Azrael considered riding his newly enhanced symbiote-covered Pidgeot, but quickly dismissed the idea. The sight would be far too conspicuous; a rider mounted on what appeared to be a nightmarish alien creature would surely attract unwanted attention from law enforcement.
The aesthetics alone screamed "villainous". He could practically guarantee that if he flew the transformed Pidgeot to the Velvet Springhouse, the Traffic Patrol would intercept him before he reached his destination. While his status as Master Lucian's apprentice would eventually clear up any misunderstandings, there was no point in creating such complications.
Better to maintain his mundane cover and use conventional transportation.
Standing at the entrance to his apartment, Azrael hailed a cab with practiced ease. Luck favored him this time, the driver was someone new, sparing him another awkward encounter with the man who seemed convinced he was a regular at certain establishments.
"So soon?" Fredrika's perfectly manicured eyebrows raised in mild surprise as she looked up from filing her crimson nails. The claret polish caught the office lights as she paused her grooming routine. "I expected you to take at least a few days to respond."
Azrael settled into the familiar leather chair opposite her desk, noting the calculated nonchalance of her posture. Even during routine maintenance, Fredrika projected an aura of dangerous sophistication that reminded him why underestimating her would be fatal.
"I had nothing else pressing," he replied with a casual shrug that cut through any pretense of small talk. "What's the mission?"
Recognizing his preference for directness, Fredrika put down her nail file and pulled a manila folder from her desk drawer. "Everything you need to know is in the briefing," she said, sliding the documents across the polished surface toward him.
Azrael took the papers and began to read them with attention. As the contents became clear, he felt his stomach sink with growing dread. 'Worst case scenario,' he thought grimly. 'Of course it had to be.'
The intelligence report detailed a disturbing development: a local detective had apparently uncovered a small operation of the Crimson Oath Society somewhere in Pixar. Fortunately, the investigation hadn't yet reached Fredrika's establishment; if the Velvet Springhouse had been compromised, Azrael's frequent visits would have made his cover identity completely untenable.
The mission parameters were elegantly simple: eliminate the detective before he could report his findings to higher authorities.
However, Azrael would not operate alone. A local cell would provide support and additional intelligence for the operation. According to the briefing, this "cell" consisted primarily of street criminals who had accepted contracts from the Crimson Oath Society in exchange for the power to become Lore Cardians.
"Can I avoid direct contact with these people?" Azrael asked, massaging his temples as he processed the operational complications. Working with amateur criminals introduced countless variables he could not control.
Fredrika continued her nail care without looking up, her tone carrying studied indifference. "Your choice. But you have access to more detailed information about the target. I suggest you make contact if you want this to go smoothly."
Her casual dismissal told Azrael volumes about the true gravity of the situation. If the detective posed a real threat to major operations, the organization would never assign someone as valuable as Master Lucian's new apprentice to handle it. This was either a routine cleanup or a test of his abilities.
The relatively minor nature of the threat also suggested that the local cell had not yet been definitively exposed. If their cover had been blown, sending Azrael into that environment would be criminal negligence of their most promising asset.
"Is there any way to avoid this mission altogether?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
To refuse would send all the wrong signals. The Crimson Oath Society had deliberately modified his original, supposedly far more dangerous mission into this manageable operation in recognition of his new status. To refuse their consideration would raise suspicions about his loyalty and commitment.
More importantly, the mystical contract that bound him to Jin's service made outright refusal impossible without severe consequences.
"Looks like I'll have to assess the situation myself," Azrael concluded, accepting the inevitable with practiced resignation.
After a brief goodbye to Fredrika, he left the Velvet Springhouse to begin preparations for the mission. However, approaching the criminal cell in daylight would be monumentally stupid. Better to wait for nightfall, when shadows could hide his movements and provide tactical advantages.
"Boss, I really don't want to go back there," the red-haired youth whined, his voice cracking with barely controlled panic as he knelt before a stern-faced blond man in the dimly lit interior of the abandoned building.
The skeletal framework of the unfinished construction project provided the perfect cover for clandestine meetings, its concrete pillars and empty window frames creating a maze of shadows where half a dozen colorful criminals had gathered for what appeared to be a very serious discussion.
The blond leader's expression darkened with each word, his jaw clenching as frustrated anger built behind his eyes. "How many times have I explained the importance of keeping a low profile?" he snapped, his voice echoing off the bare concrete walls.
"What did you do instead?" He gestured sharply at the cowering redhead. "You decided to attack some random woman in broad daylight."
"That would have been manageable, throw some money around, maybe serve a few months if witnesses came forward. But no, you had to make it worse."
The blonde's voice rose with each accusation. "You attacked a detective with an unregistered card when he tried to intervene. Do you have any idea how disastrously stupid that was?"
