Symphony of the Dance Macabre...

It was a morning in the meadows of Luminovia, and Isolde and Vera were discussing the next Demon Pseudo-Castle.

"So the next Pseudo-Castle is in… Clé… Clémarine?" Vera struggled with the city's name.

"Clémarine, Vera-chan~", Sylphidia replied, her tone cheerful and tinged with nostalgia.

"You know that place? You filthy drunk!" Isolde exclaimed, clearly surprised.

"Of course, you bitter vampire! Clémarine is where the arts thrive and where my followers flocked the most~," Sylphidia said, waving a glass of wine into existence with a graceful flourish.

"And I suppose you'll use this as an excuse to play wine taster, you useless addict?" Isolde’s voice carried more disdain than usual.

"I also heard the city thrives on its marine industry. Could holy water really come from the ocean?" Dakim wondered aloud, wide-eyed.

"Imagine all the business opportunities waiting for us there~," Madelis said with a greedy sparkle, her eyes practically painting gold coins in the air.

Ayato, however, hadn’t said a word. His hair stood on end like a porcupine, his face twisted in anger and discomfort. Finally, he muttered:

"...This isn’t a power-up. It’s a damned curse."

His whole body vibrated like a faulty electric coil. Sparks cracked from his skin, his hair bristled in absurd directions, and every piece of metal nearby shot toward him like a crazed magnet.

Madelis screamed as her favorite dagger stuck to his back.

Dakim’s cheap crucifix smacked him in the forehead.

The revolver he’d bought for himself bounced on the ground, almost firing off.

Isolde rolled her eyes, Vera covered her face in embarrassment, Sylphidia nearly fell over laughing, and Dakim threw his arms to the sky:

"It’s the power of God manifested in you, brother!"

Madelis, still cackling, tossed him a rusty horseshoe. It clung instantly to his arm.

"Look, boss! You’re a walking magnet! You’ll be rich—you can literally attract money!"

But the laughter froze in their throats when a deep, raspy voice cut through the air, carried by an ominous wind.

"Are you serious!? This is what a Lone-Demon, who has already defeated and assimilated two Infernal Tyrants, can demonstrate!?"

The group stiffened. Even Madelis lowered her playful grin, slipping into guarded silence.

Isolde narrowed her eyes. That voice—irritatingly familiar.

"It must be you!?" Sylphidia gasped. For a Goddess who had lived centuries, the recognition came with an almost painful nostalgia.

“Indeed, Sylphidia… Two candidates dead. Zeltha’s Lone-Demons fumbling. That is reason enough for me to act.”

"But who the hell are you?! Another lackey of the Count?" Ayato’s voice carried more exhaustion than fear, worn down by the endless parade of enemies.

"Spare us the theatrics, Azrael. We don’t have time for your stage-play monologues," Isolde said dryly, venom in her tone.

"And even stripped of your finest weapons and spells, you remain insolent, Princess," the voice replied, now heavy with disdain.

Finally, it addressed Ayato.

"And you, Ayato Nagatoshi… We have not met. But you know my meaning."

The wind howled, sparks leaping wildly as a tall figure stepped from the shadows. Cloaked in black, draped in an elegant suit, a gleaming skull jutted from his hood.

Ayato’s eyes widened in horror.

"Don’t tell me… you’re Death!? Every damn Vampire Slayer game I’ve played, he’s always the second-to-last boss before the final battle!"

The wind whipped harder, sparks and shards of metal dancing around Ayato as if his new power itself feared Azrael’s presence.

Vera’s voice trembled, but she forced herself to stand her ground before the skeletal figure.

"Don’t tell me… all this slaughter, all these people summoned with cursed powers… it’s just another trick to bring Dracula back?!"

Azrael tilted his head slowly, the red glow in his hollow sockets flaring with disdain.

"How reductionist you are, witch’s waste. You cling to that masquerade you call Order… while abandoning the weight of your lineage."

He didn’t deny her accusation. That silence, heavier than the wind howling around them, carried its own confirmation.

Isolde clicked her tongue, the sound sharp against the howling wind.

“So it really is about that ancient fossil… Typical. The so-called arbiters of Chaos always hiding behind grand words while serving a corpse.”

Ayato’s fists sparked uncontrollably, the metallic pull around him rattling like chains. His voice cracked with frustration.

“So all this suffering, all the battles, all the blood spilled… just to bring back some vampire overlord?! You’re insane!”

Azrael turned his skull toward him, the crimson glow burning brighter.

“Insane? No. Inevitable. Dracula’s return is not the will of one, but the natural correction of a world rotting under false gods and false orders.”

Sylphidia’s laughter, nervous and high-pitched, cut through the air.

“Oh, so the Grim Reaper’s finally playing revivalist now? How dramatic~.”

Her smile faltered, though, when the gusts nearly tore the wine glass from her hand.

The group stood tense, each reaction betraying fear, anger, or defiance, as Azrael’s presence pressed heavier against their chests.

Azrael’s hollow gaze swept over the group, and his voice dripped with scorn.

“While I also have to face two of the shameful flaws in this grand scheme of chaos…”

His skeletal finger rose slowly, pointing first at Isolde.

“The Count’s own daughter, yet you cower from the Demon Castle’s throne—your rightful claim, squandered in bitterness.”

Then his hand turned toward Ayato, sparks hissing as if drawn to the motion.

