The first trial was not of blade or bullet, but of ink and parchment.
For generations, the Order had begun its Initiation with a written exam. It was less about the answers themselves and more about what they represented: discipline, preparation, and respect for knowledge. In truth, ninety out of a hundred would pass without struggle. This opening day was a ritual, a symbol, a reminder before the public that hunters were more than killers—they were guardians armed with mind as well as steel.
Azazel sat at a long wooden desk in a vaulted hall of the church filled with whispering tension. Candles smoked above, quills scratched paper, and dozens of aspirants bent over their questions with furrowed brows.
It was actually impressive how church gave a permission to conduct the first trial at the Saint Peter's Basilica.
He scanned the parchment before him and almost laughed.
What is the natural enemy of Death's essence?
How many days until the soul of the unburied becomes a wandering ghost?
In which regions are the mavkas most commonly found?
Child's play.
The journal of Johann Weyer, smudged and creased with decades of study, had been his true tutor. And beyond that, he carried within him the Codex itself. Although, he needed no whispered guidance from his grandfather this time. His own memory was more than enough.
One by one, he filled the page, quill gliding without hesitation. Around him, some aspirants muttered curses, others sweated through basic theology and folklore. To Azazel it was… insultingly easy.
"So this is the opening act," he thought. "More like a spectacle to show good relationships between the church and the Order"
Three days later, the results were posted.
Out of one hundred and twenty-two aspirants, one hundred and twenty passed. Only two names bore the mark of failure. Azazel could not help but pity them—two lives, two hopes, crushed before even setting foot on the true path. To stumble here, at the easiest gate… it must have been unbearable.
But there was no time to dwell on others.
During those days of waiting, Aurelius allowed him no rest. His daggers became extensions of his arms; bruises turned to strength beneath the tonics and herbs that fueled his body. Juan sparred alongside him when he could, yet even he admitted that the Grandmaster's training was closer to punishment than discipline.
And then, on the appointed morning, the initiates gathered once more at Saint Peter's.
This time, there was no Pope, no holy fanfare. Only the Grandmaster himself, standing before them, not on the balcony this time, voice sharp enough to cut through the restless silence.
"You have shown knowledge," Aurelius said. "But a hunter is not judged by words on parchment. Your next trial will strip away comfort and pretense. It will measure not only skill but will, not only the body but the soul."
The crowd leaned forward. Azazel felt his pulse quicken.
The Grandmaster's lips curved into the faintest smile.
"And so," he declared, "your second task shall be—"