Back at his apartment, Yami finally ends his agony of being antisocial. He rushes in, slamming the door shut behind him—it didn't even wait for the smart system to do its job. His hurried steps echo through the empty space until he reaches the living room, where, breathless, he yanks the curtains shut, plunging the room into shadow.
"Light... even the light is pissing me off now!" His voice, a glass brimming with frustration and exhaustion.
And behind him, Azaael's black shadow begins to unfold, slithering across the floor like smoke until it takes form.
"Does it bother you, brat?" It sounds like an ironic whisper, quickly followed by a macabre laugh that reverberates throughout the room, like the laugh of a sadist to his defenseless prey. "It's agonizing, isn't it? Feeling your skin crawl, like every ray of light is a warning... and then realizing you're giving in to something you can't even fight..."
But Yami keeps his eyes fixed on the closed curtains, fists clenched, while the entity's presence seems to weigh heavier and heavier on him.
"Was it you?"
"Me? No, come on, brat, we've got a contract, don't we?" With disdain. He starts walking through the house, his figure dissolving into the darkness, though his footsteps echo clearly. "But, you know how it is... could be a side effect."
He pauses, letting out a mocking chuckle.
"Side effect? After all these years?"
"Or maybe a late puberty..." he interrupts, always finding a way to provoke, just like every other time.
"Idiot!"
The bitter remark is met with an even more sarcastic laugh from the creature. It seems to relish the contempt on the boy's face, which grows darker.
"But, putting that aside... when we fused, I told you I could feel your feelings, remember? In a way, they blend. Maybe, by carrying two souls, your body's struggling to understand what you really are..."
"My soul? Damn... this shit's too complicated!" He throws himself onto the couch with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration before asking, "Is this gonna stop me?"
"Stop you? Don't be foolish, Yamasaki!"
His voice sounds closer now, as he reappears behind him, his ghostly hands resting on the boy's shoulders. The sensation is like the creature's nails digging into his skin.
And he can't help but notice the sinister paleness of the entity's skin, more corporeal than just a mass of shadow.
"Your revenge is already guaranteed by me," he continues in a venomous whisper. "All you need to do is wait."
"Just wait? Sure..."
Then, when he least expects it, the cold hands let go. The beast steps back, its footsteps fading into the darkness. All that remains are its eyes, glowing like burning embers, fixed on him with unbearable intensity.
And what does he do? He just ignores it.
Then he grabs the remote tossed on the couch and turns on the TV, searching for something to distract him, to push away the restless thoughts and the boredom of endless waiting.
On screen, a live broadcast catches his attention: the representative of the spiritual order, Kyotaka Shibata, is responding to criticism from the metropolitan governor, Shinzo Abe. The announcement of the event carries a formal, tense tone.
"Hm... what's the old man gonna say?" he mutters to himself, reclining on the couch as he watches the committee approach the podium with firm steps.
The transmission is soon interrupted by a brief cut, switching back to the journalists presenting the official news, broadcast across all of Aija.
On screen, a gray-haired man with a serious expression stands beside a young woman with a confident air. She questions in a sharp tone:
"According to the Order, 78% of supernatural cases are resolved, demonstrating the exorcists' efficiency in dealing with evil. However, as the governor rightly pointed out, 39% of cases involve fatalities, and 51% result in the destruction of significant material goods."
She adjusts the papers in her hands before continuing:
"This has created a growing sense of insecurity and negligence among citizens, since the Order does not cover these damages in its contractual terms."
There's a strategic pause, and the gray-haired man beside her adds:
"According to the governor, there are more deaths caused by exorcists than by demonic entities themselves."
The words strike like a blow to listeners. And Yami, still watching, frowns, gripping the remote tightly as he absorbs the statements.
"Ah, geez... you old folks really get into some shit..." he comments, getting up from the couch and heading toward the kitchen.
He opens the cupboard above the stove, pulling out a bag of potato chips. Without ceremony, he returns to the couch, throwing himself down again as the news continues.
"Indeed, this is the point that needs to be debated. Since the spiritual order was recognized worldwide, negligence cases have risen at an alarming rate."
Not particularly interested in the critical tone of the broadcast, he rips open the bag impatiently, tearing the plastic apart. He shoves his hand in, grabbing half the contents at once and chewing ravenously.
The TV's light is the only source of illumination in the dark room, reflecting in his eyes as he watches, lost between the crackling of chips.
Until finally, Kyotaka appears before all viewers: the most respected and longest-serving exorcist steps up to the podium with firm strides. Dressed in a flawless ceremonial black kimono, he approaches the microphone stand, exuding a presence of reverence and authority.
An elder with a striking beard, a bald head, and piercing gaze, he seems to carry the weight of countless battles. Like an old hunter who has faced hell itself, a rune stands on his forehead—a symbol of his unbreakable pact with the spiritual world. Around his neck, the crucifix of the Church of Elum gleams under the lights, with the figure of Niftar, the Son of the Creator, engraved.
