As soon as their boots touched the uneven stones of Varna's port, the sharp wind of the Osman coast greeted them with a briny chill. Azazel and Juan moved quickly, ducking through narrow alleys and weaving past wooden carts creaking with salted fish and firewood. The streets bustled with locals, but there was a strange weight to the air—as if something here had long since gone quiet.
Their first stop was the Church of St. Paraskeva, a crumbling stone cathedral, that looked more like a family chapel, near the waterfront. Its heavy doors were open, but inside it was dim, lit only by the flicker of tall wax candles and the distant hymn of monks echoing through the vaulted chamber.
Azazel approached the altar with measured steps. A figure in black robes eyed them carefully from the shadows.
Without hesitation, Azazel placed his palm over his heart and spoke:
"Ce monde n'est ni juste ni clair,
Mais nous marchons sans lumière."
Juan followed suit, murmuring the sacred words.
At once, the robed figure gave a small bow and gestured toward a stone corridor behind the altar. A hidden stairwell revealed itself—a narrow spiral descending into the underbelly of the cathedral.
What they found was… disappointing.
Compared to the sprawling underground haven of Constantinople, Varna's black market was barely more than a cramped crypt with a dozen mismatched stalls. No crowd, no sparring ring, no symphony of clinking weapons and voices bartering over relics. Just a few cloaked figures hunched over tables selling dusty charms, dried herbs, or questionable alchemical brews.
Azazel looked around in quiet disbelief.
"This is it?" he whispered to Juan.
"Varna's a port," Juan replied with a shrug, "The Order doesn't place too much importance on it, moreover the amount of supernatural accidents has never been very high."
That explained the emptiness.
Still, it was enough to replenish a few vials of holy water and buy a handful of minor supplies. But there was nothing here to further his combat skills or deepen his occult knowledge. Azazel sighed, disappointed.
They agreed to stay for two nights before continuing westward.
Juan used the time to relax—eating well, practicing his stretches on rooftops, even entertaining a few flirtations with local girls. But Azazel was different.
After the journey at sea and the battle with ghosts, his mind refused to slow. His body needed rest, yes—but his spirit hungered.
Each evening, in the dim light of their rented stone room near the church, Azazel read.
Not the Journal of Johann Weyer—he'd memorized much of it by now, and besides, he felt the time for that kind of knowledge had passed. His instincts told him he needed something else.
Divination.
His brush with the mirror vision and the power of the Codex had awoken something. He had read the Classic of Changes before, but now he fully committed himself to it—one of the Four Books of Confucian philosophy, handed down to those who sought meaning beyond the material world.
He studied its symbols, patterns, and commentary. He meditated on the nature of change, on the six lines and sixty-four hexagrams. He marked up the margins with ink from a tiny travel bottle, scribbling his thoughts.