Yan Sen's appearance was hard to ignore. His pale, porcelain skin gave off an almost unnatural glow under the overcast sky. Smooth and unblemished, it made his sharp jawline and chiseled features stand out all the more—elegant, but distant.
His eyes, slightly narrow and almond-shaped, held a quiet intensity. The irises, tinged with a subtle shade of crimson, added a touch of unease—like something not entirely human looked back from behind them. His black hair fell in soft layers over his forehead, slightly tousled yet deliberate, with longer strands brushing the nape of his neck.
There was something coldly composed about him. His expression never gave much away—calm, unreadable, and always one step removed. A faint trace of melancholy lingered in his gaze, while his lips, slightly parted and dusted with a muted red, added to the quiet mystery he carried.
He wore a black outfit—an old-style cassock with a white collar snug at his neck. Over it, a long dark overcoat hung from his shoulders, sharp-lined and imposing. The ensemble was minimal, but it spoke volumes. Authority. Silence. Discipline. A pair of small black stud earrings were the only personal touch, hinting at a more modern past he rarely spoke of.
Boredom had led him to this life. After sealing away most of his own power, he wandered from place to place as an exorcist or demon slayer. Many of his techniques were creations—adapted from rituals and systems he had seen in movies, anime, and ancient texts in his previous life. Onmyodo, witchcraft, Indian exorcisms, Western magic... he recreated what worked and discarded what didn't.
During his travels, he took on a companion—Aleksander Morozova, a boy whose family had been wiped out in a demonic sacrifice. Whether it was fate or chance that spared him, Yan Sen found him and saw potential.
Aleksander had shoulder-length, wavy dark brown hair and warm brown eyes. He wasn't just a student; he was also Yan Sen's link to the world—finding cases, following rumors, and helping where needed.
They were walking down a dirt path toward a quiet village nestled between hills when Yan Sen asked, "So, what's this job about?"
Aleksander adjusted the strap of the satchel over his shoulder. "The village head didn't give much. Just said... strange events. But I'm sure it's something malevolent. A ghost, or maybe worse."
Yan Sen glanced at him. "What makes you say that?"
Aleksander's eyes darkened slightly. "Two families. Both cases ended with the children killing their parents and siblings. It happened within days, in the same village."
Yan Sen gave a short nod. "Good work. Your intuition's improving."
Aleksander smiled at the praise as they approached the village, now visible in the distance. A few rooftops poked through the treeline, smoke rising from chimneys.
Then Aleksander asked, "Master… do you think it's a demon or a ghost this time?"
Yan Sen's gaze stayed fixed on the village. "Neither. This time, it's a god."
Aleksander turned, startled. "A god?"
Yan Sen tilted his head slightly. "Do you remember the name Moloch?"
Aleksander dug through his memory. When he had first started training, Yan Sen had made him memorize an entire compendium of demons, spirits, and deities. Then it clicked.
"Moloch. The Canaanite god of fertility... known for child sacrifice."
Yan Sen nodded. "That's right. But it's not him. Do you remember his brother?"
Aleksander's face shifted as the name came to him. "Bughuul."
"That's who's here," Yan Sen said.
Aleksander blinked, processing the weight of that statement. "So... we're fighting a god?"
Yan Sen shook his head. "Not exactly. Bughuul—like Moloch—isn't a true god. They're something else. False gods. Born from fear and belief."
Aleksander frowned. "False gods?"
Yan Sen continued, his tone even. "Imagine you create a story. A myth about a god. You tell it to one village, then another. Over time, people believe it. Worship it. Fear it. That belief shapes something real. It starts as an idea... and becomes a being."
"And Bughuul?" Aleksander asked quietly.
"Bughuul was born from stories told to frighten children. Then those children vanished. People began to believe. The fear gave him form."
Aleksander was quiet, his thoughts racing. "So belief and fear... they can create gods?"
Yan Sen nodded slowly. "There are many things in this world you haven't seen yet, my dear student."
As they neared the village, a few of the locals stood outside their homes, watching the strangers approach with cautious eyes.
Aleksander walked beside his master, the weight of what he'd learned pressing on his shoulders—but he didn't falter.
Aleksander didn't just follow Yan Sen out of gratitude—over time, he had come to believe in his teacher completely. Every lesson, every warning, every technique was carved into him like scripture. Where others saw Yan Sen as strange or detached, Aleksander saw clarity. Purpose. Power.
What began as a need for survival had evolved into conviction.
In the years to come, Aleksander would go on to form something greater than himself—the Order of Exorcists. Built on the principles Yan Sen taught, and shaped by the battles they fought together, it would rise from the shadows to become a global force against the supernatural.
An invisible empire of hunters, protectors, and believers.
So powerful, so deeply rooted in secrecy and knowledge, that even Batman—paranoid and prepared for anything—would grow wary of its reach. Not because they were enemies, but because power in silence is often more dangerous than power in plain sight.
But for now, Aleksander walked beside his master, still a student.
The village awaited. And with it, something ancient and dark.