Two days passed in merciless rhythm.
Aurelius did not allow Lucien—no, Azazel—to rest for a single heartbeat. Every hour was filled with drills, sparring, forms, and the relentless rhythm of the daggers the Grandmaster had gifted him. Whenever exhaustion threatened to break him, Aurelius pressed bitter herbs to his lips or poured burning tonics down his throat. Pain was dulled, muscles knit back together, and the training resumed, as if the body itself were forced to keep pace with the will of the Grandmaster.
At times, in the back of his mind, Johann whispered corrections or cautions from the Codex. Azazel ignored him stubbornly, still wounded by his silence, yet his grandfather's guidance—whether he admitted it or not—was crucial. Step by step, strike by strike, his style sharpened.
When the day finally arrived, Rome seemed to tremble with anticipation.
The great square of Saint Peter's Basilica filled with young hunters—dozens upon dozens of uninitiated aspirants, their cloaks and uniforms marking their lineages and masters. Lucien stood among them, shoulders squared, but for once he did not wear the black hunter's coat. Instead, he had chosen stricter, formal attire—dark doublet, high collar, and the faint gleam of the daggers at his belt on one side and on the other some little bag . The mask remained, covering him to the eyes, hiding the truth of his face.
A hush fell over the crowd.
From the balcony above—the same place where popes had addressed kings and peasants alike—two figures emerged.
First: Aurelius, Grandmaster of the Order of Ash, tall and severe in his long coat, silver hair catching the light.
Then: the Pope himself, clad in white and gold, a presence that seemed to silence even the restless birds circling above.
The Holy Father raised his arms, his voice carrying across the square like a bell:
"Children of faith! By the blood of hunters, the vigilance of our Order, and the grace of God, the tide of demons has been beaten back from our walls. Today, you gather not merely as youths, but as chosen—those who would stand between mankind and the abyss."
The crowd erupted in cheers. Some hunters raised weapons skyward; others bowed their heads in prayer.
The Pope's voice grew solemn. "We remember those who bore this burden before you. Among them, none shone brighter than Johann Weyer. His wisdom preserved us. His sacrifice bought this very chance."
At that name, Azazel's chest clenched. He felt Juan glance sideways at him, but he could not move, could not breathe.
Aurelius stepped forward, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"It is with sorrow," he declared, "that I announce the passing of Johann Weyer."
Gasps swept across the square. Some crossed themselves, others muttered prayers. The legend of the last Grandmaster was gone.
And then Aurelius raised something high above his head.
Twin pistols—gleaming in the sun, their runes burning faintly as if alive.
"These relics," Aurelius's tone thundered, "belonged to Johann. They are more than weapons. They are his will, his legacy."
The entire square seemed to hold its breath.
"The one among you who proves strongest," Aurelius continued, "the one who takes first place in these trials, will not only earn the honor of initiation… but shall inherit Johann's pistols!"
The crowd roared. Shouts of awe and disbelief surged like waves. Aspirants pressed forward, eyes burning with ambition.
Lucien—Azazel—stood frozen. His mouth had gone dry. His heart pounded against his ribs.
The pistols that should never have left his hands… now promised to strangers.
Juan's jaw dropped beside him.
"You've got to be kidding me…" Lucien whispered.
Azazel clenched his fists. The mask hid his face, but not the fire burning in his amber eyes.