He lifts his eyes to the crowd, facing them with resilience. He does not flinch when the cameras zoom in, capturing every line of his determined expression.
Then, his raspy voice echoes through the mic, filling the silence:
"Ladies and gentlemen, exorcists and citizens."
He adjusts his posture slightly, hands firmly on the podium before gesturing, each movement syncing with his words like a maestro conducting an orchestra.
"My fellow council leaders and I have carefully discussed the information received. We acknowledge the significant loss of life and property among our clients, but it's essential you understand that exorcising an entity is no simple task. There are different types of entities, each requiring specific approaches and appropriate resources."
He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the crowd and cameras.
"So, when analyzing the data presented, remember—they don't reflect the whole picture. Most tragedies happen in cases involving entities classified as 'Terrors' or 'Calamities.' Only 11% of possession or ghost cases result in fatalities."
His hands open in a wide, almost welcoming gesture.
"As the leader of the Order, I want to emphasize that every death, every exorcism, and every mission are events of utmost importance. We can no longer ignore the community's dissatisfaction or the trust placed in us by both government and society."
In a more assertive tone.
"For this reason, we've taken immediate measures to restructure our services. From now on, all independent activities are suspended, and operational supervision is strengthened. It will also be mandatory to send two or more exorcists per mission to ensure greater safety and efficiency."
He pauses again, as if weighing the next statement.
"Additionally, our service rates will be adjusted, with an 11% increase from previous values. We will also grant the government unrestricted access to detailed records of every mission conducted."
He raises his head.
"These changes are not just necessary—they are essential to ensure the excellence of our work and the safety of all involved. We deeply appreciate your understanding and support."
As he finishes, he clasps his hands over the podium, watching the public's reaction, the strength of his message hanging in the air like a wave of impact.
"Shit... is this for real?" Yami mutters, throwing his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling in a mix of irritation and despair. With a motion, he turns off the TV. "Old geezer! Seriously, I've gotta deal with someone else now? Why? Why, Elum? My life's already a disaster! Why punish me more?" His tone is a blend of frustration and childishness, like a tantrum.
"So much drama..." The low, provocative voice echoes from somewhere in the shadows, slicing through the silence with sarcasm. "Didn't you work with other exorcists before? Or did you forget the ones I killed?"
The boy leans forward, rubbing his face with both hands.
"It's been over a year... and since then, just putting up with you has been enough. Now imagine hearing someone else's opinions? That's hell! Living in society is the worst punishment the Creator gave humankind!"
"In the end, I'm the one putting up with you, brat..." he retorts. "I'm a demon king, living like a rat in a cage!"
A sudden gust slams against the windows, making them tremble like they might shatter. The boy's restlessness seems to overflow into the room, saturating the air with anxiety.
But in that instant, the creature breaks away from the darkness, its presence oppressively filling every corner of the apartment.
"Speaking of which, you could let me take over for a bit, couldn't you?" it roars, its voice thundering. "Ease the stress... maybe I'd nag you less. What do you say?"
As he speaks, his spectral form begins to take more defined shape in the gloom. His features, grotesquely elegant, appear in the dim light of the now-off TV, his red eyes sparking like live coals.
His fingers scrape against the marble, exuding the sheer force of his presence.
Yami rises from the couch with a heavy sigh, shoving his hands into his pockets as he straightens his posture.
"Take over? Here we go..." Aware of the demon king's grand ambitions.
And there he is, in all his glory—a rare sight since the pact was sealed. His long white hair falls to his waist, contrasting with his pale, almost translucent skin, like that of a corpse. Between the strands, two crimson horns protrude, symbols of his infamy and true form: the fierce dragon of scarlet scales.
Pointed ears and grotesquely sharp teeth highlight his feral face. From his slightly parted lips, a thread of blood trickles down, staining his muscular body, tattooed with black flame symbols that seem to burn alive. He wears an ancient kimono, dating back to humanity's earliest cycles, partially soaked by the boiling blood he emanates.
"That's it!" he roars, his voice echoing with savagery. "I'll go to the ghost district, kill a few demons or whoever catches my eye, and then come back... just like the old days."
His eyes, glowing like lava, lock onto his host. It's impossible to ignore the repressed fury and insatiable thirst for destruction radiating from that monstrous presence.
"Like before... Hm... well, I wasn't planning to do anything, so..." Distracted. In that same instant, a barely perceptible movement makes him flinch. When he realizes it, it's too late: the demon's hand has pierced his chest. His warm blood runs down the creature's fingers, dripping to the floor as his vision blurs.
"Son of a bitch... this wasn't how it was supposed to go..." he curses, blood pouring from his lips in a suffocating torrent.
Accompanied by the agonizing sound of his groans.
And the demon grins ear to ear with a cynical smile.
"Oh, seriously? My bad, brat..." With a scornful tone that seems to freeze the air.
That was the last thing he saw. He staggered and collapsed, his strength fading like a candle's flame about to die. The wine of his guts, viscous and so dark it was almost black, pooled slowly around him. It spread like a shadow, staining the cold floor with its presence.
That was... his fifth death!