The journey west was long and relentless.
Azazel and Juan moved like shadows along the ancient routes—first by sea, then by land, following the lifelines of trade and pilgrimage that had long connected the East to the heart of Europe.
Varna to Chios.
Chios to Naples.
Then the long, aching ride north toward Paris. They barely had a glance of the outskirts of Italy's Rome.
Yet the road was not just travel—it was work.
Both young hunters now carried the weight of their names and the expectations of the Order, and the Association rarely left its hunters idle.
They took on missions wherever they passed: restless graveyards, ghosts, each a reminder that the world was cracking under the slow, invisible pressure of Hell. But one mission stood out—a high-tier assignment that would test them both.
The manor loomed on the horizon like a memory of wealth turned to rot.
Three stories of crumbling Gothic stone, windows smashed, ivy strangling the walls.
The kind of place ghosts would choose to die in all over again.
Azazel adjusted his gloves, feeling the weight of the charms and powders he carried. He had long since learned to leave his twin pistols holstered and hidden, tucked in the inner compartments of his suitcase.
Too many hunters had sharp eyes, and the pistols of Johann Weyer were a legend all their own. If anyone saw them, questions would follow.
The team that met them at the site was a hardened trio—older hunters with gray at their temples, blades on their backs, and salt in their words. The captain, a tall man with a heavy scar along his jaw, gave Azazel a hard look before briefing the group.
"Three floors. All windows smashed. Villagers report voices, cold drafts, and lights in the night. Our job is to clear the place"
Azazel and Juan nodded.
Inside, the air was ice.
Every breath made fog.
Floorboards groaned like the whisper of bones as they split into pairs and began the slow, careful sweep.
The first floor yielded little but dust and vermin. Azazel sprinkled a fine line of salt mixed with crushed rue and iron shavings along the windows and doorways, sealing entry points to prevent spirits from escaping.
The second floor was more alive with malice.
Mirrors cracked when Azazel passed them.
Footsteps followed the hunters when they stood still.
Once, a chandelier rattled violently overhead before crashing down, nearly impaling one of the older hunters.
Azazel calmly lit a powder bomb—a blend of sage, sulfur, and holy wax—and tossed it into the corridor.
A flare of silver smoke filled the hall.
Screams—thin, inhuman—peeled away into nothing.
By the time they reached the third floor, the team was breathing hard but confident.
"Good work," the captain grunted. "No casualties. This place will rest easy now."
But Azazel's eyes were drawn to the cellar door, half-rotten and bolted from the outside.
Something about it called to him.
When the team descended, lanterns swaying, they found the stone steps spiraling down into a second basement—a labyrinth of tunnels cut deep into the earth. The air was heavier here, thick with damp and something else… old fear.
Azazel's gloved hand brushed the wall, feeling sigils etched into the stone, half-worn but still faintly humming.
Looks like It wasn't just a wine cellar.
The captain stared into the darkness, his knuckles white on the torch.
"No. We're not going any further," he said flatly.
"We've done the job we were paid for. Whatever's down there isn't part of the contract—and I won't risk my team for curiosity."
The other hunters nodded, and even Juan hesitated.
Azazel wanted to argue.
Every instinct told him there was more to find, knowledge or danger or both—but he also heard his grandfather's voice echo in his mind from the Codex:
[A dead hero can't save anyone. Patience is a weapon…]
So he nodded and let the captain lead them out.
Outside, under the cold silver moon, the captain clapped both young hunters on the shoulders.
"Good work. That powdered bomb you used, boy… saved our hides. And Juan, those water cuts were clean. You two are shaping up to be real hunters. "
Other hunters joined:
"You aren't initiated, right?"
"New generation is indeed impressive, have you heard about the initiation contest in Rome?"
Azazel gave a modest nod.
"Yeah, we have been heading there for the past week," Juan answered.
The seasoned hunters exchanged glances with their captain.
"Then why don't you join our squad … You'll need to go to Paris first, right? With us you'll get there in five, no – four days. This is our duty as your seniors!"