Face down after the impact, he lay lifeless, drowned in his own blood, while the gloom of night overtook the sky.
Only the sound of rattling windows echoed through the room, like a lament.
The noise became a sinister prelude to the macabre rite of passage—a punishment imposed by the possession of the wretch, turning him into a puppet of his own ruin.
At the center of this scene of death, black pigments began to surface, rippling across the scarlet viscosity like shadows. They devoured, with supernatural hunger, every drop of spilled blood until it began to evaporate, dissolving into a fleeting veil.
No stains, no trace of the funereal dye remained, as if reality itself refused to remember such a profane act.
The heat was overwhelming, like a bonfire bursting through darkness, its flames crackling around his body, ravenous and untamed. His muscles stiffened and swelled, as though sculpted in real time, gaining mass with unnatural speed. A suffocating pressure radiated from his being, spreading in waves through the air as he rose abruptly from the floor.
Terrifyingly, he ascended—a monstrosity born at the peak of his transformation.
But in the same instant, he collapsed to his knees, crushed under the oppressive weight of death still haunting him—an unbearable shadow on his back. His breathing was erratic, broken, each gasp carrying the memory of the abyss of worlds he had just emerged from.
Suddenly, claws burst from his feet and hands, shredding his shoes and scraping violently against the floor beneath him. At the same time, a viscous darkness began to fill the void in his chest, where a torn heart once beat. The black stains worked relentlessly, cell by cell, like weavers of flesh and life, rebuilding every detail. It was as if the heart itself, moved by will alone, chose to rise from its ashes, refusing to succumb.
When his eyes opened, a deep abyss of blackness swallowed them, with dark veins radiating beneath, like roots. Indecipherable moans echoed—twisted sounds vibrating with agony. He pushed himself up on his knees, his body trembling as if defying gravity once again.
With near-superhuman effort, he tried to stand.
And then he did. A distant wave of sound echoed in his ears; the dense, earthly scent of the world reached his nose.
"Again... this air... this wind..." The voice was hoarse and uncertain.
But it was the demon, dormant within his body, who truly felt the vertigo of being alive, of inhabiting a shell not born—but now embodied. The hole in his chest closed with a silent, final snap. A stream of purple liquid dripped from his lips, sliding to his feet. The contrast—strangely red—was a reminder of his origin: a being condemned to walk between what is human and what should never exist.
It genuinely surprised him. His fingers touched his lips, and his now-bestial eyes fixated on that color, that scent—so strange and familiar all at once.
A limited possession… damn… I must've spent more energy than I should've reconstituting that brat's heart…
Frustrated, he sensed a pulse in the air—a warning.
Suddenly, a searing heat consumed his arms and chest. His skin burned, and the discomfort made him tear off his clothing in a single instinctive motion. His body, once marked by shadow, began to display patterns forming slowly and painfully. Symbols came to life, scorched into his flesh like live embers, expelling vapor in spirals that danced in the air.
Black flames intertwined with blooming flowers sprouting from his skin—indelible marks of a condemned spirit. Lotuses wrapped in purgatory's fire tattooed him like hot irons, tracing the essence of his soul on the border between redemption and damnation. It was the manifestation of his spirit's state at that moment: a calm hell, yet unbearably fiery, where beauty and destruction coexisted.
And he nearly collapsed again, knees buckling under the heat consuming him. But he steadied himself against the walls dividing the hallway from other rooms; his hands scorched the wooden doorframe. The black flames and the force he carried left deep marks—cracks spreading like spiderwebs, tracing the impact of his presence.
But…
A smile slowly formed on his face, revealing teeth as sharp as piranha fangs—gleaming and threatening. A pair of horns began to emerge from his head, tearing through the flesh with excruciating pain. He closed his eyes, enduring the suffering that seemed to rip not just his body, but his very essence. Blood streamed in thick trails down his face, like profane tears denouncing the sacrifice of that transformation.
This will be enough...
And so, once again, the demon king—the red dragon—sets foot in Crea, bringing with him the promise of chaos.
With a fierce motion, he leaps from the door to the window like a beast prowling in the dark. His feet crush whatever they land on, shattering the wooden frame, which plummets from the eighth floor to the parking lot below. The impact of his strength is so devastating that even the concrete below gives way, breaking apart into a cascade of ruins. The sound of damaged cars echoes like thunder, while he remains crouched on the window frame—wild and lethal like an animal.
The light casts his shadow over the building's grounds. His eyes blaze like infernal beacons, radiating pure terror.
"Let's ruin a little of this world!"
His demonic hearing fully awakens, catching every sound in the city: the whisper of wind, the murmur of tormented souls, near-inaudible moans. He's once again the apex predator, capable of hearing even the faintest heartbeat from afar.
With another leap, he vanishes from the window, breaking through the air and reaching the firmament dozens of kilometers above. His hair brushes against Nox's light—a cold luminescence, colder than death itself. From up there, his gaze encompasses all of Crea: from the frozen lands of Regnum to the vast stretch of Aija, over the immense Flumen ocean, to the very edge of the known horizon.
