The power of demons and devils always carries great risk, not only due to the physical toll it can exact on those who wield it. Most bodies cannot endure such formidable power. But even more dangerous is the potential mental corruption, as the mighty forces of evil invariably carry with them a darkness that can erode the spirit. It's a poison that, if the mind cannot withstand, will transform the individual into a being driven purely by instinct, an embodiment of unadulterated malice.
Pain gnawed at every inch of Azazel's skin, blood seeping from his pores. He regretted his choice, thinking perhaps succumbing to the disease might have been the gentler option.
Each second felt like a year. He wished for death to come swiftly.
Then, from the depths of his consciousness, a slumbering presence awoke. Azazel knew who it was.
"Hey, looks like you bit off more than you can chew. Need some help?" Gideon's voice resonated in Azazel's mind.
It was as if a floodgate had burst open. The overwhelming power and its accompanying dark tendrils found an outlet, rushing into the depths of Azazel's soul.
Gideon absorbed them. Evil and power were nourishment to him.
"Now, that feels much better," Gideon remarked.
But Azazel's torment hadn't ended. Though distant from death's door, the touch of malevolence had left its mark upon him.
Blood spurted from every pore, spinning into threads, weaving a cocoon around him within the cramped space. The sanguine cocoon pulsed rhythmically, vibrant with life, thumping like a heartbeat.
This was the way of evolution for demons and devils, and Azazel was undergoing this metamorphosis in their manner.
He awaited the moment of emergence.
※※※
Though Sigil had no sun or moon, it experienced day and night.
Cold light floated in the sky, dimming to its nadir before gradually brightening again.
At night in Sigil, no stars dotted the sky, yet looking up, one could see countless lights akin to a starry firmament.
It was in such deep night that the blood cocoon began to unravel, the soft blood strands retreating like a reversing flow of time, eventually seeping back into Azazel's body.
Azazel stood abruptly from the bed, the force of which punched a hole through the roof of the shanty.
Though the dwelling was modest in height, this was an unexpected occurrence, aided by the new spiraled horn jutting backward from Azazel's forehead, reminiscent of an ornate knight's helmet.
The pain that had torn through his back had vanished, replaced by something else. Azazel attempted to command these new extensions.
With a whoosh, massive black wings unfurled behind him, bat-like with a clear skeletal frame and pointed tips.
His skin was soft and pale, his fingernails had grown into sharp, dagger-like talons, glinting menacingly.
He was a vessel for raw power.
Azazel thrust his hand into an ancient ironwood table, a piece that had stood unscathed for centuries, but now crumbled like rotten wood under his grip. It felt as effortless as plunging into soft tofu.
Clearly, his hands had become more than just adorned with longer nails.
Testing his newfound wings, he felt an almost buoyant sensation. Flight lessons would soon be in order.
And this body surely carried more than what met the eye—abilities yet to be discovered. Azazel nearly laughed aloud.
He had not died and, furthermore, had gained something extraordinary.
The only thing marring his satisfaction was an additional tail.
"Indeed, not bad at all. I feel revitalized," Gideon communicated to Azazel.
"Same here. Surviving death has a special thrill to it," Azazel said, savoring each breath of the murky air of Sigil, his tail arching in excitement.
"I think now's a good time to teach you a thing or two, lest you accidentally off yourself. Last time I exerted so much power, I nearly died myself—barely had the strength to speak. But things are different now."
"Great, but I need to leave now. If the Dustmen find out I'm alive, they might take action."
"So what? Blast that Black-Robed's head off."
"It's no use. I was only an illusion in the Black-Robed, likely some 'plane projection' spell. The leader Skarl isn't even in Sigil; he's not on this plane. His power is unimaginable, and he's lived so long. The head of the Dustmen may well be a lich."
"So what? What's a lich anyway?" Gideon asked nonchalantly.
"..."
Azazel didn't bother explaining what a lich was. He quickly gathered all his belongings and made for the Lower Ward. By the time he arrived, night had fully settled in.
The Lower Ward was a district devastated by tremendous power, rumored to be the site of a god who dared challenge the Lady of Pain's authority within Sigil, only to be taught a lesson. Their battle had laid waste to the entire area. Now, it was a place of broken and collapsed buildings, deemed unlucky by later generations, so only the "Godsmen", also known as the Believers of the Source, established their headquarters—the Shattered Temple there. Apart from them, few others ventured into the area.
On the other side of the Lower Ward lay the Great Foundry, a vast complex of warehouses and towering chimneys. Almost all of Sigil's ironworks flowed from there, from the smallest nail to the longest chain.
The tavern Azazel sought, The Charon's Oar, was nestled between the Shattered Temple and the Foundry.
The tavern's owners were two aged demons of the Abyss who shared one corpulent body. When Azazel entered, they paid him no mind, their left and right hands playing a game of chance for the last cup of dwarven ale.
"What can I get for you? We have everything here, though I should mention, only one cup of dwarven ale remains," said the server who came to take Azazel's order, her feline eyes glinting, small and beautiful wings unfurling from her smooth, sensual back, one adorned with a blue ribbon tied into a bow. Her voluptuous figure shuddered with every movement, her prodigious bust and shapely rear bouncing with each step. Of course, she had the hooves and horns of a goat. She was a succubus.
The tavern owners' hands finally settled their dispute, the last of the ale disappearing down the victor's throat.
"Ah, now we are out of dwarven ale. What would you like? If you're set on that particular brew, we also have human-made beer. It may lack the dwarves' pure malt flavor, but it's still quite good."
"Just a beer, please."
Azazel slumped onto a barstool, but the succubus lingered, caressing his folded wings, whispering into his ear, "Handsome, your wings are beautiful. Interested in something else? Maybe something exciting?"
"Like what?"
"We've got 'Agony', 'Lonely Lover', and 'Devilweed'. Tempting, isn't it?"
"But those are drugs." Azazel frowned.
"I know. What else did you think they were?"
"Thanks, but no. Just bring me the beer, and by the way, can you introduce me to 'Thrice-All-Three'?"
As he spoke, Azazel slipped a silver coin into the succubus's hand.
"Ouch! I like the pain, you naughty boy. Got time tomorrow morning? Your tail is rather sexy." Her hand slid down to caress Azazel's buttocks.
"Why not?" Azazel's arms wrapped around her waist, sliding down, "Now, could you tell me where 'Thrice-All-Three' is?"
"He's over there by the table, next to the Morningstar angel and the devil. See the old man with the big nose? That's him. If you have business with him, be prepared to present three different yet related things. Off you go, someone's calling me. Here's your beer, see you in the morning."
"See you in the morning, hey, you didn't tell me your name."
"Judy!" The succubus waved cheerfully as she departed.