The door clicked shut behind Basil, his boots fading into the sound of Constantinople's narrow streets. Azazel stood there for a long moment, staring at the letter in his hand as if it might vanish.
He sat down at the worn wooden table in the center of the apartment. The envelope felt heavier than it should've. As if it carried more than words.
With a slow breath, he cracked the wax seal.
A familiar handwriting greeted him. Strong, confident, a little messy near the curves. Azazel's throat tightened.
He unfolded the paper.
"My dear Azazel,
If you're reading this, it means I'm no longer around to shout at you for leaving your boots on the rug.
I hope you're sitting. I know you don't usually. You never listened.
First and foremost sell our house and store. I understand that it's very sudden. You will understand after you finish reading it. So, please, read it to the end!"
Azazel smirked faintly, feeling a lump raising in his throat.
"I remember how small you were when I found you—filthy, angry, hungry, ready to bite the hand that fed you. I figured you'd either be dead in a week or become someone special. You surprised me by being both. Do you remember when you pissed your pants over that spider in the cabinet? And how you nearly sh—"
Azazel quickly flipped past the next paragraph, ears burning. That was one of the traits of the old man. Azazel wished to hear his laugh while Grandpa was always telling this story to some customers at their store.
"Now… to the truth.
I never told you who I really was. I didn't think I needed to. But maybe you deserve to know. Once, I was known as the greatest demon hunter of my time. They called me a dozen names—'Gravedigger,' 'God of Weapon,' even 'the Last Light.' Dramatic, I know.
But the demons are real, boy. They've always been.
When Constantinople fell to the Turks and the church shattered in its pride, something more important started break: the old seals that kept Hell caged. Weakened by war, disbelief, and arrogance. Through those cracks, the cursed ones poured—souls damned long ago, creatures born of nightmares, and worse.
The Devil... He's not just real—he's rising. And worse still, the gods made a pact."
Azazel's eyes narrowed.
"Yes. God. Allah. Rod. Shang Di. All of them. In silence and fear, they agreed to a non-interference pact with the Devil. No direct war. No divine judgment. So what did that leave us with?
Demons running free. And no gods to stop them.
They couldn't move. But their enemies could. Us."
"That's where the hunters came in. The first of us were just miserable men and women. Angry. Broken. Burned by Hell's games. We weren't chosen. We weren't holy. We were human. And because of that—we could fight.
When I was younger we fought with evil while crusaders… Those arrogant b-"
The word wasn't finished.
"They cared more about politics than people and peace. I built safehouses. I bled for a world that didn't even know it was already burning."
Azazel's hands trembled.
"I didn't want this life for you.
I wanted you to grow up and be a merchant, or a baker, or something quiet. Something good. I tried to keep it from you. But if you're holding this letter, then fate decided otherwise.
If you want peace, throw this letter in the fire. Walk away. Be free.
But if you want to know what really happened to me... if you want to understand what I was trying to stop..."
Azazel stopped breathing for a second.
"Then go to the room beneath the floorboards, beneath my bedroom.
The key is inside the old inkpot on my shelf.
Inside that room, you'll find my journal. My knowledge. And the truth.
But remember this: if you take that path—there's no turning back. You'll never be ordinary again. You'll become a torch. And demons devour flame. I tried to run away from that life. For you. After years of fighting, I found something I want to protect. But they found me. I'm scared for you. They are very vengeful. "
"I love you, boy. And I'm sorry."
— Grandfather.
Azazel lowered the letter.
Outside, the city moved. Inside, it felt like it had stopped.
He looked down at the wax seal again—Solomon Seal and inside of it Cross of Templars.
And beneath it, a faint ink-stained fingerprint.
His grandfather's.
He stood slowly and walked toward the shelf.