At the far end of the sea, he beholds the abyss separating the world from Limbo. There, the hollow souls of suicides fall, dragged by the gravity of eternal despair. He feels the pressure of the entity governing the heavens—a force pushing him back to the ground, as if rejecting his profane presence.
Meanwhile, the duo finally reaches the ghost district, the former sixth district. Its towering ruins are a grim reminder of a terrorist act during the ruthless civil war—an event that turned the place into a massive urban cemetery. Human ash still clings to shattered walls, and the laments of the dead echo endlessly, forming a morbid symphony.
The scenery is a cruel testament to devastation and grief. Gabriel, motionless before the vastness of that graveyard, feels the weight of the past, as every step on the charred ground is a reminder of what should never have been forgotten.
All of this is the legacy of an explosion—the most terrible ever recorded—capable of reducing to dust the buildings that once formed the capital's largest district. Now, they lie in ruins: heaps of debris and forgotten memories, among the exposed bones of those who perished that fateful day.
The air, heavy with oppression, dances in spirals of darkness rising from the soil's depths, as if shadows themselves had gained life. That place became the greatest symbol of the paranormal, where the supernatural not only survives—but thrives—feeding on the suffering etched into every stone.
"This place, even after 227 years, never changes," Gabriel remarks, stepping out of his car. He leaves behind Yūrei highway and enters the district, wrapped in a smell that blends sin and suffering. His gaze scans the ruins, but revulsion is etched into his face. "I hate this scenery... this smell..." he says, instinctively covering his face to block the stifling stench. His voice carries more than disgust—it's tired, like the memories of that place weigh heavier than he can bear.
He breathes deeply, but the putrid smell defies all barriers, sinking into his mind even after twenty-one cycles. The weight is suffocating, as if each particle of air carried the laments of those consumed by the tragedy.
Masaru, in contrast, seems unfazed by the oppression, laughing at the scene with his usual irreverence.
"Then why'd you choose to be here? What's the play, old man?" he teases, eyes narrowing with a glint of curiosity and challenge.
Lifting his gaze to the dark skies, Gabriel steps forward, each movement heavy, as if the ground beneath dragged him toward the past.
"Well..." he begins, voice low, nearly a whisper, "being here makes me more resolved in my ideals. You wouldn't understand..." he finishes, his tone laced with conviction.
He arches a brow, throwing his arms back theatrically, as if the answer was insufficient.
"Wouldn't I? You're funny..." he retorts, a crooked smile on his face. He takes a few steps, feeling the environment shift around him, as if shadows danced to his presence's rhythm. "Being here brings me unmatched comfort. I don't know... the loneliness of death calms me. I feel the adrenaline I'm addicted to flows freely when everyone's already dead..."
There's a confession in his words—a glimpse of honesty he rarely shows. But noticing his companion's silence, he rolls his eyes in exaggerated boredom and sighs.
"Typical... not even a comment?"
He murmurs to himself, continuing to walk, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the ruins like a dissonant melody.
The wind howls, piercing the ears like a cry, while grotesque sounds of demons slithering in the shadows echo around them.
Gabriel stands still, eyes fixed on the misty horizon, but his senses are sharp, tuned to every sound.
"I'm surrounded by lunatics..." he finally says, voice tinged with sarcasm, followed by a low, almost resigned laugh.
The other lifts his head, eyes glowing with intensity, as if those words challenged him to be even more unpredictable.
"Name one exorcist who's sane!" he exclaims, gesturing dramatically while laughing with scorn. "Seriously, no one stays sane after dying and coming back, facing the abyss, thinking they know the truth… or even finding it. No man is born for that!"
His words carry the weight of madness—a strange sense of lucidity behind his eccentricity. To anyone else, they might sound like delusions. To his companion, however, they ring with an unexpected truth.
He listens attentively, not interrupting, as if those absurd-yet-sensible phrases brought unexpected comfort in the chaos of his own reflections. A brief moment of mutual understanding…
Then, abruptly, the almost friendly exchange is interrupted by a deafening roar—like the skies being torn in fury. Azazel has landed.
The impact is devastating, as if the earth itself collapses beneath the weight of his arrival. The ground trembles, weakened walls crumble, and a deafening echo rolls across the entire ghost district. Bats, hidden in the shadows, scatter in chaotic flocks, ripping through the air as the environment is overwhelmed by a vibration.
He weighs tons—his overwhelming strength manifesting in the crater forming beneath his feet. Brutal winds explode in every direction, a storm that lifts dust and hurls debris like projectiles, temporarily blinding both exorcists.
As the dust begins to settle, the red dragon emerges, exhaling power and menace. His presence is suffocating—an absolute predator that forces all lesser beings to retreat.
In this landscape of death and desolation, he is the alpha—the only enemy worthy of attention.
Gabriel reacts instinctively, leaping backward with the agility of a celestial warrior.
His movement echoes with a dry crack of his boots against the rubble, while a veil of dust rises thick in front of him. Despite the visual barrier, his eyes—glowing with divine light—see through it, piercing the cloud of particles that conceals the entity before him.
