The forest stank of gunpowder and salt.
Shredded corpses of Chernohlapy smoldered in the damp underbrush, fading to shadowy mist that curled back into the roots. Azazel wiped a smear of black ichor from his cheek with the back of his sleeve, his left hand still throbbing where the fire demon had burned him days ago.
Juan's voice cut through the still air like the crack of his saber.
"Are you insane, Azazel?!"
The older boy's face was flushed, his coat dripping with water and mud. He jabbed a finger into Azazel's chest.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Azazel clenched his jaw.
"I… I didn't expect there'd be so many of them."
Juan's eyes hardened. He sheathed his saber with a slow, measured motion.
"Then expect the worst. Always. This is how hunters die—not because they're weak, but because they're stupid enough to think one demon means one problem."
Azazel looked down, silent.
Juan folded his arms and leaned slightly toward him.
"You know why hunters die most often?"
Azazel hesitated. "…Because they lack knowledge and skill?"
Juan snorted.
"That too. But the main reason? Numbers. There are too few of us and too many of them. Demons, wraiths, and every cursed thing that crawls out of the cracks of Hell. And we can't be everywhere at once."
He gestured to the corpses around them, his voice sharpening.
[That's why I started trusting gunpowder. A bullet, placed right, can save your life before you even need to call on the blade. One pull of the trigger, and a creature that would rip apart a dozen unarmed men dies instantly. Efficient. Practical. We survive because we adapt.]
Azazel glanced at the twin pistols at his hips, thinking of Johann Weyer's voice in his head.
"…Yeah. Convenient. And a little terrifying," he answered mentally to his grandpa while rubbing the Codex in his inner pocket.
Juan finally cracked a smile and gave him a rough pat on the shoulder.
"You'll learn. If you don't, you die. Simple as that."
By dusk, the two hunters made their way back through the muddy outskirts of Varna, their boots caked with forest soil and wraith ash. They entered the black market beneath the city, the narrow tunnel lined with flickering oil lamps and the low murmur of traders hawking relics, charms, and whispers.
At the Order Association desk, they turned in the completed contracts. A bored scribe counted their reward in Ottoman silver and a single Venetian ducat for the "well" cleansing—a solid pay for a two-day shift of three waiters.
After that they went to sell the remnants of Chernohlapy.
Azazel pocketed his share, thinking how absurdly fast hunting money came compared to his grandfather's merchant trade.
Juan simply shrugged.
He silently wondered if most of his old man's richness came solely from the business.
That night, while the last of the storm clouds faded over the Black Sea, the two hunters sat in the corner of a dim tavern tucked into the market's tunnels. A map spread before them showed the route they would take to Paris:
Varna to Chios by merchant galley, part of the old Byzantine maritime trade route.
From there, through the Aegean to Naples, where the Order maintained a secret port.
Overland across Italy to Rome, then finally north to Paris, following parts of the ancient Via Francigena—a pilgrim road now doubling as a covert hunter corridor.
Juan tapped the map.
"Two weeks if the weather is merciful. Three if we're cursed."