Panic clawed at the edge of his mind.
He turned sharply toward his grandfather's journal. He had flipped through it before—stories, reflections, training notes—but now he flipped with purpose. Looking for an answer.
For something. Anything.
A technique. A ritual. A spell.
But all he found were vague entries.
"To see the unseen, you must first blind yourself to the obvious."
"Divination is a path of risk—it opens the door, but does not always close it."
"One who seeks answers must be willing to lose more than ignorance."
There was a small note glued 'if you want to do a divination look for more details in "Yijing".
Azazel closed the book with a frustrated exhale. It was like reading poetry while drowning.
But now he has some straw to grab.
The night was unnaturally quiet.
Azazel sat hunched over a heavy volume, the Classic of Changes, his eyes bloodshot and stubborn. His palms were stained with candle soot, ink smudged across his knuckles where he had been scribbling hexagrams and fragmented interpretations.
He hadn't moved in hours.
The stone chamber below his old house remained dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of the Codex pulsing on its pedestal — always waiting, always watching.
The book hadn't offered him a clear path. Not this time.
Divination wasn't like training. He couldn't grit his teeth and will it into place. No, it demanded stillness — precision of mind, not strength of muscle. And patience. Gods, how he hated that part.
He flipped another page, scanning the cryptic passages:
"Only with a calm heart and worthy instrument can one glimpse into the unseen."
"Let mirror and mind reflect the truth — but beware what gazes back."
That line had made him pause earlier.
"Place two bronze mirrors…"
Now, his mind was clear. His focus sharpened. The Codex, he decided, would be his medium — his anchor. If there was any artifact capable of guiding him through something this ancient, it was that.
Azazel took a deep breath, placed the Codex on the floor, and angled two old bronze hand mirror before it. He arranged three candles — one to represent life, one death, and the third himself.
The flames flickered strangely the moment he finished his setup.
Azazel closed his eyes. His fingers hovered over the Codex.
"Show me," he whispered, "where the ashes of Johann Weyer rest."
He waited.
Nothing.
Then a rush — air sucked from the room, the flames flared violet, and the mirrors went dark.
Images poured in like smoke:
A creaking stair. Wooden planks groaning under weight.
A low attic, dusty and cluttered.
A large, dark suitcase.
As the image zoomed closer, a hand reached out — not his. Pale fingers curled around the handle.
Then the mirrors cracked.
Azazel recoiled.
The candles snuffed themselves out. His chest was tight, his palms sweaty. For some reason he felt very sleepy.
But he had seen it.
The attic of Basil's house. The urn. Hidden. Locked away.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight. "So it's true…"
Still reeling, he turned to the Codex. He placed his hand on the cover, letting it recognize him. The glyphs along its edges flared faintly.
He muttered under his breath:
"Not for glory nor golden crown
We rise where light and faith break down.
Steel in hand. Fire in soul.
We strike where angels fear to go.
No heaven guides me. No hell can bind.
Not for mercy. Not for might.
We ask no thanks. We leave no name.
Our legacy: eternal flame.
One creed we hold, from then to now—
To hunt the dark. This is our vow."
It opened without a word — and without a question this time, the page turned itself.
This time he didn't appear in the world of Codex.
The familiar voice of his grandfather greeted him from the page.
"You've improved. That mirror trick? Very clever. Didn't think you'd dig into the Classic of Changes this soon. Truly worthy of my grandson."
Azazel smiled faintly, sitting down cross-legged.
"But you didn't come here for compliments, did you?"
"No," Azazel muttered. "I found where Basil keeps your ashes."
"...And? I left it to him… Asked to protect before he gives it to you."
"He only plans to give them to me after they return. In almost half a year."
Silence.
"Well then," the voice finally sighed, "you'll have more time to train and learn."
Azazel shook his head. "That's not the point. Vatican's holding another initiation ritual. Same kind as when you were young. Paris is the evaluation site. It starts in a month."
Grandpa didn't act surprised.
"He's been hiding it."
The Codex's pages trembled.
"Old arrogant fool." There was weight in the words now, not just disappointment. "He thinks he's protecting you. Or maybe... maybe he just wants to push his own disciple further. More chance for him to shine alone."
Azazel's eyes narrowed.
"I'm not going to let someone else decide what I deserve," he said softly.
"Good," the voice of Johann Weyer whispered, pride creeping in again. "Then you know what you have to do."
Azazel rose.