Chapter 1: A Roach Nothing More 

A rough, ragged breath cut through the steady drumming of rainfall in the dim alleyway. Trash and filth littered the narrow path, the only visible silhouette was a shrouded figure leaning heavily against the damp wall. The water flowing through the gutter mixed with a pure crimson hue, creating a macabre stream. 

"Did you really believe that a cockroach like you had the ability to escape a true hunter?" The voice rang out, sharp and scornful, from a figure perched atop the rooftop, silhouetted against the stormy sky. 

The shadowed figure in the alley—his only distinct feature a deep red scar running down his chest—lifted his head weakly. His voice rasped out, broken and faint. 

"...I... sho... have... cough known the...y would sen.d their dog aft...er me." 

The man on the rooftop sneered, leaping down with predatory grace. "You dare call the great Actaeon a dog?" He spat, landing before his prey like a ravenous beast. "While you—Azazel, the so-called 'prodigy' of the Order—lie crippled in the dirt, unable to even complete a simple mission!" 

Actaeon's contempt dripped from every word. "Look at you now—pathetic. A roach, squirming in its last moments. Who knew the supposed child of hope that was said to be able to lead the Order to a new age would amount to nothing more than a cripple?" 

Azazel's chest heaved as his mind raced, even through the haze of pain. He couldn't have guessed that the Order, the same Order that had taken in an orphan like him and given him a name, would one day deem him expendable. The elders' intent was clear: a mission that should have been impossible, a situation designed to eliminate the "useless" without raising questions. 

He wasn't worth the risk. 

The thought burned hotter than the wound in his chest. The realization that survival was wishful thinking gripped him as Actaeon stepped closer, his sneer widening. 

"I believe a roach like you has wasted enough of the Order's time," Actaeon hissed. "And as the compassionate hunter I am, I'll put you out of your misery." 

With a metallic click, a blade no larger than a knife extended from the device on Actaeon's wrist. The hidden blade, the mark of the Order's assassins, glinted in the dim light. Every member bore one, from the lowliest recruits to the elders themselves. 

"DIE!" 

The cry echoed through the desolate alley as Actaeon lunged. Azazel's body, broken and bloodied, could do nothing but watch as the blade descended toward his neck. 

Time seemed to slow. 

In that fleeting moment, a thousand thoughts crashed through Azazel's mind: 

Why... Why me? All I wanted was to live, to be free. Is that so wrong? 

This world isn't wrong... I'm the one who's wrong—for being weak. For being cursed as a cripple. 

What about my teammates? They deserve vengeance... No. They were weak, too. That's why they died. I'm the only one left. 

If only I wasn't weak... I would rise above this worthless dog. Above all of them. Above the Order itself. 

The blade loomed closer, each heartbeat pounding like a drum in Azazel's ears. But then... 

The world froze. 

The rain stopped mid-air. Actaeon's sneering face was frozen in time, his blade mere inches from its mark. Everything was silent—except for the faint sound of laughter. 

Azazel's gaze shifted upward. A black figure materialized in the void, cloaked in shadows so thick they seemed to swallow the light. Blood-red eyes, the same shade as the liquid pooling around Azazel, glowed ominously. 

The figure chuckled, its voice a twisted melody of mockery and intrigue. "What a pitiful existence," it said, its tone laced with disdain. "And an even worse talent for magic. Not even better than a weed." 

It stepped closer, its presence overwhelming and suffocating. "But you... You're fascinating." The figure tilted its head as if analyzing a specimen. "To think, a mortal who can house demonic energy without a contract. How unexpected." 

Azazel's breath hitched as the figure loomed over him. 

"If you want any chance of walking out of this alley alive," it said, its voice a tantalizing whisper, "if you wish to shatter the chains of this pitiful existence and seize power beyond the dreams of your Order..." 

The red eyes blazed with intensity. 

"...then make a contract with me. And all of this—strength, freedom, vengeance—shall become your reality." 

Azazel stared into those crimson daggers of eyes, his mind a whirlwind of doubt, rage, and desperation. 

With only one real option Azazel decided to reach out his hand.