Azazel's jaw clenched. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples.
"So that's it?" he said at last, his voice trembling with both anger and clarity. "If you want to kill us—if you want to kill your own disciple—then say it plainly!"
The words burst out louder than he expected. The hall fell into a hush, eyes from nearby hunters and wardens snapping toward the masked young man who dared raise his tone against the Grandmaster.
Aurelius merely tilted his head, unfazed, almost entertained.
Azazel swallowed, then forced his tone calm again.
"Though… if you're truly our overseer, then when the time comes, you'll have no choice but to protect us. That's your role."
For the briefest second, a smile flickered beneath the mask—Azazel's own, sharp and mocking. The same sinister unsettling smile that curved across Aurelius's face moments before.
The next morning, the group assembled in full gear, every strap tightened, every weapon checked. They were ready for the raid.
Together, they crossed the Vatican grounds until they reached Saint Peter's Basilica. They passed the zone given for hunters' initiation competition, where pavilion of Wardens and board with missions were.
The steps of marble echoed beneath their boots, each one heavier than the last. Inside, candlelight flickered like anxious souls clinging to hope.
Descending into the bowels of the church with the Grandmaster at their lead, they arrived at the entrance of the catacombs. There, in the dim stone passage, waited none other than the Pope himself.
Aurelius bent low and kissed his hand. The disciples followed in reluctant silence, their lips brushing the papal ring as tradition demanded.
Two guards in heavy monk's robes stood before massive iron gates. Their surface was carved with strange Latin symbols, every line bristling with warning. Above them, in bold script, was etched the dreadful phrase:
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'entrate.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Azazel's stomach twisted.
"Is all prepared?" Aurelius asked, his voice smooth, respectful, but edged with anticipation.
The Pope nodded gravely. He raised both hands and intoned a solemn prayer in Latin, voice reverberating against the stone walls:
"Sanctifica hos filios tuos, Domine,
ut lux tua in tenebris fulgeat.
Fiat voluntas tua in inferis sicut in caelo."
("Sanctify these children of yours, O Lord,
that Your light may shine in the darkness.
Let Your will be done in Hell as it is in Heaven.")
The iron doors groaned, shuddered, then slowly swung open, revealing a suffocating darkness that seemed to breathe.
The Pope lowered his hands, his face unreadable, yet his words lingered like a funeral bell:
"May fortune guide your steps. You will need it."
He took a golden cross off neck and gave it to Aurelius.
With a final glance backward, the group crossed the threshold.
And the gates of the Catacombs closed behind them.