The brown glow of his irises contrasts with the surrounding darkness. At his side, Masaru smiles with madness, as if welcoming the chaos that has arrived.
A demon? The thought flashes through his mind like lightning.
How?… I didn't even sense him approaching...
The perplexity on his face is rare—but not uncontrolled. He draws a deep breath, adjusting his stance, as the weight of the threat begins to flood the air.
Masaru, hair thrown back by the wild wind, doesn't move immediately. A shiver runs down his spine—not from fear, but from a thrill laced with instinctive respect for the magnitude of the presence before them.
The shadows around them seem to come alive, spreading with the wind, dancing in streaks of black lightning that briefly illuminate the grim scenery.
He remains still, his silver eyes fixed, slowly reflecting the figure emerging from the darkness. The curtain of dust begins to lift—and before them, the entity reveals itself, its terrifying presence dissolving any doubt about the gravity of the situation.
They stand face to face with something that transcends the ordinary. The crown of bone growing from his skull is a symbol of his supremacy, and the spiraled horns curve like blades. His silhouette, sculpted by dancing shadows, bears black tattoos glowing like burning brands of damnation.
He is fully exposed—a presence that dominates and chokes the atmosphere.
"Exorcists!? This is going to be fun..." His gaze, sharp as a blade, sweeps the space, feeling every vibration of the presences before him with a perception brushing omniscience. "No, not just any exorcists!" he corrects, eyes glowing as they lock onto Masaru's defiant stare.
His forked tongue, rough like a serpent's, slides across his lips as he enunciates each word with theatrical clarity.
"Hm… why not just any exorcists?" he asks, immersed in that moment, savoring the game.
These words slice the air—but he's not here to talk.
Unlike Gabriel, who remains tense and aware of the crushing danger, Masaru shows no weakness. His feet are rooted, his posture that of someone who lives for the thrill of confrontation.
He feeds off the rising tension, keeping his tone nearly playful.
He wants to understand—to feel—the true weight of the creature rising before them. His companion, however, keeps a steady gaze, already preparing mentally for what's to come. They face more than a demon—they face the apex predator of the supernatural.
Azaael's grin widens, revealing sharp teeth as he observes Masaru's audacity. His eyes gleam with a mixture of interest and contempt, as if savoring the battle in advance.
"The energy flowing through your souls… it moves with grandeur... This is interesting..." he murmurs, raising his hands slowly, as if molding the air around him, gaze shifting between the two exorcists. "So then, how about we dance to the death?"
Gabriel feels the density of the demonic presence enveloping the space like an unbearable weight. In response, he crosses his fingers before his chest, and a translucent golden aura begins to surround him—like a flame that burns quietly but with intensity. His eyes glow with focus as his legs flex, signaling readiness for sudden movement.
But before he can act, Masaru lifts his right hand in a bold gesture—signaling him to wait. His gaze remains locked on their challenger, returning the intensity with a provocateur's delight.
"Don't be greedy. You're only facing one of us!" he declares, voice brimming with almost childlike glee in the face of danger. Then he turns, flashing a wide grin, and adds playfully: "Let me have some fun, Gabriel! It's not every day I catch a fish this big!"
He hesitates, the weight of the decision reflected clearly in his face. He knows Masaru lives for moments like this—but he also knows the magnitude of what they're up against. Still, the gleam in his partner's eyes makes him sigh, shoulders dropping in resignation.
"If you die, don't say I didn't warn you..." he mutters, stepping back a few paces, his aura still pulsing, alert.
With his silver eyes blazing, Masaru turns all his focus to the demon. He stretches his arms, cracking his knuckles, as a fierce smile spreads across his face.
"So, big guy... you ready to entertain me?" he taunts, taking a relaxed stance—yet his body coils like a spring ready to snap.
The demon tilts his head slightly, considering the audacity. Then, he spreads his arms, and the black tattoos writhe across his skin as the flames of purgatory ignite further in response to the challenge.
"Very well, little insect. Show me what you're made of... before I crush you!" he responds—voice soaked in both threat and delight, like a predator toying with its prey.
A growing grin splits his face.
At the foolish remark, a macabre laugh bursts from his cracked lips—echoing in the air like a harbinger of darkness.
And Gabriel, after a brief moment of hesitation, gives in to the request. His aura gradually dissipates as he uncrosses his fingers.
"Fine, you maniac... just don't die." He steps back, eyes sharp, nearly predatory.
Masaru replies with a firm nod, adjusting his stance. His aura flares around him, flickering like candlelight. Blue hues dominate the base, while intense red scorches the edges—forming a vivid contrast to the translucent energy Gabriel once wielded.
Azaael, in turn, begins conjuring his black flames. They swirl at his fingertips in hypnotic, serpentine patterns—the purest expression of darkness among demons. The crackling sound grows louder, saturated with a primordial power he hadn't unleashed in ages…
Their eyes lock, hungry.
Their smiles—twisted and dangerous—interlace.
The battle is about to begin.