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Draconis's nerves snapped tight the instant he materialized. Danger flooded his senses—pure, predatory instinct. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
His demonic wings sprang open, black feathers slicing the gloom. He lunged sideways, body blurring a meter across the floor.
A blade whistled past where his heart had just been.
"Huh?" A voice, surprised—almost amused.
The stench of blood slammed into him, raw and metallic, so strong that Draconis's enhanced senses recoiled. Night pressed against the windows, the room unlit, but darkness posed no obstacle to his eyes.
He scanned the scene—ordinary living room: sofa, coffee table, TV. But the normalcy ended there.
Blood pooled across the floor, chunks of flesh scattered like discarded meat. One lump looked disturbingly like a piece of liver.
On the wall, a woman's corpse hung nailed upside down—her body pinned to the plaster, head resting on the floor beneath. Nails the size of railroad spikes pierced her feet, her torso, her hands. Her flesh had been carved to ribbons, wounds gaping, innards spilling out.
Summoning circle remnants shimmered faintly beside her. She was the summoner, then—the one who'd called a devil.
Draconis's stomach twisted. No ordinary murder—this was cruelty, deliberate and obscene. What kind of hatred fueled this?
On the wall, words scrawled in blood:
"Evildoers shall receive punishment…"
Just reading the phrase sent a spike of pain through Draconis's skull. He gritted his teeth. Sacred scripture—designed to torment devils.
"That's a quote from the saints!!" crowed a voice from the shadows, wild and theatrical.
A young man stepped into view, seventeen or eighteen at most. White-haired, oddly handsome, but dressed in the black and white vestments of a priest.
He grinned, manic. "Well, well, look what the summoning circle dragged in—a little devil boy!"
His laughter was sharp, almost musical. "Ahaha—makes sense! Only a demon would pop out of that circle."
Draconis said nothing, but every instinct screamed threat. This human was dangerous.
The priest spun, breaking into a singsong chant:
"I'm a priest A dashing young priest Slaying demons That's my calling, cold and ruthless—chop off your heads, that's how I earn my bread!"
Madness, pure and unfiltered.
Draconis's voice was ice. "You killed her?"
"Yup! Absolutely! Who else? She kept summoning devils—who else was I supposed to kill?" His face twisted, all exaggerated glee.
"Name's Freed Sellzen. Low-rank exorcist, belong to some organization or other. No need to introduce yourself—I don't waste brainpower on dead men's names. You're about to die, so why bother?"
Hopeless. No reasoning with this one.
Draconis kept his expression blank, activating the peerage mark in his palm—alerting Rias and the others.
Freed snickered, catching the gesture. "Useless! Totally useless! I've got a barrier set up—by the time your friends find you, you'll be a corpse!"
Draconis's stare was flat. "A priest who tortures and mutilates humans—you disgust me. Death would be a mercy."
Freed's eyes lit up, mocking. "Oh? A demon preaching at me? How precious!"
He cackled, voice rising:
"Listen up, you piece of demon trash! You feed on human desire, right? Anyone who relies on a devil is already broken—beyond saving! I killed her for her own good! That's my job. I make a living hunting devils and the filth that clings to them!"
He whipped out a sword hilt—no blade, just a grip—and a pistol.
The hilt buzzed, crackling as a blade of pure light snapped into existence.
Freed's rant grew more fevered, words tumbling out in a mad rush. "Self-righteous devils make me sick! Can I cut you up now? Can I? Good! Demons are shit—just looking at you makes me want to puke!"
He lunged, light-sword slashing in a vicious arc.
Draconis reacted instantly, summoning the Regalia Blade. Metal met light with a ringing clash, the force rattling his bones.
A heartbeat later, a bullet streaked toward him, trailing golden light—holy power, concentrated and deadly. It halted midair, half a meter from Draconis, warping and dissolving as if smashed against an invisible wall.
A silver shield shimmered into being, orbiting Draconis protectively. The Divine Lament Shield—his Sacred Gear, acting on its own.
One exchange, and he'd already been forced to show his hand. Without the shield's automatic defense, that bullet would've found his heart.
Freed's grin widened. "Oh? You can block exorcist rounds? Damn—underestimated you!"
He attacked again, light-sword flashing. Human, but fast—unnaturally so.
But Draconis was boosted, his body thrumming with power from two knight pieces. He moved like lightning, striking back with a thrust aimed for Freed's brow.
Freed jerked aside, barely dodging. The Regalia Blade grazed his shoulder, drawing blood.
"OW! You bastard! How dare you wound me? I'll kill you for that!"
Freed's pain only made him wilder. He charged, swinging and firing in a frenzy.
Draconis blocked, sidestepped, the two of them darting and clashing across the ruined living room. Sword met light, shield deflected bullet—each collision threw up sparks, each movement shredded the furniture.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The room was reduced to splinters and dust.
A stray blow sliced the corpse on the wall into pieces. Freed, cackling, snatched up a mangled thigh and hurled it at Draconis.
Draconis shifted, caught the limb, and flung it back toward the wall. He swung the Divine Lament Shield, smashing the wall apart in a thunderous crash—burying the remains beneath rubble.
Freed's laughter was shrill and ugly. "Did I see that right? You can't bear to damage a corpse? What, got a thing for dead bodies? Disgusting! Demons really are trash!"
His handsome face twisted into something monstrous.
…
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