For some reason today the stone beneath Azazel's boots was colder than he remembered. The catacombs stretched deep under the secret cellar of his grandfather's home, the air thick with the scent of dust, old incense, and stone that hadn't seen sunlight in centuries.
It was Wednesday. Tomorrow, he would smile in Basil's face and pretend he believed the lie. But tonight...
He held the flickering oil lamp in one hand and his grandfather's journal in the other. His eyes scanned the note on the margin of a crumbling page.
[Trial One — Fire. Let it test your will before your blade. Do not use the Codex.
Trust yourself first.]
He inhaled deeply.
"No blade… No Codex," he whispered.
[P.S. even if you use your blade it won't help you.]
Azazel sighed and rubbed a bottle with sacred demon oil in his inner pocket he prepared beforehand.
He followed the winding tunnels according to journals instructions for nearly ten minutes until the air began to warm. Subtly, then rapidly—like walking into a furnace. The temperature spiked with every step. Soon, sweat clung to his collarbone and temples.
A red glow began to flicker against the stone ahead. Azazel stepped into a large, circular chamber.
It wasn't built like the rest of the tunnels. It was an arena—charred and blackened stone, scorched sigils along the walls, and ash embedded deep into the floor. It reeked of sulfur.
A whisper brushed his ear.
Not wind.
A voice slithered from the shadows.
Not a voice made from words—but of crackling embers and creaking coal.
"Fly finds the flame."
From the center of the arena, fire rose like a tide.
"You are the one who Johann gathered us here for."
Azazel remained silent, his heart beating in a race with his thoughts.
Not a creature. Not even a shape. It was a living bonfire, spinning and crackling, its heart pulsing like a beating drum. And then, two eyes formed—slits of burning white, like molten glass peering through the blaze.
It floated toward him—fire without legs, without arms, but alive. Sentient.
"I haven't eaten anything for almost four month! Amuse me for a little, food!"
Azazel unhooked two vials from his belt. One glowed faintly blue. The other was filled with ashen white powder. Blessed salt, mixed with chalk and powdered iron — a concoction for suppressing fire demons. His grandfather had written about it.
"Fine," Azazel muttered, "Let's dance."
The demon struck first — a torrent of fire spewed toward him like a dragon's breath. Azazel rolled to the side, flung the blue vial mid-motion. It exploded in a cloud of holy steam, the humid fog halting the flames for a second. He coughed, eyes stinging, then ran forward.
The demon hissed.
It twisted toward him, spinning flames like tendrils.
Azazel threw a handful of the white powder — it didn't stop the creature, but it slowed it, flames sputtering where they touched the blessed ground.
"Pain is knowledge," the demon snarled, lashing toward him again.
Azazel was too slow, besides he was also holding a gas lamp.
A whip of flame struck his left arm. Heat exploded through skin and muscle. He screamed, dropped to a knee, vision swimming.
He dropped the gas lamp, which, barely reaching the ground, shattered, scattering with a paddle of fire.
His sleeve had burned away — beneath it, flesh boiled red, blistered, and angry.
But he clenched his teeth and stood.
"If I pass out now," he muttered something just to keep himself conscious.
The demon swirled again, preparing a final burst.
As it moved, the ground smoked beneath its steps.
Azazel reached into his inner pocket, a pouch — the last vial, filled with demon oil.
He timed it.
There wasn't a cork, but a paper plug.
Without hesitation he lit the plug of the bottle on the burning fire of oil lamp, or what was left of it, on the ground.
The creature surged forward.
He smashed the vial at his feet and kicked the flames upward into the demon's form.
The oil exploded with divine light. The fire shrieked, twisted in on itself—imploding like a dying star. Heat was pulled inward. The flames caved.
Azazel quickly the floating condensed dot of fire.
And silence fell.
What remained... hovered.
A small, glowing heart — barely pulsing, steady, like a candle's soul. It floated toward him, warm but no longer burning.
Sound still came out of it.
"Stop..."
Voice was weak. Small flames were spat out of it. Demon tried to regenerate
Azazel reached out. Despite the burn, he took it in both hands.
The warmth was no longer pain. It was power. Proof.
He breathed heavily. Sweat poured down his face. He staggered back toward the main chamber, clutching the heart and his throbbing arm.
As he wrapped a fresh cloth over the burn—a mark that would stay forever—he stared at the Codex.
"I hope that impressed you, old man."
No reply.
Then Azazel put the heart into a small specially prepared reservoire It looked like a gas lamp, but without any gas in it.
"Let me out..!" muffled pleas accompanied him along the way.
Later, in the Codex chamber, he placed the heart of pure fire upon the Seal of Solomon on hardcover of Codex.
The Codex pulsed.
It accepted the heart without resistance. Power passed through him like a rush of wind and fire combined.
Azazel said nothing.
He sat against the wall and wrapped his hand in linen, carefully avoiding the open blisters. It would scar.
More importantly he had three questions that he could ask the Codex.
But, now he had to prepare, to gather all the necessities.
He looked at an old leather suitcase placed.
It had a password lock with Greek numbers.
Looks like Azazel knows what's going to be his first question he'll ask Grandpa.