The air, which hours earlier had been choked with the scent of blood, ozone and metal, was now cleared by the gentle, cold breeze of dawn.
Jay slowly opened his eyes.
The first light of morning, diffused and pale, embraced his face, a cold caress against his skin. He lay on the blood-soaked earth, the devastation around him muted by the grey light.
A profound, solemn silence had settled over the courtyard, an unbearable quiet that followed the screams and the magical annihilation. The silence was the sound of a world that had ended.
Jay felt a shudder run through his exhausted body, and then, the dam of his hollow heart finally broke. A tear, hot and heavy, tracked a path down his soot-stained cheek, quickly followed by another.
He wept without sound, his face contorted in a silent, desperate grief that was far more painful than the theatrical wails of fear or sorrow. He wept for his mother figure, for his siblings, for the life stolen from them, and for the purity of the world that had been proven a lie.
He wept for minutes, the tears mixing with the dry earth beneath him, until the wellspring of grief was utterly dry. His tears stopped, leaving behind only the cold, abrasive tracks on his skin, mirroring the transformation in his soul. When his eyes finally opened again, they were the same hazel, but they held no sorrow, no confusion, and no fear. They were empty, hollowed out and replaced by a cold, unwavering resolution.
Jay sat up slowly, the effort taxing his drained body. The remnants of the black flame had vanished, leaving him merely a boy of thirteen, clad in torn, blood-stained clothes, surrounded by the wreckage of his life.
His gaze passed over the courtyard, cataloging the horror without flinching. His family, brutally impaled by the devil's shadows, lay frozen in their final, protective positions. There was no one left to mourn them but him.
He began the grim task of collecting the dead. He moved with the slow, meticulous focus mechanism, handling each with careful reverence. As he gathered them, the numbness of his grief allowed the memories to surface, not as painful daggers, but as quiet final tributes.
He started with Filip, the quietest boy, whose small body had been pressed against the wall. Filip had never asked for much, always sitting by the window in the evening light, reading the tattered children's books Sister Andrea found. Jay remembered the sheer, silent happiness in Filip's eyes one winter morning when Jay carved him a perfect wooden toy, a joy so pure it felt like a stolen treasure.
Next, he carefully disengaged the intertwined forms of Iacob and Ilie. The twins were never apart, not even in death. Jay remembered their unlimited energy, the way they constantly conspired to steal extra portions of potatoes, and the intricate, impossible stories they would weave in the yard. Their most memorable trait was the shared, echoing laugh they had, a sound so identical it was impossible to tell who started it, a laugh that simply meant mischief and life. Now, it replaced by the silence of a lamb.
He moved to Mihea, Elena's small shadow, impaled with her hand outstretched toward the pendant Jay still held. Mihea was shy and frail, often hiding behind Elena or Jay's legs. Her most distinct memory was the way she'd offer him half of her single sweet orange on Christmas, watching his face with wide, hopeful eyes, unable to speak a full sentence but communicating everything through that tiny, profound act of giving.
He found Elena next, the fiercest of them all, whose last act had been shielding Mihea with her own body. Elena had been the pragmatic, weary big sister, constantly worrying over the supply pantry. Jay remembered when he was five, the single night he had a high fever. Elena, barely two years older than him, sat beside him all night, constantly wiping his forehead with a damp cloth, her usual scowl replaced by a tenderness that was raw and deeply maternal. It was a love that asked for nothing and gave everything.
Finally, he approached Sister Andrea. Her body lay where she had collapsed, the crimson stain now dry. He gently lifted her, resting her head against his shoulder. He remembered the soft, calloused hand that would often rest on his head during prayers. It was a simple gesture of inclusion, of unconditional love and compassion. He remembered her scent, woodsmoke, cheap incense, and old linen. Sister Andrea was the warmth that defined his entire existence. As he cradled her, the absolute, crushing emptiness of her absence settled into the marrow of his bones.
