The stairs groaned beneath Azazel's weight as he descended, each step carrying him deeper into the unknown. The oil lamp flickered in his hand, casting long shadows on the stone walls as the wooden floor gave way to cold brick.
At the bottom, the staircase opened into a dim chamber, no larger than a modest room. The air was stale, but not dead—it carried the scent of wax, leather, and something faintly metallic.
Azazel raised his lamp.
Candles, unlit, lined the shelves and corners of the room. He touched the flame to one. Then another. Within moments, a dozen candles filled the space with a soft, amber glow.
He shivered. Not from cold. From the weight of what lay in the center of the room.
A pedestal, old and carved from dark oak, stood alone.
And upon it sat a book.
Its leather cover was embossed with an ancient symbol: the Seal of Solomon—two interlocked triangles forming a hexagram. But at its center, pressed deep into the leather, was something even more striking:
A red cross. The Knights Templar.
That was the same symbol he saw on the letter of his Grandpa.
Azazel's fingers trembled as he touched the cover.
He opened the book.
The pages were flawless—uncracked, clean, and thick with age and intent. Yet the text was written in a sharp, elegant hand.
"The Diary of Hugues de Payens – The Codex of Demon Hunters."
Azazel blinked, whispering the name.
"Hugues de Payens… the founder of the Templars?"
He turned a few pages. Some French, some phrases in Latin. And yet, the book felt... alive. It pulsed with meaning. As though it were waiting.
But he hesitated.
There was more to this place.
Setting the book down carefully, Azazel lifted his lamp and turned around.
Along the walls were shelves—dozens of them, stuffed to bursting. Jars of ash and bone. Cans sealed with wax. Some held liquids the color of dried blood. Others looked like preserved organs.
A row of horns, neatly labeled. Crosses from different cultures—Catholic, Orthodox, Coptic, and ones he didn't recognize. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of knowledge.
Some were bound in faded leather with titles like:
"Rites and Rituals of the Ancient Egyptians"
"Evil and Good Creatures of Scythia"
"Keys to the Abyss"
Another shelf was stacked with holy texts:
The Bible
The Qur'an
The Vedas
Tao Te Ching
The Four Books and Five Classics of Confucian thought.
Azazel exhaled. "What in God's name were you doing down here, old man…"
It was chaos. Orderly, perhaps once—but now a mountain of knowledge and weaponry jumbled together. Everything from silver daggers to philosophical commentaries sat beside exorcism scrolls and salted herbs.
He felt a strange urge to tidy it. Organize it. Control it.
He moved toward the far wall. Another door stood slightly ajar.
Pushing it open, he entered a second chamber.
This one was larger—and packed. Cabinets lined the walls. Cupboards, some locked, others gaping open. The ceiling was hung with chains, hooks, ropes. Along the far wall, an array of weapons glinted: swords, flintlocks, throwing knives, crossbows, even a whip etched with runes.
Azazel turned in a slow circle, overwhelmed.
But then he saw it.
Amidst the mess, on a table against the far wall, lay an open journal.
Something personal.
He approached, the candlelight playing across the ink. It was newer. The handwriting was different.
His grandfather's.
A new breath caught in his throat.