"Humans... how annoying you all are."
The voice, thick with venom, rolled like smoke through the shattered Abbey. The demon materialized from the broken shade of the courtyard, its goat horns glistening, golden lion-eyes fixed on Azazel.
"So you called your friends... Will anything change? All we were ordered to do was kill a few talented young hunters. That's all, isn't it easier to die?"
From the right, a surge of water roared in, sharp as a tidal blade.
Johann's voice cracked inside Azazel's head:
[Fourteenth Marquis of Hell… Kimaris. Marquis of the Shadow Tide. Demon of shadow and unlight. He weaves fear through darkness, bends flesh into shade. His one true bane…]
Azazel finished the thought under his breath. "Light."
As if summoned by those words, a silver streak tore the courtyard. Out of nowhere, Isabella appeared—her thin rapier blazing with radiance. With one clean strike, she carved through the demon's neck.
Kimaris's head toppled, rolling across the garden stones.
But the body dissolved instantly, reforming into a veil of living shadow. A hiss of laughter rose from every corner at once.
"Futile."
Azazel staggered back. Matteo, Ino, and Juan sprinted to him, faces pale. Juan bent close, blurting, "Az—" then caught himself, grinding the name down into, "Lucien!"
"What the hell happened?!" Ino barked, his black sword ready.
Before Azazel could answer, Kimaris's voice coiled behind them.
"Tsk-tsk, children... wait a moment—" his chuckle rattled the air, "—Lemme deal with your mother first, and then I'll take care of you.."
He slid out of the corpse-shadow of a monk like a spider from its husk, looming tall and monstrous.
"Isabella… Warden of Barcelona. What an honor." His grin dripped malice.
Isabella turned, unfazed. "Kimaris. What are you doing here?"
The Marquis's laughter shook the walls. "Do you truly think you can stand against me alone? Foolish woman. The scraps of victory you humans have clung to these past years… they've filled you with false hope."
Her rapier lowered, her lips parted. She whispered—not to God, not to heaven, but to herself, like an oath sharpened into prayer:
"Blade that carves the night.
Mercy that scatters lies.
Isabella of Barcelona
I beg for your light!"
Her body ignited in radiant glow, the shadow recoiling from her skin.
She raised her rapier, eyes like burning silver.
"What's more, my power is your natural enemy."