There were no tools for burial, only the rubble of the chapel. Jay began the arduous task of digging shallow graves in the soft, disturbed earth of the courtyard, using broken slate and his bare hands. It was a cold, brutal effort of physical exhaustion.
He laid them to rest, one by one. There was no prayer, no ceremonial word whispered over the graves. The silence was absolute, as cold and hollow as his heart and eyes. He covered them with dirt and stone, creating seven rough mounds. They've always be sleeping together since they're babies, when they are kids, and until their ultimately early demise.
This is a silent testimonies to the oppression of the weak.
When the work was done, he slumped back, his strength completely gone. His gaze fell upon the Chromed Pendant still clutched tightly in his hand.
Sister Andrea's final gift.
He used his thumb to pry open the pendant's cover, revealing an old, faded photograph. It was a picture of two blonde girls of significantly different age. One a teenager, almost an adult, in a rough nun's habit, the other a little girl, maybe around six seven years old, wearing a faded purple robe. They were both smiling in front of a distinctly structured, old European-style library.
Below the photo, four initials were scratched into the metal casing: A. A. L. R.
And then, Jay saw the specific date, lightly engraved beside the initials, January 23rd, 1996. He recalled Sister Andrea's strained, final message.
The name of a place called the Emerald City, which he now realized was a code or a name associated with the place. He closed the pendant, the smooth metal cool against his raw palm.
The immediate, scorching fury that had fueled the True Cross of Golgotha faded, replaced by something colder, pure unwavering hatred.
He thought of the devil Berjequel, of the casual cruelty, and of the words spoken by Vali, words that implied this world was crawling with powerful, supernatural beings. The devils, angels, fallen angels, and possibly gods, all of whom treated humanity as mere pawns, cattle to be oppressed, sacrificed, or consumed.
Vali, the scion of the Devil King, had felt entitled to their sanctuary. Berjequel had felt entitled to their lives.
This was not a mistake. This was the natural order of the supernatural world.
"They are all the same. Every single one of them."
The hollowness of revenge solidified into a cold, relentless hatred. It wasn't just Berjequel he needed to exterminate. It was the entire system that permitted the deaths of Filip, Mihea, Iacob, Ilea, Elena and Sister Andrea.
Jay made his conviction, firm and simple.
Kill every single one of them.
The devils who reveled in cruelty, the gods who abandoned their people, the angels whose silence was deafening, and the fallen who peddled in chaos. There was no righteousness in his mind, no moral purity, only cold hatred and calculated vengeance.
He was not powerless now. The ancient, unmoving, and judging black flame that had burned in his heart was the weapon for that purpose.
To achieve his goal, he needed two things. Strength so overwhelming that even Lucifer would not dare stand in his way, and knowledge about the supernatural world he had been plunged into. Vali's words suggested humanity was the weakest faction in the supernatural world, or creature you could say as there is no single humanity faction to begin with.
He needed to be smarter and move in the shadows. And for that, learning magic was necessary.
But before all of the, he would need to go somewhere.
Sister Andrea's last message.
He looked at the pendant. The library. Verona, Italy. The Emerald City. She had a friend there she said.
That was going to be his starting point.
He picked up the Holy Sword that Sister Andrea had used in her defense. A beautiful platinum blade. He carefully wrapped it in a piece of black tablecloth from the kitchen, securing it to his back. He gathered a few remaining supplies, a canteen, a scrap of bread, and the money Sister Andrea had saved behind the cross in the chapel.
He took one last, long gaze at the destroyed orphanage building, one last trip to the memory lane. The good and the bad.
A serene smile filled his face.
" See you later, guys. "
Then, Jay turned his back on the ruins and walked away, not looking back, heading east towards Italy.
***
Vali Lucifer's consciousness surfaced slowly, accompanied by a crushing headache and the dull ache of energy depletion. He opened his eyes to a foreign ceiling, one made of smooth, dark stone, crisscrossed with arcane carvings rather than cheap plaster.
