—that's where the true enjoyment lay.

Still smirking, Azarel exited the room, his strange grin never fading. He headed toward the study, a simple yet quiet space dominated by a wooden desk and a straight-backed chair.

Taking a seat, he reached for a fountain pen and a stack of papers, placing them deliberately before him. Then, with a calm yet purposeful air, he began to write.

The words flowed effortlessly as memories of the novel resurfaced: its key players, minor characters, forgotten plotlines, and hidden threads.

Azarel didn't aim for precision; he wasn't chronicling every detail. Instead, he was organizing his knowledge, creating a mental map of this world and the opportunities it presented.

The goal wasn't to become a calculating strategist like the hero of the novel. No, Azarel's intent was simple: to be organized. Playing a game without understanding its rules or purpose was pure foolishness.

Azarel wanted to savor every moment in this world, but for that, he needed to maintain some structure. Winning wasn't his priority—pleasure was. Sometimes, losing could be far more exhilarating than victory.

Pages filled swiftly under his pen. Each one carried a new idea, a fresh detail. Some were names of characters, others crucial events from the story. He drew lines, scribbled annotations, adjusted details—building a foundation for his future in this world.

Time flowed unnoticed as daylight waned, casting the room into dim shadows. Yet, Azarel paid it no mind. His eyes remained fixed on the words flowing from his pen, his focus unwavering.

Finally, he paused, fingers resting on the edge of the last filled page. Glancing at the window, he noticed night had fallen. A satisfied smile curved his lips.

"Everything is in place," he murmured.

Setting down the pen, he stretched, basking in the calm of the evening.

The door creaked open quietly, revealing his butler, as expressionless as ever. Bowing slightly, the man announced, "Young master, dinner is served."

Azarel glanced up from his work, still mentally entwined with his plans. He gave a slow nod before rising and carefully stacking his notes.

"Very well. I'm coming," he said, following the butler through the mansion's silent corridors.

When he entered the dining room, he saw Nora already seated, a plate in front of her. She looked up as he approached, pausing mid-bite.

"I didn't think you'd come," she said, her voice carrying a hint of surprise. "Sorry for starting without you."

Azarel raised an eyebrow as he took the seat across from her, amusement flickering across his face.

"No need to apologize. Honestly, I'd have done the same if I were in your shoes," he replied smoothly.

Nora relaxed slightly, and the meal continued in an almost eerie silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery.

While Azarel savored each bite, he noticed that Nora seemed distracted. It wasn't long before she spoke, breaking the quiet.

"So… what do you expect from me now?" she asked hesitantly, her gaze uncertain.

Azarel met her eyes, ready to answer, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"I know, I know—I'm free. And I've chosen to follow you. But I want to understand if you have… specific plans. That way, I'll decide what my role will be."

A faint smirk formed on Azarel's lips as he set his fork down.

"I understand your question," he said with a touch of mischief. "As it happens, I do have a plan. I intend to take control of the Shadows."

Nora froze, her eyes widening slightly. She studied his face, searching for a trace of jest, but his calm demeanor unnerved her. Meanwhile, he took another bite as if he'd just remarked on the weather.

"You… you're serious?" she stammered, her voice trembling with disbelief. "I don't doubt what someone like you is capable of, but… the Shadows aren't an organization that can be conquered by brute force."

Azarel nodded calmly. "I know," he said with a soft smile. "And that's what makes it all the more interesting."

Nora dropped her gaze to her plate, unsure what to make of his words. Azarel, undisturbed, continued eating, his movements unhurried and precise.

Finally, she took a deep breath and looked up again. "The Shadows aren't just an organization," she began cautiously. "They've been rooted in this country for decades. Those who pull the strings are faceless. Aside from their leader, whom I've worked with, I know nothing of the others. Even if you were to take out their head, they'd just elect another one."

Azarel placed his fork down gently, his smile deepening.

"And that's where you're wrong," he replied, his voice laced with quiet confidence.

She frowned, clearly confused. "What do you mean?"

"The Shadows," he said, folding his hands in front of him, "are run by people who think they're untouchable because they hide in the shadows. But everything hidden can be brought to light. What they don't realize is that I already know their secrets. I know exactly where to strike."

Nora shook her head, struggling to process his words. "Even if that were true… why? Why would you want to take over the Shadows? What's the point?"

Azarel leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her tense.

"I need a toy," he said, his voice low but brimming with intrigue. "Something sturdy enough to withstand my actions. For now, the Shadows will do."