The moment Red's foot touched the devil's blood, something inside him changed.
He always followed the rules.
Don't touch that.
Don't break protocol.
Always do what you're told.
Like a dog. Like a slave.
And look where it got him — from his home country to England, then dumped in this hellhole run by monsters like Michael.
"If I just told them no… I don't want to be a Cleaner. Erase my damn memory of the thing I saw…"
Too late now.
The devil was going to kill him. He could feel it.
But his mind wouldn't let him give up.
Not anymore.
There was no going back now.
And truth was — even the "normal" world wasn't different from this.
In Valheim, if you were born without blood, you were dirt.
Even outside Valheim?
It was still about blood.
If you were the son of a criminal — they hated you.
If you were the son of a king — they bowed.
That was the harsh truth.
Red always knew the system was broken, long before he ever heard of devils.
So why follow it anymore?
The ones he obeyed dumped him here.
Let them rot.
Red lunged again — yanked the devil's sharp side-blades, forcing a fountain of black blood to spill.
Then, without a word, he slammed the sealing paper into the open wound and pressed his own bloody hand over it.
"This is how I'm sealing you. No fancy words. No dumb rituals."
His hand poured blood, dripping down his wrist like a cracked bottle.
His other hand braced against the devil's back, feet barely steady.
The devil groaned, voice rattling with pain.
The paper didn't react.
"What? Come on. Do something, paper. I don't want it to end like this — just stop resisting—"
Then — where Red's blood met the devil's wound —
something shifted.
The devil stopped thrashing.
Breath slowed.
Muscles calmed.
It stood there… frozen.
Two minutes passed.
Not a move.
Not a sound.
"...Did I do it? It stopped. I… I stopped it."
Red stood still.
For some reason… he felt something strange.
Not fear. Not relief.
Something like pity — or maybe recognition.
But his body was numb. No space left for feelings.
In the surveillance room above, Michael smirked, watching it all unfold.
The man beside him was panicking.
"What the hell…? That's an Awakened-class devil! He's not supposed to be able to—"
Michael silenced him with a hand on the back of his neck — not gently.
"You think I'd put one of my cleaners in there if I didn't think he could survive?"
Then… the man turned.
The door creaked open.
A voice rolled through the room — unsettling, regal, ancient.
"Good choice, Michael."
Michael didn't turn around. He lit another cigar.
"He still has one more test. But… he's not bad.
Let's hope Blade gets along with him.
Poor boy — it's just the beginning of his suffering."
Angel entered the room with dead eyes.
The man beside Michael slumped forward — unconscious.
"General Angel," Michael said, not surprised.
"You knocked him out?"
Angel stood by the screens, gaze cold.
"He was begging to interfere. I simply put him to sleep."
Michael leaned back in his chair, cigar smoke curling lazily around him. He glanced up, voice rough and impatient.
"Whatever. What did you come here for, Lady Angel? You know he's not ready. We said we'd bring him tomorrow."
Angel stepped forward, her eyes sharp, voice calm but firm.
"I didn't come for pleasantries. I came to see your little spy. And there's something I couldn't say during the meeting. I talked to Blade afterward. Want to know what happened to him?"
Michael smirked, flicking ash from his cigar.
"So my spy, huh? Cute name for him."
He paused, then added with a hint of sarcasm,
"Oh, that's right. I remember now. He were pissed when he got out of the meeting. So he were talking to you. You must've really pissed him off, General."
Angel's gaze sharpened, but she didn't back down.
"He deserved it. He's been putting too much faith in his control over The Ten. I think he's losing himself—his identity slipping day by day. That's what happens when you hold the greatest devils in your fingers. So I need a favor from you, Michael."
Michael took a slow drag from his cigar, the warm glow filling the room. He exhaled, then asked,
"Do I even have a choice?"
Angel stepped closer, her voice lowering as she tightened her grip on the letter in her hand.
"Tell your little cleaner to watch Blade's power. Keep him in check. We cannot afford him losing his mind—not like nine years ago. And make damn sure he knows about the Fingers and the Rings. At least so he understands who his partner is: the Paragon of Death, or the man who killed the Unkilled. Two names. Two different stories. All because of The ten in his Mark."
"Oh, and don't think I forgot about you. I'm still watching. I know you're not just playing the game. You're part of the problem, cleaners—you and your little tricks, custodian."
Michael's eyes flickered, but he said nothing, just nodded slowly.