Chapter 10

"She was my daughter."

Tristan stood still, meeting the Godfather eye to eye.

"Lilith?"

The elder turned a picture frame toward him. He held a child in his arms—rosy cheeks, a warm smile.

"Lilith was a kind child. And very curious," he chuckled.

"She used to greet my bodyguards again and again. Some of them were uncomfortable around her, but they looked after her fondly. Sometimes, when we were out for a stroll, she'd give her snacks to strangers, always thinking they were hungry."

Tristan nodded, a slight smile on his lips. He took out his prized locket, opened it, and slid it across the table toward the Godfather.

"Sounds just like her."

With trembling hands, the old man took it and gazed longingly at her wedding picture—silver-white hair, beautiful eyes, and that effortless smile.

"When I met her, I was miserable in that alley. I don’t remember anything about my pa, so she was my first memory."

"She stared at me. This close. And I thought she was strange." Tristan gestured a hand close to his face.

The Godfather laughed softly, shaking his head.

"I thought her gentleness stood out too much. She reached an age where she’d ramble about going to the human world. No one had ever done that. No one even thought of it."

"One day, when she was older, I asked her why she wanted to go. She told me the human world must be a very lonely place. That caught me off guard. All her life, she heard tales about human souls being fought over by angels and demons—damned from the beginning, trapped in an endless war."

"I had no answers for her," he said, meeting Tristan’s eyes. "And the more she aged, the more determined she became."

"She came to me again. This time, she said she wanted to live among humans. It was forbidden, but I couldn’t stop her. When she had finally decided, we cut off her horns in a ritual. She stepped through the gate to the human world—and after that, we never heard from her again."

His expression darkened.

"Not too long ago, I sent spies to the human world to check on her. I learned she’d been hurt… leaving behind a husband who claimed she was killed by a demon."

"And then you arrived. I was hoping you wanted to tear Inferno apart. But in your grief, you became much more than I expected."

"Why didn’t you do anything?" Tristan asked directly.

"Because if I acted recklessly, I could’ve started a war I wasn’t ready for. Someone powerful was behind it. And with so many souls under my protection… I couldn’t risk their safety."

Suddenly, the ground rumbled. A crushing pressure fell on Tristan, like giant chains wrapped around his lungs. He froze, drenched in cold sweat, as the Godfather’s long-buried rage flooded the room.

"If it's by destiny—or even coincidence—that you ended up here... I’m glad you did."

He closed the locket, held it tightly to his chest, then returned it to Tristan.

"Tristan, will you be the blade of my fury—until those who hurt my daughter have paid with their lives a hundredfold?"

Tristan clenched his fists. His jaw locked tight.

"Respectfully, sir... I’ve said before—I won’t be anyone’s hired gun."

He tapped a cigarette from his box and clipped it between his lips. To his surprise, the Godfather reached out with a lit lighter, offering the flame.

Tristan accepted, lit his smoke, and took a deep drag.

"You don’t have to dirty your hands with these bastards. I only ask one thing..."

"Anything you want."

"Please keep Lazarus safe."

The old man paused, then smiled faintly.

"You have my word. And call me Azhurael."

Don Azhurael watched as Tristan turned toward the door.

"I bid you well, Tristan."

Tristan looked back over his shoulder and nodded.

---

Dust and debris floated in the air. Craters scarred the battlefield. The surrounding buildings were reduced to rubble.

A breeze passed through, revealing two silhouettes amidst the wreckage.

In the center of a crater lay Velgrand, bloodied. His eyes were wide—filled with something he hadn’t felt in ages.

Fear.

His mouth opened, but only squeaks escaped.

Above him stood Tristan, his coat fluttering in the wind. Not a ghost—but alive. Victorious.

Velgrand’s eyes shook.

"Who are you…?" he muttered.

Tristan didn’t answer.

"Lira. Tell me what you know."

Velgrand’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. A bullet ripped through his left shoulder, making him writhe.

"Speak, or I’ll rip your voice out of your throat."

Velgrand lifted a shaky hand. "I... I don’t..."

Another shot tore through his arm.

Tristan tossed aside the pistol and summoned a shotgun, pumping a shell into place.

"Talk. Or the next one will be worse."

"I don’t know... I only heard the name… then they sent me to the Dracones..."

Tristan leveled the shotgun at his head.

"Who did you hear it from?"

"I... I can’t—"

The ground beside Velgrand’s face exploded as Tristan fired a warning. The demon gasped, nearly screaming.

"Say it. The next one won’t miss."

"D... Don Morvasco! I heard the name from him... Yes..."

Tristan narrowed his eyes.

"They mentioned Lira and the Inquisitor together. So when I heard rumors from the Dracones about a divine soul spotted in Inferno, I went to check the camp..."

"Why did you attack Lazarus?"

Velgrand froze.

"That’s my last question. I won’t ask again."

The demon’s eyes trembled. Then, a crooked smile twisted across his face. A half-crazed laugh escaped.

Tristan's glare sharpened. "Choose your next words carefully, demon."

Even as he lay broken, Velgrand saw something in Tristan’s fury that made him grin wider. It was as if, in death, he had still stolen something.

"Just... for fun."

Tristan’s vision burned red.

The shotgun blasted through Velgrand’s left leg.

"That’s for James."

Velgrand howled.

Another shell. His arm vanished in a spray of gore.

"That’s for Lazarus."

The final round—straight into Velgrand’s face.

"And that’s for that filthy mouth that spoke of my wife."

Tristan shoved the barrel into Velgrand’s mouth and pulled the trigger. The demon’s body twitched… then went still.

Silence.

Tristan stood there, body aching. He forced himself to breathe. The battle was over.

But something inside him was still dying.

He lowered the weapon and looked around at the carnage.

He lived and died by taking lives.

He was, after all, the Angel of Death.

---

"Grandark?"

Tristan’s eyes snapped open. Morrigan and Azhurael were beside his bed, rushing in after the attendants said he had moved.

"How are you feeling, Tristan?" Azhurael asked.

Tristan grunted, trying to sit up. His body was drained from the fight.

"How long was I out?"

"About two days," Morrigan replied.

SNAP.

A surge of pain lit up his spine, spreading through every nerve in his body. Not physical—something worse.

Morrigan quickly held him steady.

"We saw what you did to Velgrand. You overexerted yourself."

"I had to finish him quickly." Tristan gasped. "The pain..."

Azhurael frowned. "Pain?"

"Tristan, turn your back to us," Azhurael said gently.

Tristan obeyed. He pulled off his shirt and sat up.

Both Morrigan and the Godfather leaned in—and froze.

A glowing mark pulsed on his back. 

Azhurael’s grip tightened around his cane.

"This mark..."