The operating parameters they were working under were delicate enough without reckless idiots attracting official attention. The Crimson Oath Society had provided them with Lore Cardian materials and techniques, but the resulting vampire cards couldn't be registered with legitimate authorities. Their sources of power were untraceable, their methods of creation highly illegal, and their very existence in violation of several Imperial statutes.
Anyone of them caught using their cards in public would face immediate arrest and interrogation that could unravel their entire network.
"I should break your legs and dump you at the courthouse," the blond muttered, seriously considering whether eliminating his subordinate might solve more problems than it created.
If he'd witnessed the true horror of violating a Crimson Oath contract, the redhead would be dead already. But squeamishness about supernatural retribution had always been one of his weaknesses.
The Empire of Aetherlight had a zero-tolerance policy for illegal Lore Cardians. Anyone caught operating without proper registration faced immediate imprisonment, interrogation, and possible execution, depending on the severity of their crimes.
After several tense moments of internal debate, the blond made his decision. "We wait," he announced grimly. "I've already contacted our superiors. They'll decide how to handle this mess."
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the abandoned structure, heavy boots making rhythmic thumps against the debris-strewn concrete.
"Who's there?" The blond immediately summoned his card, a pale, gaunt vampire materializing with predatory grace. His subordinates followed suit, their own blood-drinking creatures emerging from the mind space to form a defensive perimeter.
A figure in shimmering silver armor stepped into the improvised meeting area, each step calculated and purposeful. The full-body suit reflected fragments of moonlight streaming through broken windows, creating an almost supernatural presence that drew immediate attention.
"I'm here to clean up your mess," came a distorted voice from behind the helmet's visor, the words carrying a mechanical undertone that made them sound inhuman and threatening.
The blonde's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Words alone meant nothing in his line of work, too many people claimed authority they didn't have, especially when dealing with criminal organizations that attracted frauds and opportunists.
Either this newcomer would prove his credentials through combat, or he would provide verifiable proof of his connection to her superiors. The blonde had no intention of accepting vague claims from mysterious armored figures.
His subordinates seemed to share his skepticism, their vampire cards unfolding into overlapping fields of threat assessment. The creatures' pale features twisted in anticipation, their fangs gleaming in the dim light as they prepared for potential violence.
Azrael understood the need to establish his credentials immediately. In criminal organizations, trust had to be earned by demonstration rather than explanation.
"That should suffice as identification," he said with a hoarse chuckle, his voice carrying a dark amusement that seemed to emanate from the armor itself.
Shinobu Oshino materialized from the shadows of his feet, her elegant form rising like a queen ascending her throne. The vampire princess stood with casual arrogance, her golden hair catching what little light penetrated the abandoned building, while her revealing dress emphasized both her beauty and her supernatural nature.
The effect on the assembled criminals was immediate and absolute.
THUD.
Every vampire card in the area dropped to its knees in perfect unison, their bestial features showing expressions of worship and terror that transcended rational thought. The creatures' primitive minds recognized something their human masters could not comprehend: they were in the presence of true vampire nobility.
But Shinobu Oshino's influence went beyond simple dominance. One of the criminals began to move with jerky, puppet-like movements, his eyes glazing over as the supernatural spell overwhelmed his conscious will. The butterfly blade in his trembling hand slowly rose to his own throat as he succumbed to her [Mystic Charm] trait.
"Vampire royalty!" the blond leader gasped, recognition and horror warring in his voice as understanding dawned. "A true progenitor!"
The Crimson Oath Society's basic vampire templates produced functional but inferior creatures compared to mythological examples. Occasionally, creative Lore Cardians would attempt to modify or improve upon these designs, usually producing weaker variants that couldn't compete with the standardized models.
But sometimes, very rarely, such experimentation produced monsters that completely transcended their origins.
As the blonde watched his bronze-level vampire prostrate before Shinobu Oshino, he could only come to one conclusion: the armored figure either possessed vastly superior card quality or vastly superior advancement levels. Both possibilities meant that it would be suicide to challenge him.
The information his card transmitted through their mental link confirmed his worst fears. Despite his limited intelligence, the vampire managed to convey two crucial words that made the blonde's blood run cold:
"True Master."
Vampire hierarchies were absolute and unforgiving. Recognition of superiority came from an instinct deeper than conscious thought, making deception or misunderstanding impossible.
Cold sweat ran down the blonde's forehead as he dropped to his knees in submission. "Forgive me for not immediately recognizing your authority," he said, his voice shaking with genuine fear. "Please spare us your wrath."
Satisfied with their approval, Azrael allowed Shinobu to retreat back into the shadows. These street criminals were more useful tools than threats; killing them would serve no purpose beyond demonstrating the power he had already established.
"Brief me on the current situation," he ordered, his distorted voice carrying an absolute authority that brooked no resistance or hesitation.
The blond leader straightened slightly, though he remained on his knees as he began his report. Whatever came next, he understood that his survival depended entirely on the armored figure's continued goodwill.
The real mission was about to begin.