"Very well," the old man said, his voice deep and solemn. "As you wish."
The Codex's dreamscape around Azazel shifted. The endless constellations blurred, the ground beneath his feet dissolved, and suddenly he stood in a vast, flickering panorama. Shadows of men in mail and white mantles with red crosses marched across ancient stone halls. The smell of iron, incense, and blood filled the air.
His grandfather lifted a hand, and the vision moved like a tapestry unraveling.
"It began with Hugues de Payens," he explained, "the first Grand Master of the Knights Templar. The Order sought a way to increase the strength of men—not through relics, weapons, or holy artifacts, but by amplifying the human body itself. They experimented with essences, elixirs brewed with the blood of demons and creatures that dwell beyond the veil."
Azazel saw men drinking from chalices, their eyes turning black, their muscles bulging unnaturally. At first they fought with inhuman speed and ferocity—but their laughter soon twisted into madness. Some tore at their comrades, others clawed at their own flesh.
"Yes, it worked," the old man continued grimly. "It made them stronger. But it devoured their minds and their flesh. Few lived past the age of twenty-five. And those who survived long enough often became uncontrollable, succumbing to insanity."
The vision shifted again—an endless battlefield littered with corpses, knights cutting down not demons, but their own brothers.
"For more than a century, this cycle of power and ruin continued. Until a discovery changed everything. Among the possessions of Hugues de Payens, the Templars uncovered a diary—what later became known as the Hunter's Codex. Within it was a final revelation, a tip, written as the man lay dying."
The scene rippled. An aged knight lay on his cot, quill trembling in his hand. A dark figure, hooded with a crown of red flowers, loomed at his bedside—the Reaper itself.
Azazel shivered.
"The Reaper whispered to him a path forward," his grandfather said softly. "To pray—not to the gods. Not to saints. But to oneself. To pray so that the world itself might acknowledge humanity."
The image changed once more—hunters kneeling in circles, chanting words not found in any church. Their voices echoed with strange resonance, their bodies trembling as sparks of unseen power seeped into them.
"The experiments continued into the fourteenth century," his grandfather went on. "And in time they discovered a truth: for the world's power to accept a mortal, a conduit was needed. At first, they followed the example of pagan tribes and blood cults, who offered sacrifices to their gods. So they turned to their dead. The fallen hunters who, even after death, wished to lend their bodies to the fight."
Azazel watched in horror as pale corpses were laid on stone altars, prayers spoken over them. Something unseen seeped from their bones into the initiates kneeling nearby. The results were faint—but real. Men rose stronger than before.
"Yes, they were stronger than ordinary humans and their lifespan increased.But it was not enough," the grandfather said darkly. "Not nearly enough. The leaders realized something: with each passing generation, with each initiation, the results grew stronger. The bond between man and the world deepened. And so they began to use not the corpses of ordinary hunters, but the remains of those already initiated. Their ashes carried far greater resonance."
The vision shifted again: funeral pyres blazing, the ashes collected reverently in urns, spread in circles during rituals. Young hunters kneeling in those circles trembled as invisible forces poured into them.
"It was crude, but effective," the old man admitted. "And more civilized than mutilating the bodies of the fallen. With time, the pattern became clear: the more cycles of initiation passed, the more the world's power could be drawn into the hunters. Each generation stronger than the last."
Azazel's breath caught.
"So… the strength that I felt from Isabella and Grandmaster—"
"—is not theirs alone," the old man finished, his gaze piercing. "It is the inheritance of centuries. The prayers of the dead. The ashes of hunters long gone. That is what initiation truly is."