“And you… a Dark Lord Aspirant, soul blackened like your peers, yet you rebel against the role carved for you. A hollow hypocrite.”

The accusations cut through the air like blades. Isolde’s frown deepened, her crimson eyes narrowing.

“You talk as if wearing a crown of corpses was some kind of destiny. Let me make it clear, Azrael—I choose what I am, not what some moldy old order carved out centuries ago.”

Ayato’s fists crackled with violent sparks, his teeth clenched so hard it hurt.

“Hollow hypocrite? If being ‘true’ means becoming another blood-soaked tyrant, then I’ll stay a hypocrite forever! At least I’m still human enough to call this crap what it is!”

The wind shrieked louder, sparks and dust exploding around them, as if the world itself strained under the clash of wills.

Azrael’s empty sockets flared brighter, the crimson glow pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Bold words… but words cannot rewrite fate.”

Azrael’s crimson sockets burned brighter as he lifted his skeletal hand, spreading four long fingers into the stormy air.

“You have four minutes,” he said coldly, as if announcing a sentence. “Four minutes to prove your convictions… or vanish as meaningless pawns.”

From his other hand, darkness bled into the air and twisted into a towering scythe, its blade gleaming like frozen moonlight. The ground shuddered beneath the weight of its presence, sparks from Ayato’s unstable power dancing toward it as if drawn by inevitability.

The wind howled, dust and metallic shards swirling in a deadly spiral. Every word he spoke made the storm grow heavier, pressing against their lungs.

Sylphidia’s playful grin faltered completely, her wine glass shattering in her hand.

“Tch… He’s not bluffing.”

Azrael’s scythe carved a line through the meadow, the very air splitting apart in its wake. The wind roared, pressing them back as if the world itself knelt before him.

Isolde lunged first, her blade clashing against the scythe with a shriek of sparks. The impact rattled her bones, crimson aura flaring to keep her stance.

“Four minutes is more than enough to cut you down, reaper!”

Ayato followed, sparks detonating around him as he hurled himself forward. Metal debris swirled like bullets in his orbit, launching toward Azrael in a storm. 

The reaper’s scythe spun once, and the shrapnel shattered like glass, scattering harmlessly into the wind.

“Brute force without resolve is just noise,” Azrael said, his voice calm even as the ground trembled.

Vera stepped forward, her hands trembling as she chanted. A pale golden light gathered between her palms, divine symbols sparking in the storm. 

She hurled the spell with all her strength—holy light lanced toward Azrael, hissing as it struck his cloak.

For a heartbeat, the reaper staggered, smoke rising from the point of impact. His sockets flared, and his scornful voice shook her to her core.

“Even a dim candle can sting the night… but you burn too faint to matter.”

Vera collapsed to one knee, drained, yet her eyes burned with defiance.

Dakim rushed to her side, raising his crucifix high, his voice thundering over the storm:

“Brother, see?! Even the faintest light is the hand of God! Fight with it!”

Azrael’s scythe lashed sideways, hurling both of them back, the crucifix snapping like brittle wood. 

Dakim rolled through the dirt, but came up laughing madly, blood on his lips.

Madelis, grinning through the chaos, she begins to attack by throwing daggers and flasks of holy water to buy time.

 “Four minutes or not, boss, I’ll make sure every second costs him in lead!”

The reaper’s cloak rippled, absorbing the storm of metal until the earth shook from the sheer pressure. He raised his scythe, pointing it downward like a clock’s hand.

“Three minutes remain.”

He swept his skeletal arm in a wide arc—dark crescents of energy split from the scythe, cutting through the meadow like phantom blades. Grass, soil, and even the air itself parted in perfect, merciless lines.

Isolde parried one slash, the impact jarring her arm numb.

“Tch—! This bastard’s not even fighting seriously yet!”

Ayato slammed his hands into the ground, arcs of black lightning racing outward to intercept the next wave. The blades shattered against the current, but the backlash sent him staggering, blood dripping from his nose.

From the rear, Vera forced herself up despite her trembling legs, chanting again. This time, the divine light flickered erratically, her focus breaking under fear.

Azrael tilted his skull slightly toward her, voice a low whisper that sliced colder than the wind:

“Faith without conviction is nothing but noise.”

The words struck harder than the slash, and Vera gasped, almost dropping her spell—until Dakim bellowed beside her, raising what remained of his broken crucifix like a sword.

“Then let it be noisy, if it deafens the likes of you!”

Vera’s light flared again, brighter than before, lashing toward Azrael. For a moment, his cloak hissed as if burned by acid. His scythe lowered, the reaper’s sockets narrowing.

Madelis seized the opportunity and used her short swords. She threw them again, but this time not at Azrael, but to redirect his own attacks, forcing them upward.

“Teamwork bonus, baby! Don’t say I never carry you guys!”

Isolde took that instant to leap forward, her blade wreathed in crimson flame. She struck, forcing Azrael to block. The scythe and sword locked, sparks dancing between them.

“You call me a coward for refusing the throne? Fine! Then I’ll prove it’s not power that makes the ruler—but will!”

Ayato roared from the flank, lightning sparking around his fists as he dove in for the same lock, their combined strength pushing against Azrael’s defense.

The reaper’s sockets burned brighter, yet there was no panic—only a cold, grim satisfaction. 

With a sudden burst, he pushed them both back as if swatting flies.

“Two minutes remain.”