Azazel's scream tore the night.
"NO!"
The daggers in his hands pulsed, veins of crimson light racing through the steel as he poured his blood into them. They drank it greedily. A web of scarlet chains burst forth, lashing not only around Valefar, but sweeping outward—wrapping trees, stones, even comrades. Disciples screamed as the blood-woven shackles clamped around their limbs, dragging them down into the tide of lesser demons.
But Azazel didn't see them. He saw only Juan.
Valefar sneered, trying to sink back into the earth, his form flickering like a shadow. Yet he could not vanish. Something bound him here—Juan's hand crushing his wrist, the priests' prayers flooding the air with searing light, and Azazel's blood-webs chaining itself.
The demon faltered for the first time.
Juan laughed in its face, eyes bright like fireflies before dawn. His saber, glowing with rushing streams of water, soared back into his grip as if summoned by his heartbeat.
"Enough hiding," Juan said. His Portuguese words rolled with the roar of waves:
"Pelos mares que nos carregam, pelo sangue que nos une—eu te selo!"
(By the seas that carry us, by the blood that binds us—I seal you!)
With no hesitation, Juan thrust the blade into his own chest, driving it through himself and into the demon's chest.
The garden shook.
The saber shattered open, its seal undone. The relic revealed its true form.
From the steel, water poured—first a stream, then a river, then a storm. The blade elongated, reshaping into a trident that gleamed with the wrath of the deep. Its presence was crushing, divine, ancient.
The demons gasped as one, voices shrill with disbelief:
"Poseidon's…? No… impossible…"
Azazel, blinded by rage, hurled his daggers into the trident's flood. They flared, primed for blood-explosion—yet the newborn torrent blocked them, redirecting their carnage back into the battlefield. Knights, demons, even disciples caught too close were swallowed by the blast.
Then came the roar.
A pillar of water shot skyward, ripping through the night and clawing at the heavens. Within it, a swarm of spectral piranhas materialized—gnashing fangs of the ocean's hunger. They devoured everything caught in their tide. Lesser demons vanished into red froth. The air itself bent under the pressure of the sea summoned from nothing.
Valefar howled, his form unraveling, mouths bursting open across his body to screech curses not meant for mortal ears. But the trident held him pinned, the water crushing him from all sides.
The last thing Azazel saw before the pillar drowned the world was Juan's face—smiling wide, unflinching, proud.
Then silence.
The flood receded, leaving only devastation and a single relic upon the stones: Bartolomeu's saber, lying quiet, drops of water sliding from its edge like tears.
Rain fell from the night sky.
Azazel staggered forward, chest heaving, fury still burning. His hand reached for the daggers—
His whole body ached because of the prolonged use of the Codex powers.
"IDIOT!"
A sharp blow cracked against his head. Azazel stumbled back, turning to see Hypathia, eyes blazing, tears streaking her dirt-smeared face.
"You think this is what he wanted?!" she screamed. Her voice cracked, shaking. "Juan gave his life—and you nearly killed us too! Look around you!"
Through the haze of rage, Azazel blinked. His blood-webs still writhed, chains sunk into the flesh of allies. Disciples lay bleeding, scorched by the explosions he had unleashed. Their eyes, once filled with fire, now looked at him with fear.
His heart broke.
Hypathia's fists trembled as she pointed the saber on the ground. Her voice faltered, raw:
"That… that is not what Juan would want from us…"
Her words cut deeper than any blade.
But there was no time to mourn.
The rain turned black. The sky bent.
Something descended from above—slowly, silently. A colossal shape, cloaked in darkness, its aura pressing upon the battlefield like the weight of a collapsing world. Every hunter dropped to their knees, their strength smothered under its presence.
Shock quickly disappeared from Kimaris' and the other three high-ranking demons.
They only laughed kneeling down in respect.
Only Grandmaster, Maximilian and leaders of the Churches could stand on their two.
Azazel's lungs refused to draw air. He fell to his knees.
Inside his skull, his grandfather's voice screamed with a desperation Azazel had never heard before:
[Oath of Hunters! NOW!]