Chapter 2 — The Sequence of Shadows
The candle flame on Azrael's desk flickered as he flipped through the brittle pages of the codex. Ancient illustrations of masked figures, ritual circles, and decayed corpses stared back at him. His fingers paused again on the entry he already knew by instinct:
---
Bloodpath: Reaper
Aspect: Death and Life
Sequence 9 — Pallbearer
Abilities: Sense of Life and Death, Resistance to poisons and curses, minor necromancy
Potion Formula: Essence of Ashgrass, bone marrow from a recently deceased human, and the ichor of a Hollow-Eyed Crow. The ritual must be done at midnight beside a freshly dug grave.
---
Azrael leaned back in the creaking chair, his red-black eyes half-lidded in thought.
He remembered now. In his past life, as Elliot, he had studied mysticism obsessively—desperate to escape the despair of his station. Yet it wasn't until the final days of his decay, lying in filth and regret, that the gods finally reached out to him.
Or perhaps... not gods. Something older. Hungrier.
That whisper that called him to awaken—it wasn't benevolent.
It was a bargain.
And he had accepted it.
A knock came at the door.
"Azrael?" a voice called. "I'm your appointed mentor. May I come in?"
Azrael rose slowly and opened the door.
Standing outside was a tall woman with dark silver hair in a loose braid and sharp golden eyes. She wore a high-collared coat of deep navy, the insignia of the Ashen Veil sewn into her shoulder: the crescent eye, with the flame at its center.
"I'm Sera Langdon," she said curtly. "Sequence 8: Whisperblade. You're assigned to me now."
Azrael nodded once. "Understood."
Sera tilted her head slightly. "You don't ask questions?"
"I'll ask if I need to."
A faint smirk appeared on her lips. "Good. You're not one of those fresh meat hopefuls who thinks this is all glory and heroics."
She glanced into his room, her eyes landing on the open codex. Her smirk faded.
"You're reading Bloodpath theory?"
"Yes."
"And you chose the Reaper's path?"
Azrael's face remained emotionless. "I was... drawn to it."
Sera's golden eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. "Dangerous path. Especially at Sequence 9. Most die at the ritual stage. Even more go insane later."
Azrael's voice was calm. "If I die, it will be quiet."
For a brief moment, Sera didn't speak. Then she nodded. "Fine. You'll be tested. There's an investigation in the Warrens. A string of disappearances. Locals say the dead are walking."
Azrael raised an eyebrow. "Necromancy?"
"Possibly. The Veil wants it handled discreetly. We go tonight."
---
That evening, Azrael and Sera made their way through the narrow, twisting alleys of the Warrens—a poverty-stricken district of Eidralis where the fog always seemed too thick, and the air smelled faintly of rot.
The people watched them from behind shutters and cracked doors, whispering about the "agents" in hushed, fearful tones.
Sera led them to a crumbling apartment complex. A woman with sunken eyes and frayed hair met them at the threshold.
"You're the ones from the Order?" she asked.
Sera nodded. "Tell us everything."
The woman hesitated, glancing at Azrael, whose pale features and sunken red-black eyes gave him the look of a ghost himself. But she spoke.
"They come at night... the dead. My brother died three nights ago. I buried him myself in the back... but the next night, I heard knocking. And dragging sounds."
Azrael tilted his head. "And did you open the door?"
The woman shook her head quickly. "No, I hid. Then others started vanishing too. Anyone who answered... never seen again."
Azrael walked to the window and peered outside. The sun had dipped behind the rooftops. Darkness crept in like spilled ink.
"They're close," he said softly. "I can feel it."
Sera looked at him sharply. "You're sensitive to death energy?"
Azrael nodded once.
"Impressive... for someone uninitiated."
Azrael stepped into the backyard, the old woman trailing behind. The grave she'd dug was shallow, barely enough to cover a body. But now, it was empty.
Azrael knelt and placed his hand on the disturbed soil. His fingertips tingled with cold.
There it was. Faint, but real. A trail of death essence, like a scent on the air, pulling eastward through the alleyways.
Sera followed his gaze. "Let's go."
---
They walked in silence for ten minutes through the shadow-choked streets. Then, they found it.
An old chapel, ruined and gutted by fire long ago. Inside, candlelight flickered behind shattered windows. A low, rhythmic chant echoed from within.
Sera pulled a thin blade from her coat, forged with silver along its edge.
Azrael simply stepped inside.
"You're bold," Sera murmured, following close behind.
Inside, a group of robed figures stood in a circle. At their center, a man in crimson robes was kneeling before a corpse tied to a table. Strange runes had been carved into the cadaver's flesh.
As Azrael and Sera entered, the chanting stopped.
The crimson-robed man stood and turned. His eyes glowed faintly with unnatural light. "Who dares interrupt the Rite of Return?"
Sera raised her blade. "Ashen Veil. You're done."
The cultist laughed. "You're too late. The Veins of the Dead are open. Soon, we shall walk untouched by mortality!"
Azrael stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "You use corpses like tools. Without understanding what waits beyond."
The man sneered. "And you do?"
Azrael's eyes gleamed with inner power. "I've seen both sides of the veil."
The cultist raised his hands, and the corpse on the table jerked to life with a horrible screech, its limbs thrashing. Other cadavers—six in total—rose from the shadows, their eyes empty and mouths stitched shut.
Sera engaged immediately, blade flashing.
Azrael stood still. He raised a single hand.
And whispered:
"Return."
In an instant, three of the undead dropped lifelessly. The death energy binding them unraveled like string snapped by invisible shears.
The cultist froze. "What... what did you—"
Azrael stepped forward, cold and calm.
