A month passed.
A month since Azazel opened the floorboards.
A month since he learned his name was a lie—and the man he called grandfather was Johann Weyer, one of the most legendary demon hunters in history.
In that month, everything changed.
Thanks to Basil—who, as it turned out, had a few tricks of his own—their mansion and merchant holdings were sold off in secret. To whom?
Basil himself.
The smug bastard even had the nerve to hand Azazel a receipt.
"Call it an inheritance. With taxes," he'd said with a smirk.
With Basil's network, Azazel disappeared.
The world no longer knew him as the grandson of the aristocrat Kayezid Malhaam, merchant and supplier to Constantinople's elite.
Now, he was just Azazel, a humble part-time waiter and owner of a shady bar tucked in the bones of the city:
The Brimstone Barrel.
Basil didn't expect Azazel to buy this place out, but looking at it now it was very logical, as a holder he could widen his own network and create training space for himself. After all training in suffocating underground wasn't the best idea.
Strangely, Azazel also didn't mind it.
He preferred pouring mead over bartering silk and spices. Maybe it was the people. Maybe it was the simplicity. Or maybe he just liked not being watched.
Besides, his shift was only on Thursdays.
The rest of the week?
Training.
Ten hours a day.
He studied demon hierarchies, banishment circles, the rituals of the old hunters. His muscles screamed. His hands blistered. His sleep came in bursts, filled with strange dreams.
And yet, he felt alive.
During his reading, he discovered more than just spells and symbols.
He discovered a legacy.
Demon hunters had always existed, hidden beneath veils of myth and secrecy. But it wasn't until the First Crusade that they officially introduced themselves to the world.
Their leader: Hugues de Payens, founder of the Knights Templar.
But history had forgotten—or been forced to forget—that de Payens had another purpose beyond protecting pilgrims and relics.
He had seen the truth in the chaos of Jerusalem. Demons walked the battlefields. War fed them. Faith weakened them—but didn't stop them. Only people—trained, aware—could stand a chance.
So he formed a secret order within the Templars.
A separate circle.
An Order of Ash.
They called themselves Lux Tenebris—"The Light in Darkness."
Unaffiliated with any religion. Opposed to all blind faith. They took guidance from holy texts, but swore loyalty only to the world of man.
The Patriarch of Constantinople, the Pope, and the Allamah of Baghdad had all turned blind eyes to its founding. Silent approval.
The first headquarters stood hidden beneath Jerusalem, built among catacombs and Roman ruins. But when the city fell to the arabs, the Lux Tenebris scattered around the world, spreading the purpose of hunters.
The seat of power moved west.
To Paris.
There, in the shadow of Notre Dame, the Hunters rebuilt their organization under the other name.
And now?
Now one of them was being forged in the cellar of a dead man's house, drinking stale wine between hours of studying on demonic classifications with his Grandfather's journal.
Azazel stood in the back room of the Brimstone Barrel, sweat pouring from his brow. A training dummy made of straw and demon hide stood torn before him. His blade glinted with old oil.
Basil leaned in from the doorway.
"You're almost as good as him in his youth," he said.
Azazel smirked, exhausted.
"Almost?"
Basil tossed him a flask.
"Let's see how you hold your liquor first."