He was lying on a plush, velvet-covered bench in a room that smelled faintly of parchment and ozone, a stark contrast to the familiar woodsmoke and stale bread of the orphanage.
A jolt of panic shot through him. He sat up abruptly, his demonic energy signature flaring weakly.
"Where… where am I?"
Then, the memories flooded back, the Scale Mail collapsing, Berjequel's betrayal of his words, his triumphant bite, and the shadow impalement that cut the screams short. The sight of the children, his family, pinned like macabre specimens, slammed into him with the force of a wrecking ball.
Vali's hands flew to his face, his body convulsing in silent agony. He blamed himself entirely. He had the power of the White Dragon Emperor, the Sacred Gear that could divide and conquer, and yet, he had failed. He yielded, and they died anyway. He yielded, and Berjequel had laughed at his weakness.
He wept, a ragged, choked sound of pure self-loathing and grief, the tears of a devil prince who had failed to protect the only humanity he had ever cherished.
The door to the room slid open silently. A tall, golden-streaked figure stood framed in the doorway, observing the weeping boy with an unnervingly neutral expression.
"A descendant of Lucifer crying like that. Now that's a rare sight," the man commented, his voice deep and analytical, yet not entirely devoid of a dry curiosity. "Compassion is the furthest attribute from a Lucifer, usually."
Vali snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot, instantly on guard. "Who are you? Where is this place?" he demanded, trying to summon the depleted energy of the Divine Dividing.
"Relax, Vali Lucifer. You are currently within the headquarters of Grigori, the Fallen Angel faction," the man said, a slight, weary smile touching his lips. He stepped into the light. "I am Azazel, and I'm the one who pulled your unconscious body out of a rather messy pile of rubble in Romania."
Vali narrowed his eyes, caution overriding fear. "You rescued me? Why?"
Azazel sighed, gesturing vaguely.
"Your Sacred Gear, i sense the Divine Dividing during my visit to Romania. Let's just say that i like collecting things of unique power. And honestly, your bloodline makes you a high-value asset too. "
Vali clenched his fists, the name Berjequel burning on his tongue. Azazel, sensing the shift, adopted a more professional demeanor.
"Speaking of the devil… I found a lot of death there. A High-Class Devil was definitely present. Can you tell me what happened to him? And the children?" Azazel asked, his golden eye fixed on Vali.
Vali instinctively refused to mention Berjequel, the failure too bitter to share. He simply refused to answer, looking away.
His gaze darted around the room, desperately searching for a face, a familiar form, anyone who might have survived. His mind locked onto the smallest boy, the one who held the largest grief.
"Wait," Vali whispered, his voice cracking. "There was a boy. He was my age, maybe a little younger, black hair. Did you… did you see him? Did you save him?"
Azazel paused, his expression shifting from detached strategist to something more complex—pity mixed with clinical certainty.
"The boy with the black hair? Yes, I saw him. He was lying among the other human bodies," Azazel confirmed softly. "I checked him for vital signs before I left. He was dead, Vali. His heart had stopped. They were all dead."
The simple, professional diagnosis ' he was dead ' was more shattering than the sight of the impalement. Vali had held onto a thread of desperate hope that Jay, his dearest friend had survived.
The final wall Vali had built around his grief collapsed. He lowered his head, his hands pulling at his own hair, the tears streaming down his face once more, thicker and hotter this time. He was completely alone.
Azazel watched the raw, painful breakdown of the Lucifer heir. He was a devil weeping, not over lost power, but over dead human friends.
"A strange specimen, indeed," Azazel mused. Deciding not to disturb the profound sorrow, Azazel nodded once, his demeanor softening slightly. "I'll leave you to rest. You'll need time to recover. Meet me in another room if you have cleared your mind."
Azazel turned and left the room, leaving the young old-devil crown prince alone with his overwhelming guilt and sorrow.
Vali wept once more, his tears falling in silence.