The training grounds beneath the autumn city echoed with the rhythm of steel on steel, breathless grunts, and barked commands. Dust danced in the slivers of light coming from the gas lamps. Within the training area of coliseum, three young demon hunters clashed daily—two seasoned disciples of the old generation… and one anomaly.
Only a month had passed since his arrival. A month since he stepped into the underground world of hunters. But now, his name was whispered with both curiosity and disbelief.
Hypathia, swift and sharp as a drawn blade, fought with the precision of a seasoned dancer. Ino, relentless and durable, could grind his opponent down like a tide over stone.
But Azazel?
Azazel struck like a storm.
No flourishes. No wasted movement. Every step was intent. Every blow delivered with the clear goal of ending the fight in under ten minutes.
"Total domination," Hypathia muttered once, bruised and panting on the bench as she watched Azazel knock Ino off his stance for the third time that week. "That's what I'd call his style."
And indeed, that was the only way to describe it.
Azazel trained like a man possessed. While others rested after sparring, he returned to the Codex, opening its pages and drawing upon its power. Every night, he strained against the limits of the borrowed energy, timing himself. Thirty percent… for forty-three seconds. That was his best so far.
Not a second more. Not without risking collapse.
And yet… that brief window was enough.
Each day, he learned to move faster, punch harder, react quicker. He conditioned his body with absurd weights, shadowboxed with phantom echoes of demon strikes recalled from the Codex's visions. His spiritual resistance grew in tandem with his strength.
This reminded him of old days when his grandpa would complain that he's getting tired too fast.
Now there was no one to say that.
Even Basil, leaning against the stone railing of the upper terrace, narrowed his eyes in concern.
"He's catching up," Margarita said one day, watching as Azazel and Hypathia traded strikes. "Give him another two or three weeks, and he'll be our student's equal. Where the hell did you find him? I was sure that Ino was your only student for the past like... PAST LIFETIME?!"
Basil didn't answer right away. His eyes followed the boy—his footwork, his timing, the barely visible glow of Codex power behind every dodge and feint.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Indeed," he murmured. "But that's what worries me."
Margarita raised an eyebrow.
Down below, Azazel drove his fist into the training dummy, shattering the reinforced wood at its core.
He stood in the dust, chest heaving, eyes calm.
Ino sat on the edge of the arena, watching him. Even he had stopped mocking the newcomer. Now, there was only quiet acknowledgment… and something else. Unease.
They all saw it.
Azazel was becoming something more than a hunter.
Something no one expected.
A monster among disciples.