Chapter 5: Awakening
[Present Time]
As Azazel reached out toward the shadowed, imposing figure, his hand passed through it like mist. But the moment his fingers touched the shadow, the mist began to merge with his being, piercing his soul and spreading across his body. In that instant—less than a fraction of a second—his body began to transform.
His bones shattered and reformed repeatedly, breaking apart and knitting back together in an endless loop. His flesh ripped itself apart, only to rebuild again and again. Amid this torment, something began to grow from his back internally—a long, sharp limb, crimson in color. All of this occurred within mere moments, as Actaeon's blade continued its descent toward Azazel's neck.
Suddenly, the reconstruction stopped. The agonizing cycle ended, replaced by a surge of energy building within him. Adrenaline shot through Azazel's veins as his eyes snapped open. Seeing the blade mere inches from his face, he lunged upward in a blur of motion, deflecting the weapon with his hidden dagger.
Actaeon reacted just as quickly, stabilizing his blade and swinging it downward toward Azazel's neck. But Azazel's strength had waned—drained by blood loss and the pain of his transformation. His body refused to move. Realizing this was the end, he closed his eyes, resigned. Even with the power he had been given, it seemed useless—nothing more than a fleeting extension of his life.
As his vision faded, Actaeon's mocking voice reached his ears.
"Even when prey fights to its last breath, it is always hunted and killed."
Desperation consumed Azazel as his mind raced for a way out. Then, he felt a strange pulsing from his back. Surprised, he allowed a faint smirk to grace his lips before collapsing.
The falling blade struck his back, but instead of ending his life, a sharp crimson limb erupted from him, shattering the sword. Actaeon froze, stunned, unable to react before the limb pierced through his neck. In the blink of an eye, he crumpled to the ground, lifeless. His body hit the rain-soaked alley with a resounding thud.
The crimson limb retracted into Azazel's body, leaving silence in its wake. The rain mingled with blood, forming a crimson pool that painted the narrow alley in shades of red.
Outside the alley, the clatter of carriage wheels echoed. A luxurious carriage rolled to a stop. Two men emerged, both cloaked in the air of nobility. One walked ahead, commanding in his presence, while the other followed, holding an umbrella to shield the other from the rain.
The leading man surveyed the scene, his voice cutting through the stillness.
"Gunther, dispose of the bodies. They'll attract vermin if left."
"Yes, master," Gunther replied, his tone unwavering. He approached the bodies, bending down to lift one. As his hand brushed Azazel, he froze.
"Master, this one clings to life. What shall we do?"
The man, silent for a moment, spoke again, his tone cold and calculating.
"He's at the first-circle stage. It would be a waste to let him die. Gunther, he's yours. Shape him into something useful."
Bowing deeply, Gunther replied without hesitation.
"As you command, Master Silvers."