The battlefield was quiet now. The fires from the Church's holy barrage had been extinguished, leaving behind only ash, broken weapons, and the faint smell of blood.
A figure descended from the sky, his wings dark as obsidian, feathers sharp as blades. His presence was suffocating, neither angel nor demon, but something far older. The mortals who had once whispered of him called him one name— Azrael, the Angel of Death.
Beside him walked a young woman, tall and graceful, her long silver hair flowing like moonlight. Her eyes burned with a cold intensity, far removed from the warmth mortals expected of angels. She carried no halo, only a faint aura of silence that felt like the end of all things.
"Father," she murmured, her voice calm. "This place reeks of holy arrogance. The Church overstepped."
Azrael's gaze swept over the ruined academy grounds, his expression unreadable. "And yet… something greater was awakened here. I can still feel it in the air. The Night King's blood… has stirred once more."
The girl frowned slightly. "You fear him?"
"No." Azrael's eyes narrowed, his wings spreading faintly. "But Heaven will. And that is enough."
As they turned to leave, the girl paused, her gaze sharp. "We are not alone."
From the treeline, faint clicks echoed. Cameras. Drones. Men in black suits hiding behind cloaking devices. Humans — not holy soldiers, not vampires — but something far more mundane and dangerous: government operatives.
Azrael's lips curled into the faintest smirk. "So, mortals have taken interest."
The men thought they were invisible, but the Angel of Death's daughter raised her hand. In an instant, a scythe of pure darkness manifested in her grip. With one sweep, the ground trembled, and the agents were cut down before they could even scream.
But their mistake had already been made. A drone, high above the sky, transmitted its final recording back to an unknown location.
In the depths of an underground facility, men in white coats and black uniforms huddled around screens. The footage played: Azrael and his daughter, wings unfurled, cutting down their operatives like paper dolls.
The room fell into silence.
"They're real," one scientist whispered. "Angels… demons… vampires… they all exist."
Another officer leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "And if they exist, they can be studied. Controlled. Weaponized."
The words marked the birth of Project Eden — the government's attempt to capture and exploit beings of myth.
Far away, in the luxurious depths of Victor's mansion, the eternal lord sat in silence, a glass of crimson wine in his hand. The air shimmered, and a new presence entered the room.
A woman with golden hair, beauty beyond mortal comprehension, eyes like living starlight. Every step she took was grace incarnate, every glance a temptation. Mortals had once carved statues in her image.
Victor's lips curved into a rare smile. "Aphrodite."
The goddess of love and desire leaned casually against his chair, her smile mischievous and dangerous all at once. "It seems your little academy is already making ripples in Heaven, Hell, and even the mortal world. And now, Azrael has appeared…" She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "Tell me, beloved—are you ready for the storm that's coming?"
Victor chuckled, sipping his wine. "Ready? My dear, I've been waiting."