Azazel had been suffering from persistent headaches lately, ones that stirred a sense of unrest within him. This unrest wasn't due to the bewitching naked woman lying before him. What truly troubled him was a dream he kept having.
In the dream, Azazel would always find himself in an ink wash landscape, where he invariably encountered a figure who asked nonsensical questions and spoke in riddles. This dreamscape had been haunting him since the age of three and, as he aged, invaded his nights with increasing frequency. The most vexing part was upon awakening; the figure's features were a blur, and the words spoken evanesced from Azazel's memory.
Was this a dream carried over from his homeland, especially since such ink wash landscapes didn't exist in this world?
Sixteen years had passed since his birth into this realm. The bustling streets, towering buildings, jeans, fried rice, and martial arts tales of his previous life had gradually faded from his heart. So why had this dream started to emerge more frequently after all this time?
What was that voice trying to convey?
Was it merely because he couldn't forget the enchanting land of the Divine, as beautiful as an ink-painted scenery?
His father's sudden foot stomp, a loud "thud," yanked Azazel from his reverie—an agreed-upon signal that it was time.
Azazel promptly gathered his wits, ceasing his daydreams, and set to work.
While he worked, the beautiful naked woman in front of him watched Azazel with pleading, fearful, and seductive eyes, striving to disrupt his concentration by any means. To no avail.
Azazel was diligent in his endeavors, forcing himself to focus solely on the task at hand, blocking out all else. And so, his work was swiftly completed.
He handed over the needed item to his father.
Without turning, his father took the still-beating heart that Azazel had just extracted from the woman on the altar—so swiftly removed that it throbbed with life.
Throughout, his father's chanting never ceased, a far cry from the sanctified hymns sung within the churches. The words that fell from his lips were an ancient and lost language, murmured as if by ghastly spirits, filled with dark and forbidden incantations.
Beneath his father's feet lay an intricate magic circle, drawn with the blood of a six-month-old black goat. Beyond it stood a humble altar where a young and beautiful girl had lain, the former owner of the pulsating heart.
His father believed that an evil ritual as described in ancient tomes—utilizing a magic circle, goat's blood, and the heart of a pure and beautiful maiden—could summon a powerful demon capable of feats from destroying nations to granting eternal life or an endless bounty of gold. All it would take is a good lawyer to make a deal with such a demon.
The chant ended, the heart was crushed, and blood splattered, painting the magic circle with a horrific red.
Silence fell upon the room. Was that all to the ritual?
No, it was never that simple.
Suddenly, a chill spread through Azazel, the room growing cold as the fireplace dwindled to a mere flicker and candles snuffed out in an instant. Darkness engulfed them. He thought he heard a wind howling in his ear, impossible as the room was sealed shut and warded against such elements with both magic and divine protections.
His father stepped back, placing himself in front of Azazel, whose shaking hands betrayed a mix of exhilaration and fear. The summoning had worked.
A burst of red light illuminated the dim room, and the goat's blood erupted, tracing a complex path and altering the shape of the magic circle, which now emitted ominous sounds—whispers, weeping, then hysterical screams. It morphed into a pattern of six-pointed stars and demonic runes, as the floorboards rapidly decayed beneath it.
Azazel was tense; they were on the second floor of an inn, and his father had gone to great lengths to prevent discovery. The magic and divine seals should have been enough to muffle even a heavy metal concert from the floor below, yet now, a gaping hole appeared. He peered into the hole, expecting to see the innkeeper's rage, but there was only darkness. No one knew where it led.
Even his father looked bewildered as a demon with colossal fangs emerged from within. The floor restored itself as the hole vanished.
The demon crouched within the circle, confined by necessity, for standing would mean its horns would pierce the ceiling.
As the demon appeared, it swung its massive blood-red swords, aiming at them in a chilling arc.
The swords were so vast that they dwarfed the inn's front door, with a large eye embedded in the hilt, fixated on Azazel with unadulterated malice and savagery. Even an armored knight would stand no chance against such an attack, perhaps only the giants of legend.
Azazel felt akin to looking up at an inbound atomic bomb. Both emotion and logic led him to one conclusion: this was the end.
In desperation, his father uttered a noble word that shone like golden sunlight into the depths of hell. Though Azazel had never heard such language, he knew it to be divine. The room filled with golden radiance and sanctity, freezing the demon mid-swing.
His father exhaled in relief and approached.
"Hey! Who's there? Who summoned me? The one lying down? Oh, you've already dispatched her. Sorry about that, you see, I reckon it was that evil fellow who summoned me here. Wasn't my choice, really. Could you let me go? I'll head straight back," the demon spoke first.
His father coughed, irritation veiled behind composure, "The evil one who summoned you is me."
"Oh? Is that so? Cursed seven layers of hell... I'm not in the mood for jokes, and that wasn't funny at all. Yes, I did attack you, but it was mere habit—like how you humans... um... greet each other. That's our way of saying hello. So, noble and kind priest, forgive me. I assure you, I'll return to hell at once."
The demon's plea was clear, but his father's patience wore thin. Yet he understood the importance of the demon, painstakingly summoned, and with restraint, he said, "Demon, I have summoned you! State your name!"
"That's impossible!" the demon exclaimed dramatically. "A priest with such divine power wouldn't do this! But isn't that the wonder of the universe? To hell with the rules."
Enraged, his father roared, "My powers are none of your concern! I demand your name once more, demon!"
The light imprisoning the demon flared, eliciting a wail of agony.
"Ah!! Pain! You bastard! What have you done? Stop it, we can talk this out!"
"Answer my question if you wish to avoid suffering."
"I'm Burd! My name is Burd!"
"And why did you claim the woman lying there summoned you?" His father's inquiry was punctuated with a wave of his hand, replacing the room-filling light with a cage of luminescence, trapping the demon within.