"You are unworthy of death's gift."
The other undead charged—but Azrael's hand swept horizontally.
A gust of black wind, silent and heavy, passed through them.
They crumbled.
The cultist backed away, trembling. "No... this power... this is no Sequence 9…"
Azrael appeared beside him in a flash, cold fingers on the cultist's chest.
"Let me show you what you worship."
And he pushed.
The man screamed as his eyes turned white, seeing things no living mind was meant to witness.
When it was over, the cultist collapsed—alive, but broken.
Sera lowered her blade. Her eyes darted to Azrael. "That… wasn't normal."
Azrael turned to her, face blank.
"I was born for this."
---
Back at headquarters, Azrael sat alone in his room, a single black feather lying on the desk before him.
From the corpse of a Hollow-Eyed Crow—his first ingredient.
The rest would come soon.
He had re-entered the world of mysticism not as a seeker.
---
Azrael sat in silence within the confines of his dimly lit room. The room itself was modest—no larger than a monk's cell—with a wooden bed, a desk, and a shelf lined with borrowed books. The candle on the table sputtered, casting long shadows across his face. His crimson-black eyes stared blankly at the feather in front of him. It was cold in the room, unnaturally so.
His fingers hovered over the black feather. It pulsed faintly with death essence, like a heartbeat slowed by centuries.
"I need the marrow of the newly dead," he murmured, barely audible, as if stating a fact to the darkness. "And ashgrass… hard to find unless I leave the city."
Just then, a knock came at the door. A polite but firm knock.
Azrael turned his head.
"Come in."
The door creaked open to reveal Leo Simetril, now wearing a more formal dark gray coat over his usual outfit. His face wore a cheerful expression, but the enthusiasm faded slightly when his eyes met Azrael's deadened gaze.
"I, ah, heard what happened," Leo said carefully, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "They say you… stopped an entire necromantic ritual. On your first field mission."
Azrael said nothing.
Leo scratched his cheek. "The others are talking about you. You're kind of… a mystery. No records, no name before joining, but suddenly you're a genius investigator with death-sensing abilities."
Still nothing.
Leo coughed. "Right. Anyway… I brought this." He placed a small pouch on the desk.
Azrael glanced at it.
"Your field reward," Leo explained. "Two silver and four gold. You'll get more once the council approves the mission report."
Azrael reached for the pouch, then stopped. "Thank you."
Leo blinked. "Oh. You… you're welcome."
He turned to leave but paused at the door.
"You should be careful," he said, voice softer now. "There's a reason most people don't join the Reaper Path. Once you cross certain lines, there's no turning back."
Azrael's eyes narrowed. "I don't intend to turn back."
Leo hesitated, gave a short nod, and left without another word.
---
Midnight came.
Azrael stepped into the graveyard near the city's southern wall. His cloak wrapped around him, hood drawn up. Mist hung low over the gravestones. The moon above was pale and sharp like a blade.
He had dug the grave himself—empty, shallow, and freshly turned.
He laid the items before him: the Hollow-Eyed Crow's feather, a vial of bone marrow he had harvested from a recent corpse at the mortuary, and a pouch of dried ashgrass collected from the hills beyond Eidralis during the day.
He drew a ritual circle in the dirt with powdered chalk, careful and precise.
Then, kneeling at the center, he whispered the first invocation.
> "From ashes to ashes, from silence to breath...
Let that which lies beyond recognize its vessel."
The feather burst into black flame, curling upward like a reversed shadow. The air thickened. Azrael's vision blurred. A coldness spread from his core outward, as if the grave beneath him opened its mouth.
> "I am no master, only a witness.
Let me pass. Let me claim what is mine by burden, not by pride."
The ground beneath the circle began to hum. The chalk shimmered with ghostly light.
Azrael took the vial and poured the marrow into the center of the flame. The mixture sizzled, releasing a putrid but not unbearable scent.
The moment it touched the flame, he felt the change.
Pain. Pressure. Like his bones were being reshaped from within.
> [Sequence 9 — Pallbearer]
His heart stopped.
Not metaphorically. It literally ceased beating.
For ten seconds, Azrael knelt there, breath held, skin pale as parchment.
And then—thump.
His heart beat once more. Slower. Different. Each beat felt like a tolling bell.
Azrael gasped as his mind was flooded—not with memories, but instincts. The world around him looked the same, yet completely different. The ground whispered death to him. He could sense the rotting corpses in their coffins. He could feel the lingering resentment in spirits who had not moved on.
And above all, he felt… peace.
Not joy.
Not triumph.
Just a cold, tranquil silence.
He stood slowly, the ritual ashes blowing away in the wind.
Azrael Vexgrave—no longer merely human—had become a Pallbearer, the first step on the Reaper Path.
---
As he returned to the Ashen Veil's local headquarters, no one noticed him slip in. His presence was like a shadow's reflection on water—there, but ungraspable.
In the hallway, he passed several members of the Order.
One of them, a tall young man with bright green eyes, nudged his companion.
"Is that the new guy?" he whispered.
"Yeah. Azrael something. I heard he doesn't even flinch when facing corpses."
The first one scoffed. "Looks like a stiff breeze would break him."
Azrael kept walking, expression unreadable.
He heard everything.
And he remembered it.
---
Back in his room, he wrote a single sentence into a small, leather-bound notebook he had found in the library:
"Power comes in silence. Let them look down. They will look up soon enough."
He closed the notebook and blew out the candle.
The room was swallowed by darkness.
But to Azrael, it was light.
And somewhere, far above the veil of reality, something old... stirred.
Watching him.
Smiling.
Waiting.