The massive outer walls of the imperial palace crumble under the magical bombardment of the Balta Empire, as screams and flames engulf the interior. At that moment, just as destruction looms, all the explosions and fires come to a rigid halt in mid-air as if by magic. Time and space have frozen.

Slow, elegant footsteps echo through the now silent, broken palace. A being walks in, rolling a blue space-time magic circle over his pitch-black uniform: it is the Black Dragon, Azrael. In the corridor of the palace's top floor, he casts his gaze toward Guest, who is dressed in royal regalia. His golden eyes, slit vertically, flicker terrifyingly.

He instantly leaps through space to stand right in front of Guest. As his ice-cold fingers grip and lift Guest's chin, a strange and intense heat begins to bloom from the touched skin.

His golden eyes, looking down at Guest, tremble with a sorrow so deep they look as if they might shatter. He leans his face in close, as if to swallow Guest's very breath. His voice is thick with deep longing and the confusion of not being able to believe the reality before him.