Prologue

Thunder rumbled over the rain-stricken city, drenching its nightlife in a merciless torrent. The deafening downpour drowned out the blaring horns of cars, each one rushing toward the warmth of home.

But in one of its dark alleys, a soul hung in the balance.

A masked man in a trench coat crumpled to the pavement, clutching his side as blood bloomed in the puddle beneath him. His Inquisitor’s badge glinted in the flicker of lightning. He groaned, letting the rain wash over him, the warmth of his body slowly giving way to the cold, ravenous pang of death.

Behind him, a towering silhouette loomed—a shadow more ominous than the storm itself.

The fallen man weakly rolled to his side, struggling to see his attacker.

“Grandark… You… traitor…”

Tristan stared down, eyes glazed and unsteady. His hands, once resolute as he plunged the blade, now trembled as he watched his former comrade gasp for air.

But he knew he couldn’t falter now.

On trembling knees, Tristan crouched beside his victim. The brimstone-colored blade glinted as he raised his arm and, with a single, swift movement, impaled him through the chest.

He held the hilt in place, feeling the heartbeat fade—a step at a time toward his own descent. Slower, weaker, until there was nothing left.

He had just killed an angel.

With cold hands, Tristan picked up the Inquisitor’s weapon of judgment. He cocked the hammer, pressing the barrel to his temple.

The trembling faded; his resolve was restored.

At this point of no return, he had chosen his fate willingly.

And as he pulled the trigger, he whispered:

“I will find you, Lira.”