Night had fully embraced Constantinople.
Azazel stood in the threshold of his old home, cloaked in darkness. His steps were silent, deliberate. He had chosen to depart from here—closer to Basil's house and more fitting for the kind of man he had become.
This was his home. The place where he lived his brightest memories.
Suddenly, he remembered his friends. Where did they go? Why didn't someone come to visit him?
A face of a particular girl popped up in his head.
Azazel shook his head.
He wore the black coat his grandfather had left behind. Once oversized, awkward, and too heavy for a boy's frame, now it wrapped around him perfectly—as though his soul had grown into it. The sleeves fell just right, the weight no longer burdensome. Only the wide-brimmed hat still sat slightly too large, casting his face in deeper shadow, but Azazel didn't mind.
Strapped to his hip was a holster carrying the dual pistols—gifts from Basil that once belonged to his grandfather, now shining cold and loyal in the pale moonlight. In his hand, the black suitcase. Its weight was nearly 15 kilograms—filled not with food or water or spare clothes, but with books, consecrated tools, anti-demonic tinctures, and nearly a liter of Holy Water. There was no space for comfort. Only purpose.
These clothing and holster he found in an old black leather suitcase with password lock. He found out the password to it from his grandfather.
After Azazel used one question, Johann also revealed that he'd discover the second part of his journal when he'll defeat the last demon in catacombs.
This meant that even his old man didn't know about the upcoming initiation ritual at Vatican. Or at l
Azazel paused at the cellar hatch.
He whispered inwardly while opening it with a key:
"Not for glory nor golden crown
We rise where light and faith break down.
Steel in hand. Fire in soul.
We strike where angels fear to go.
No heaven guides me. No hell can bind.
Not for mercy. Not for might.
We ask no thanks. We leave no name.
Our legacy: eternal flame.
One creed we hold, from then to now—
To hunt the dark. This is our vow."
The Codex responded.
A pulse traveled down his spine. His eyes darkened, the pupils stretching until they nearly swallowed his irises. The world blurred around the edges as the stealth effect took hold. His body merged with the shadows a little. He became like passing draft of wind in a hallway.
But the Codex didn't only hide him.
It sensed for him.
And what it sensed sent chills into his marrow.
Not alone.
He quietly closed the hatch and tidied up the floorboards, putting them back in place.
Somewhere upstairs, behind one of the stone walls, he felt them—two presences, warped, oily, wrong. Demonic.
And then he smelled it—sulfur. Faint. Lingering. Familiar from the underground chambers. His burnt left arm trembled, holding the suitcase.
Azazel crouched, still invisible to all eyes, even demonic ones. He slipped through the hallway, taking cover near a wardrobe. The voices reached him, distorted like smoke curling through air.
"Is this really his house?"
"Even higher-ups don't know, we couldn't find anything worthy for the past months. All the traces led us to this part of the city. Humans meticulously hiding his death…"
Azazel's heartbeat slowed, he held his breath. His mind sharpened.
So they're after grandfather's secrets… Or just to humiliate him.
Because of this brats he couldn't visit his grandfather's grave!
He listened as they moved closer. From where he stood, the only light was that of the moon slipping through broken beams above. It pooled into the room like silver wine.
That's when he saw them.
At first—normal men. Hooded. Quiet.
But when their forms passed through moonlight—
—horns grew from their shadows. Their backs were hunched unnaturally. Their outlines twitched, warping like heat over stone.
Demons.
Now.
Azazel drew both pistols, the burn of silver and obsidian cool in his hands.
He rose from the shadow like a phantom, his voice calm:
"Old man would've said something clever now. I'll settle for:…"
Two shots.
Two corpses hit the floor.
"Wrong house."
The demons barely had time to react. Azazel had already crossed the room, stepping into the light, watching as the illusions peeled away from their corpses.
He approached with quiet reverence, holstering his pistols.
"I wonder how much of them should you kill that even after death they would chase you?" he muttered aloud to no one.
Azazel couldn't help but admire how formidable his grandfather was. But at the same time he felt some kind of a burden in his heart.
He knelt and cut out the hearts, still warm, still carrying remnants of unholy essence. He held them up to the Codex.
A light shimmered. The Codex pulsed once, then absorbed them—like a candlewick drinking oil.
Two more steps toward the unknown.
Azazel remained still for a moment, listening. No more footsteps. No more voices.
The mission wasn't finished.
But he was ready.
"No more delays," he whispered, stepping into the night.