Rise Of The Dual Bound Sovereign

CHP 2: Mother's Condition

Several days earlier…

Rain poured heavily over the Valcroy estate, drenching the stone pathways and shrouding the surroundings in a gray haze.

Outside the Family Head's manor, a young boy could be seen kneeling silently beneath the relentless downpour. His entire body was drenched by the rain, his clothes clinging tightly to his frame as cold winds swept through the courtyard, causing him to shiver uncontrollably.

The lone figure was none other than Azrael Valcroy, the eldest son of the Valcroy family head.

However, that title meant little now. After failing his awakening and being unable to manifest even the lowest grade elemental affinity, he had become known as the trash son of the Valcroy family.

He had been kneeling there for over four hours, hoping to obtain an audience with his father—the Family Head. Yet despite his efforts, he was treated as though he didn't exist.

Just then, the sound of the manor doors opening rang out.

Azrael quickly raised his head, a flicker of hope appearing in his eyes as he looked toward the entrance, hoping to see his father.

Instead, a group of guards emerged, escorting a middle-aged man dressed in finely tailored robes. Though not overly extravagant, the quality of the robes made it clear that he held a respected position within the family.

At first, Azrael was visibly disappointed, but then his eyes brightened upon recognizing the man. The middle-aged man was the family's healer.

Without a moment's hesitation, Azrael sprang to his feet and rushed toward him, hoping to convince him to take a look at his mother's condition.

Unfortunately, before he could get close, one of the guards stepped forward and slammed the shaft of his spear into his chest.

"Ugh!"

Azrael was sent flying backwards before crashing heavily onto the ground. He coughed up several mouthfuls of blood as a sharp pain spread through his chest.

The healer in question didn't even spare him a single glance.

As the guards led the healer away, Azrael stretched out a trembling hand toward the departing figure.

"Master Healer...!"

"H-help my mother..."

His voice trembled with desperation.

Yet he was completely ignored.

All he could do was watch helplessly as the solution to his mother's illness disappeared farther and farther into the distance.

His outstretched hand slowly curled into a fist, his nails digging deep into his palm. His mother’s pale, gaunt face surfaced in his mind, and he couldn’t help but imagine the pain she must be enduring at this very moment. The thought alone made his heart sink.

Once again… there was nothing he could do. He hated this feeling of helplessness. He hated his own powerlessness even more.

After a while, Azrael finally managed to drag his exhausted body back to his feet. He turned toward the heavy doors of the manor, and for a brief moment, the thought of forcing his way in crossed his mind. But no matter how he looked at it, it was impossible. And even if he somehow succeeded, he would only end up beaten half-dead and thrown out like trash before he could even meet his father.

He sighed deeply, the frustration settling heavily in his chest, and then walked away heading towards his mother's room to check her condition.

Upon reaching the room, Azrael knocked lightly once before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The room was modest to the point of being almost barren. Aside from a worn wooden table, a single chair, and a bed tucked away in the corner, there was little else within its walls.

Azrael's gaze immediately fell upon the figure lying on the bed. A woman rested there peacefully, seemingly asleep. The woman was precisely Azrael's mother—Helene

He quietly walked over and took a seat on the chair beside the bed, his eyes lingering on her frail form as a trace of pain flashed across his face.

She had become alarmingly thin over the past two years. Her complexion was unnaturally pale, devoid of any healthy color, while strands of silver had gradually overtaken the black hair she once possessed.

Yet despite her weakened appearance, the resemblance between mother and son was unmistakable. The shape of her eyes, the contours of her face, and even some of her features bore a striking similarity to Azrael's.

A flicker of sadness crossed his eyes.

Slowly, he reached out and gently took her hand into his own, softly stroking the back of it.

Perhaps sensing his touch, the woman stirred from her sleep. Her eyelids trembled before slowly opening, revealing a pair of tired eyes.

"Azrael...?" she called softly, her voice weak and hoarse. "Is that you?"

A gentle smile appeared on Azrael's face as he pulled his chair a little closer to the bed.

"Yes, Mom," he replied softly. "It's me.”

A look of warmth appeared on the woman's pale face.

"Did something happen?" she asked softly. "Why are you wet? Did those cousins of yours bully you again?"

As she spoke, she tried to push herself upright.

Seeing this, Azrael quickly leaned forward and gently guided her back onto the pillow.

"You shouldn't force yourself up." He adjusted the blanket around her before continuing. "No one bullied me. I just got caught in the rain on my way here."

"Are you sure?" she asked, her brows knitting together with concern.

She knew her son better than anyone. Whenever something troubled him, he would keep it to himself and carry the burden alone rather than let her worry.

Azrael forced a reassuring smile.

"Of course. Look at me, Mom. I'm perfectly fine."

The woman studied him for a few moments, clearly unconvinced. "Then why didn't you wait for the rain to stop?" she asked softly. "What if you catch a cold?"

Azrael chuckled.

"Don't worry. I'm tougher than I look."

He paused briefly before adding with a smile, "Besides, I couldn't wait for the rain to stop before coming to see you."

His voice softened. "I missed you.”

Hearing his words, she smiled softly and let the matter drop. Deep down, she was truly grateful to have a son like him. In her current condition, everyone she once believed cared for her had turned away or chosen to ignore her illness. Only Azrael still came to see her every single day, no matter what he himself was going through.

Slowly, she raised her trembling hand and gently caressed his head with a mother’s affection.

“You know I love you,” she said softly, “and as your mother, I want you to do something for yourself for once.”

“Mom…”

“For the past two years, your entire life has revolved around finding a cure for my illness. I’ve become nothing but a burden to you, and I—”

“Mom!” Azrael cut her off immediately.

“You’re not a burden, okay?” he said firmly, his voice trembling slightly. “You’re my mother… and my responsibility. Don’t ever say something like that again.”

He held her hand a little tighter as he spoke, as though afraid she might disappear if he let go.

The woman looked at him sadly.

“I just don’t want to hold you back,” she whispered. “You already have your own struggles… and besides, I don’t have much time left anyway.”

“Stop saying things like that. You're not going to die—not when there's still a cure,” Azrael said firmly. “I promise I'm going to get you the cure.”

“Azra—” The rest of her words were swallowed by a sudden fit of coughing.

“Cough! Cough! Cough!”

Her frail body trembled uncontrollably as the coughing grew more violent, each cough sounding weaker than the last.

Then—

*Pfft!*

A mouthful of blood suddenly spilled from her lips, staining the bedsheets crimson.