Red nodded, and the door opened.
Inside, it looked like a normal doctor's cabin. But you'd feel it—something was off. Too quiet. Red couldn't explain it, not well.
There was an old doctor sitting at a desk.
"Great," Red muttered to himself.
" What, are they gonna do throw a syringe at me?"
"He figured it'd be like in novels. Some academy test to make him a higher Cleaner or some shit."
Before he could relax, Michael gently pushed him toward a seat.
The old doctor gave a polite smile.
"You must be the new cleaner Mr. Michael told me about. I'm Doctor Star."
He adjusted some papers, not looking up.
"And no, the test hasn't started yet. I'll be reading your Soul Mark—then we'll determine if you're even ready."
Red blinked.
Soul Mark?
This was getting weirder by the second. Not long ago, he was just a cleaner. A simple one. Killing devils and getting paid. Sure, he'd been transferred from America to England, but he never thought his work was good enough to land him in Veilham-mainland.
Now look at him: deep underground in some hidden place, with a seven-foot-tall boss and a doctor who wanted to stare into his soul. If he had just said no that day, he wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be a cleaner. Wouldn't be anything in this wretched system. Maybe just a normal person.
He drifted off in thought, missing half the doctor's words.
The room looked ordinary—one wooden table, a chair, and a single sheet of paper. The doctor sat on one side. Red on the other. Michael stood in the corner, cigar in hand, silent.
"Close your eyes," the doctor said.
Red didn't. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe instinct.
Doctor Star only smiled. "I wanted to spare you the terrifying part. You're still new. Sooner or later, you'll see worse than this."
"Don't move."
Then the doctor spoke.
Not in words. Not in a language Red knew. Not even a language at all—just a guttural, ancient sound that didn't belong in the world. His right hand began to twitch. Then shake. Then morph.
It turned deep blue—the color of thick veins. The skin cracked, and between the fingers, an eye opened. And in the center of his palm, a mouth. A devil's mouth.
Red froze.
He'd seen devil hunters in action, seen contracts and seals—but never something like this. Never someone's whole hand becoming... that.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't strength.
It was just wrong.
He tried to move. Reflexively. Get up. Walk. Run. Something. But before he could even flinch, two massive invisible hands pinned him to the chair. Heavy. Immovable.
He didn't scream. Just stared.
The devil-hand reached for his face. It made a sound—like a beetle crawling across grass.
Tnnnnnn.
Then, its fingers closed around his head.
Strangely, Red felt... calm.
The touch was cold. But it wasn't violent.
After a long moment, the hand pulled away—and a voice spoke from the palm. No, many voices, talking in perfect union. Mimicking one another.
"Your true Mark Name is...Slaver..."
A pause.
"You walk before the chains. You bind the begging. You break the willing."
Silence followed.
Dr. Star's face shifted, puzzled. Even Michael looked surprised.
Most common folk had common names—Gunner, Hunter, Slayer. Names that made sense.
But some had rare names. Like the man in the corner—Michael. His Mark Name was The Custodian. In centuries of devil analysis, no other had that title.
Red's name? Slaver?
That was new.
The doctor didn't look amazed. Just mildly interested.
"Well, that's interesting. First time I've heard that one," he muttered.
He looked to the devil-hand. The mouth in the palm twitched, then vomited a small black book—ancient, bound in rotted leather.
Dr. Star opened it and flipped through the pages.
Page after page. Scroll after scroll. Name after name.
He reached the end.
"Nothing," he whispered. Then turned to Red. "You might be the first, kid."
"In situations like this, when your name isn't in the record, we go with logic. A Slaver… someone who uses chains. Controls. Binds."
"That makes you a Weaponer."
Red's mind was still spiraling, trying to make sense of it all. A hand just reached into his soul and told him who he was.
"I still don't get it," he said. "Can you explain?"
The doctor sighed.
"Yes, yes. Let's simplify."
"I'm an Analyst. I use Devil-11 to read Soul Marks. Only devils can read them. Humans can't. Even if you stared into your own soul, you'd never see it."
"You're not pure-blooded. If you were born in Valheim, you'd have a secondary name too—the Divine. All of them have it."
"But you—your name is original. Unrecorded. Even the devil doesn't know it. That makes it unique... like your boss."
"But don't get cocky. A lot of people have rare marks and die fast. Or get sacrificed. Especially if they're pure-blooded—unlike you."
"And this is standard procedure. You're a weapon on paper, but you're not a Hunter. You won't get your own devil weapon, so I don't need to explain the rest."
He turned to Michael.
"We're done. Take him."
Michael smirked. "You sound jealous, doc. Wishing you had a special name?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just go already, Michael. I've got work. Don't have time to babysit brats who think they're chosen."
Michael stood up from his seat.
"You heard the man, kid. Let's go."
He flicked the ash from his cigar.
"I think you're ready now. Let's begin your test."
Michael placed a hand on Red's shoulder, guiding him toward the door.
Red's head swam. The moment Michael touched him, a wave of lightheadedness rushed in. His eyelids turned heavy like iron curtains, and before he could speak or resist
He blacked out. Cold.