The garden hushed.
Every torch guttered low, every priest faltered mid-prayer. The sky itself bent.
Azazel whispered French in low voice:
"Not for glory nor golden crown…"
A voice, smooth as velvet and cold as winter's grave, rolled across the battlefield:
"Too much… yes, I suppose it was. Didn't expect Valefar to die here. Truly impressive humans. You are worthy of being called the most adaptable kind on Earth."
"We rise where light and faith break down."
He was talking about death of his comrade as if it was nothing.
"Your grace, sending not one but four kings for such insects. I wonder if Asmodeus and Beleth is having more fun right now," he sighed, "I wish His Majesty sent me to fight Bureau. A waste of my time."
"Steel in hand. Fire in soul."
From the shadows, a figure strode leisurely, each step heavier than thunder, each breath curdling the air. His form shimmered between man and beast, crown of twisted horns and cloak of smoke that writhed with serpents of fire.
"I am Balaam, seventh King of Hell," he declared, his tone almost casual, like introducing himself at a banquet rather than amidst slaughter. His eyes, black suns with molten cores, swept the broken garden. "And this mess… is your fault. After Weyer killed Belial, did you truly think we'd let you live?"
"We strike where angels fear to go…"
Amidst his thoughts and whispering, Azazel questioned if all the kings of hell were so talkative.
[FOCUS ON THE OATH!]
Azazel heard his grandfather warnings.
He smiled, revealing teeth like polished ivory daggers. "But alas, after Johann Weyer's death… there are no opponents worthy of Kings."
"No heaven guides me. No hell can bind."
The words froze every hunter. Even Aurelius clenched his daggers tighter.
And then—
Azazel stood.
[W-what are you doing?! AZAZEL!!!]
Shaking, yes. Knees weak, yes. But he stood, continuing whispering.
"Not for mercy. Not for might…"
Balaam's smirk deepened. "A child."
In a blink, he vanished.
Reality rippled, and suddenly the king's pale hand was wrapped around Azazel's throat, lifting him from the ground like a ragdoll.
"Azazel!" Aurelius screamed.
The Grandmaster answered instantly—ripping open space with a jag of reality, his Eternal Maw yawning wide. But before its void could devour, Aim's molten chains lashed around it, binding the crack in existence, while Kimaris's shadow tide surged, hemming Aurelius back with wings of black steel.
"We ask no thanks. We leave no name."
With hand on his throat it was difficult, but Azazel proceeded.
The leaders of the churches raised their relics in panic, Maximilian's sword flashing, but they too were pressed into desperate defense.
Balaam turned his head lazily, studying Aurelius. "Ah… the Grandmaster. To wield such power, still bound by flesh—truly impressive." His yawn was genuine, almost mocking. "But so very boring."
His grip tightened. Azazel choked, the world tunneling around him.
"You stink of Johann Weyer," Balaam murmured, tilting Azazel's chin. His gaze dropped to the pistols hanging at Azazel's belt. A chuckle rumbled from him. "Ah. So that's why. We wondered where his toys vanished to. In Constantinople, we found only his coffin… and the blades. But not the pistols."
"Our legacy: eternal flame."
Azazel snarled, raising his daggers with shaking hands, and stabbed for the demon's throat.
The steel shattered. Splinters of blood-forged blade scattered into the night. Only a thin scratch appeared on Balaam's neck, beading a single drop of black blood.
Balaam laughed, low and delighted. "Ah, before death, at least you amuse me." His long tongue ran across his teeth. "Perhaps I'll keep you. If you're pretty enough under this mask… you'll make a fine slave. I've always liked hot-tempered boys."
His hand rose, talons brushing Azazel's cheek as he tried to tear off the Mask of Saint Cyprian.
The garden exploded in firelight.
Balaam hissed—his palm blistering, burning, flesh smoking with deep scars that healed only sluggishly. He tore his hand back with a snarl.
"What is this?" the king muttered, more intrigued than furious. His eyes narrowed on the mask, his grin returning slow and sharp. "Fascinating… A relic I've never seen. Truly, boy, you are interesting."
Azazel's lungs heaved. He whispered through clenched teeth, lips moving fast.
"One creed we hold, from then to now—"
Balaam cocked his head. "What's that? A prayer?" He scoffed, tossing Azazel higher into the air like a toy before catching him again. "Don't waste your breath. Your God will not save you."
Azazel's gaze burned through the mask. His voice was hoarse but steady.
He smiled through the mask.
"I'm not praying to God."
The last syllable of the Hunter's Oath burned from his tongue like blood turned to fire.
"To hunt the dark. This is our vow."
His lips finished moving.
The world shivered.