The open journal on the table had no title.
No name. No label.
Only worn leather and dog-eared corners.
As Azazel approached, a small paper fluttered from between the pages, gliding to the floor. He picked it up.
The handwriting was sharp. Familiar.
"If you're reading this, brat, then I'm probably dead. Or you're too stubborn to follow the instructions in my will.
This book… it's for you. Not just to mourn me, but to become something greater. This is your guide. Your map. Your curse."
Azazel blinked, deep sorrow rose from his heart.
The note continued:
"You might have thought I was a simple wealthy merchant. Indeed, there are few traders that have connections and ties to Sultan. I would even consider myself an aristocrat, looks like I'm good at everything I take up."
Azazel felt as if grandfather was talking to him sitting near. Also one exact image of grandpa boasting while scratching his nose appeared in his mind. It made him extremely sad and Azazel even teared up a little.
"However I was also trading tools, salts, sacred oils and knowledge to other hunters secretly. But someone must've talked. Leaked. Maybe a bribe, maybe a divination. Either way… the demons got back on my trail. It was actually impressive that it took them so long, looks like I'm too good…"
Azazel scoffed and skipped it.
"So, the past year? I had to return to the field. Jerusalem, Egypt, Kyiv, Rome. Hitting multiple old hotbeds to mislead the bastards.
But they're good. Too good now. They'll find you eventually. Well, I think they don't know that I have a precious grandson, but all the tracks will lead them to my business and residence. A year from now. Maybe less.
Azazel's hands trembled.
"So listen closely: Sell everything. Don't look back. Beneath this cellar, I carved out a passage into the catacombs. It's not marked, but you'll find the switch under the rack of wolf-bone blades. Follow the map tucked in this journal. There's a safehouse, prepared under a fake name in the Phanar district, near the old Orthodox churches. Don't divert. Don't explore. I've sealed some demons in other branches. For practice.
Yes, for practice. You're welcome."
Azazel blinked. "You mad bastard…"
"You're probably thinking: 'Why did he do this?' Well, because I knew you'd read this. Knew you wouldn't walk away. Knew you'd have to know the truth. I wanted to make your search easier and ensure you'd be able to protect yourself after my death.
I'm sorry. I wanted better for you. A quiet life. But knowing you? You're too much like me. You need to see for yourself."
Azazel flipped the note over, muttering something like 'if he wanted me to just live peacefully, then he wouldn't even reveal the truth'. Old man knew Azazel too good and deliberately prepared this.
"You're more skilled than I ever was when I was your age. You're faster. Smarter. Stubborn as all hell. So there's a **chance you—"
The next line was crossed out. Scratched over multiple times.
Azazel stared at the black mess of ink.
He couldn't tell what it once said.
He turned back to the journal.
A fresh note had been tucked inside the cover:
"This journal is my life's work. In it, you'll find rituals, traps, exorcisms, theories. Everything I learned and stole from dead men smarter than me. If I had the time to publish this, I'd have called it 'The Journal of the Greatest Demon Hunter' or maybe **'How to Become the Bane of All Demons' or…"
Azazel rolled his eyes and muttered, "If you don't blow your own trumpet, no one will."
Then he flipped the page.
"The main weakness of past hunters was knowledge. Not strength. Not speed. They rushed into Hell with wooden swords and half-finished prayers.
_You will not.
Before you go through the ritual of initiation, you must study. All of it. Every book in this cellar has a purpose. Learn them. Let them seep into your blood.
_But that's not enough.
_You'll need practice. Trial. Pain. And guidance.
_So when you've read enough to ask the right questions, seek out my old friend. You've already met him.
Basil.
He lives in the Jewish quarter, near the Church of St. George of the Mangana. It's hidden between an abandoned tailor's shop and a spice merchant. Knock twice, then once. He'll know."
Azazel leaned back.
It was real.
All of it.
He turned the page again.
Diagrams. Notes. Maps. Ritual circles. Demon species classifications.
It was like stepping into another world—a war beneath the one he thought he lived in.
And he had just been drafted.
He looked around the chamber. All the books. All the tools.
His fingers brushed the leather of the open journal.
"…Alright, old man. Let's see what the hell you left behind."