Michael was watching him struggle in the dark.
Sitting in a surveillance room, feet up, cigar in hand, eyes on the old flickering screens.
"He found the sealing paper, huh? Let's see if he figures it out… or dies trying."
A mocking grin curled his lips as smoke drifted lazily in the air.
Red was still down there, turning the paper over in his hands like it was some kind of damn puzzle piece.
Most newbies never even got to see a sealing up close.
If a devil's weak enough, Hunters will do it fast.
If it's too much, they call in the Silver Cleaners — those freaks who can seal a Reaper-class solo.
But cleaners like Red?
They mop the blood. Pick up the dead meat. That's it.
Action? Real action?
Rare.
But Red remembered things from tagging along with Hunters back in America and England. Scraps of knowledge.
He pieced together what he could:
1. You slap the paper on the devil. No shock there.
2. Then you say something… or do something.
Some cleaners chanted.
Others do a dance or a small sacrifice.
It wasn't about what the devil did.
It was about what you made it do.
3. And then the seal reacts.
Chains. Implosion. Encasement.
Depends on the paper.
Depends on the user.
No guidebook. Just pain and improvisation.
That's all Red had.
And now, it was time to move.
His steps were slow. Careful. He followed the blood trail creeping through the dark, every inch leading him closer to the devil's shadow.
The distance wasn't far.
Every time the overhead light flickered, the silhouette appeared — huge, hunched, breathing wrong.
Red's boot squelched into something wet.
He froze.
Devil blood.
That was a rookie's mistake.
They drilled it into him back in training: Don't touch devil blood. Not with bare skin. Not with your soul exposed.
Devil blood wasn't fuel. It wasn't simple. It was their life, their soul, their rage.
And here he was, stepping in it like an idiot, no special gear, no shield. Just raw nerves.
Red cursed himself silently.
But it was too late.
The devil noticed.
It growled, voice muffled through a cracked, bone-like mask.
Trying to speak — failing — rage building.
Red didn't hesitate.
He couldn't.
The devil caught the scent of his blood.
It moved, closing the distance with sharp, limping steps.
Red's mind raced.
He circled behind it, sealing paper in hand, hunting for a blind spot.
One shot. That's all I get.
The devil's body was massive, but it bled heavily from its side and mouth — wounded but still dangerous.
Its body swayed, but its reflexes were fast.
Red's hand raised not fearing death anymore.
He lunged, aiming for the devil's back — but sealing wasn't simple.
He had no chant. No ritual.
The only thing he understood was blood.
That's what his life had been—cleaning it, drowning in it.
His eyes locked onto the devil's side—where sharp, black side-arches extended like hidden blades, balancing its massive frame.
He aimed for the left one.
With a mad grip, he yanked it, forcing more blood to spill.
Then, without a word, he slammed the sealing paper into the wound, pressing his bloodied hand against it.
No chants.
No gestures.
Just blood.
His blood. The devil's blood.
The sealing paper shuddered.
Michael's grin faded as he watched from the surveillance room.
"What the hell is he doing?" the man beside him muttered.
"That's not how sealing works. He's sacrificing himself to the devil. That paper's going to backfire and take him with it. We need to pull him out now."
Michael didn't flinch.
He took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling slowly.
"Hold your horses, cowboy. If it goes south, I'll finish the job myself. Don't forget who you're talking to."
He leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
"It's Devil's Hour. If something breaks loose, we'll deal with it.
But that kid… I think he has a plan.
Or at least, I hope he does.
Blade's going to need a partner sooner or later, and cleaners don't grow on trees."