The next evening, Azazel left his modest back room in the bar before sunset and made his way to the Greek Quarter. The air carried the scent of incense and wet stone, whispers of chants echoing through narrow streets lined with faded icons and worn mosaics.
He walked briskly toward the Church of Saint Eleutherios, the place Basil had mentioned. A priest, bearded and weathered, swept the front steps. Azazel approached, hesitating only briefly.
"I was told there's… a way below," Azazel said quietly.
The priest didn't even look up. "There are many ways below, my son. The earth is patient."
"Basil sent me."
At that, the priest paused.
"I don't care if the Johann Weyer himself sent you," he said, still sweeping. "What's the password?"
"Well I'm actually his grandson," he mocked himself under his breath, knowing it wouldn't help his case.
Azazel blinked.
"Password?"
"It's not just a word," the priest added. "It's the credo. Of the hunters. If you don't know it, you don't enter."
Azazel stood in stunned silence.
Credo? What credo?
He resisted the urge to groan.
The priest gave a faint, knowing smile.
Azazel turned away, frustrated. Was this some kind of test? Why hadn't Basil told him about the password? Or the creed?
As he walked, he tried to piece together what it could be.
What do hunters believe?
He always assumed they were just weapons. Killers of evil. Machines that had lost the right to ask why.
But if that was true… why all the books? The philosophy? The sacred rites and debates left in the margins of his grandfather's journal?
"Kill is kill," he thought bitterly. "They're evil, we're righteous… isn't that enough?"
He found himself back at the Brimstone Barrel, the low murmur of drinkers inside numbing his thoughts. He slipped past the bar and headed toward the back room.
There, behind an old supply shelf, was a door. Even Basil didn't know it existed.
That half-concealed door was one of the reasons Azazel chose to buy this place.
Sealed with a rune.
He pressed his palm to it.
The door clicked.
Beyond it, stone stairs spiraled downward, damp and cold. The smell of mildew and iron filled the air. Azazel lit his lantern and began the descent.
The deeper he went, the quieter it got. The sound of the city above faded into silence.
After nearly half an hour, the tunnel opened into a familiar space—a domed chamber beneath what had once been his and grandfather's residence.
He exhaled.