Prologue

Thunder rolled over the city, drenching the night in a merciless torrent. The deafening downpour drowned out the blaring horns of cars, each rushing toward the warmth of home.

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

A man—masked, trench-coated—curled on the wet pavement, clutching his side. The Inquisitor’s badge on his coat glinted beneath the lightning’s flicker.

He groaned as the rain washed over him, the warmth of his body fading to the cold, ravenous fang of death.

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

The man rolled weakly, spitefully, straining to see his attacker.

“Grandark… you… traitor…”

Tristan stared down at him with unsteady eyes. His hands, steady when he plunged the blade, now trembled as he watched his former comrade gasp for breath.

Steeling himself, Tristan knelt beside the man. He raised his brimstone-colored blade and, with a swift arc, impaled him through the chest.

He held the hilt in place, feeling the heartbeat fade—every pulse a step closer to madness. Slower. Weaker. Until there was nothing left.

He had just killed an angel.

With hollow eyes, he staggered toward a shadowed corner and picked up the Inquisitor’s gun.

He had done this countless times—to others. Pressing the barrel to their heads. Cocking the hammer.

But this time… the barrel pointed at his own.

And he didn’t tremble. A man resigned—like this was always how it would end.

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.”