The pistols roared again. Scripture-fire scorched through the garden, burning holes into Balaam's shadow-wrought body. His wings, once a shroud of night, were torn ragged, feathers turned to ash mid-air. Every time he tried to mend, Johann's bullets carved the wounds open again, branding him with verses he could not erase.
Balaam staggered, a King of Hell swaying for the first time in centuries. His voice cracked with rage and disbelief.
"Impossible… You're only an echo! A fragment in a boy's shell! How can you—"
Another shot seared his cheek, burning away half his words. Johann's voice rang out with Azazel's, calm, merciless.
"Fragments are enough to bury you, Balaam."
The King reeled, and for a heartbeat it seemed he might fall. But instead of retreating, his laughter came—low, bitter, and cruel. His crimson eyes flared, and he roared across the battlefield:
"Remove the seals!"
The garden fell silent for an instant.
From the edges of the chaos, four lords turned their monstrous heads—Kimaris, Raum, Andras, and Aim. Their pentagrams glowed like coals. Raum's voice, a hiss of broken wings:
"Did all the kings agree? If we do, we'll have little time left in this world…"
"Kings are requesting it!" Balaam's voice cracked the marble beneath him. "Finish the Grandmaster, butcher those stupid holy rollers, and then aid me."
A mere shadow, part of the Johann Weyer's soul alone was bleeding him dry. Balaam shivered at thoughts that even if he was in full power, if they met in Hell, probably only his older brothers could match the full power of this mighty human. No, he can't be called a human now. This monster. That's what Balaam thought in those moments.
At his words, the air twisted. The four demons' foreheads blazed.
Azazel's chest convulsed. His voice overlapped with his grandfather's again, steady but grave.
[Listen to me, boy. Fifteen minutes. That's all I have left.]
Azazel's lips whispered aloud, "Fifteen minutes…?"
[Remember I imprisoned a part of my soul in the Codex. The Codex lets me bind myself here, but my soul is no anchor. After that, I'll vanish back into silence. But Balaam… he's different. Once the seals break, the world itself will push them back to Hell. They'll last less than ten minutes before banishment. That's your window. Our window.]
Azazel's throat tightened. "Then… then what do we do?"
Silence, then his grandfather's voice, heavy as a verdict:
[I can't let him go. I want his death. Give me control. All of it. My hands, my sight, my will—everything. You cannot stand against a King. But I can.]
He pulled out elixirs he took from his bag, that Juan brought.
Juan.
Azazel recalled his tranquil smile just before being swallowed by a swarm of piranhas.
His bloodied knuckles tightened on the pistols. He gulped four elixirs. His body emitted hot vapor. At an instant all of the wounds disappeared, which, however, cannot be said about his clothes.
Azazel hesitated.
But then he saw them—Grandmaster Aurelius holding Raum at bay, Maximilian's aura blazing against Andras, the Pope and Patriarch straining their relics to keep back Kimaris's shadow tide, while Martin Luther hammered Aim down to earth with holy stake and nails. Priests, disciples, knights—all fighting, bleeding, dying.
He breathed in, trembling.
"…I trust you, grandpa. Take it."
The Codex burned against his chest. Johann's presence surged through him like a flood.
The pistols shone so bright the garden lit like daylight. Azazel's body straightened, his stance no longer that of a boy but of a hunter who had walked through Hell itself and returned. His voice deepened, doubled—Johann Weyer's part of the soul was now fully incarnated into the body of his grandson.
At the far end, the demons screamed. The pentagrams on their foreheads shattered, sending shards of crimson light into the sky.
The earth split. Fissures tore open as if the crust itself tried to vomit Hell back into the world. Flame geysered upward, devouring trees, statues, marble. From every crack surged the pressure of damnation, thick enough to smother air.
From it countless black chains wrapped the bodies of the minor demons and dragged them into the hellish abyss.
More than a thousand of demons disappeared in just seconds.
But there was no room for relief yet.
Knights dropped their blades, clutching their throats. Priests collapsed, their prayers choked by the heat.
From the side of St. Peter's Basilica dark fires exploded resisting the holy fires of Apostles.
At the distance two more earthquakes shook Rome. That was the exact same Abbey. Residence of all the Wardens.
Azazel—Johann—stood unflinching, pistols raised. His words echoed like the toll of a funeral bell.
[Aurelis it's time!]