Shadows and Masks

In the Depths of the Infernal Realm

The grotto existed in perpetual twilight, a cavern where the very air tasted of ash and forgotten screams. Lesser devils—wretches with twisted forms and jagged teeth—were hunched over their grisly feast, tearing into flesh with mindless hunger. From a ledge above, Styxare and Mormo observed the carnage with detached cruelty, their presence casting long, disturbing shadows.

The rhythm of the feast was broken by the approach of heavy, deliberate footsteps. Belphegor emerged from the tunnel entrance, his arrival silencing the wretches.

“The task,” Styxare’s voice grated like stone on stone. “Is it done?”

Belphegor did not immediately meet his gaze. “No,” he said, the word final. “I cannot do it.”

A sharp, mocking laugh escaped Mormo. “The great Belphegor, bested? You could not eliminate him even in his weakened state?”

“The human form I inhabited was a fragile vessel,” Belphegor replied, his tone flat. “It could not withstand more than a fraction of my true power. Less than thirty percent.”

“And that was enough to stay your hand?” Styxare pressed, leaning forward.

“It was not my weakness that stayed me,” Belphegor said, finally looking at them, his eyes burning with a rare intensity. “It was his unnatural strength. The Hebrew’s vessel is not what we believed.”

“Clarify,” Styxare demanded. “What distinguishes this human from any other?”

“He is no mere human,” Belphegor’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. “He carries the Hebrew within him, yet I sensed no conduit between them. No transfer of power. The Destroyer was a specter in the machine, a silent observer, while the vessel itself moved with a force that defies nature.”

He let the implication settle in the sulphurous air.

“The Hebrew’s power remained untouched. The vessel fought on its own.”

A tense silence gripped the grotto. Styxare broke it, his voice a low threat. “A claim without proof is merely noise.” His gaze swept over the cowering wretches and settled on two of the largest. “You. The rift will take you to the human world. Find the Hebrew’s vessel. Do not speak to it. Do not reason with it. Your only purpose is to rend it limb from limb. Bring us back evidence that this power is an illusion.”

The two brutes, Gnasher and Ripper, grinned with rows of needle-like teeth. Without a word, they turned and shambled toward a shimmering tear in reality that opened on the grotto wall.

Mormo watched them depart, a predator’s smile gracing her lips. “Consider this our formal inquiry.”

As the rift sealed, swallowing the assassins, the grotto was left in a state of grim anticipation.

Metropolitan Police Station - Tokyo, Japan

Kokushiro stood in the silence of his apartment, fastening a bandage over the place where his wound had been. His body was fully healed, yet he maintained the charade of injury.

The Hebrew observed him. "Why are you applying a bandage when you have fully healed?" he asked.

Kokushiro’s retort was laced with mockery. "Because I don't want them to know I healed within three days at an abnormal speed, you moron."

"Why can't we kill them like the others?" the Hebrew pressed.

"No, we can't," Kokushiro stated flatly. "I have to hide."

"But why?" the Hebrew persisted. "We can kill them and go to some other country."

Kokushiro's voice was low and analytical, devoid of fear, full of calculation. "Revealing my true nature doesn't end a fight; it starts a war. It turns me from a target into a global priority. I lose the freedom of movement, the element of surprise. I cannot operate if every government and organization on Earth is hunting me. This way, I control the board. I choose when and where the pieces fall."

"A war requires a different kind of strength," Kokushiro concluded, his decision final. With the bandage perfectly in place, he turned and stepped out of his apartment. The door clicked shut behind him. "I don't like running," he said to the empty hallway, a cold smile touching his lips. "Besides, things are now getting interesting."

The scene shifted abruptly to a sterile interrogation room. Inspector Tanaka, his face grim, guided Kokushiro to a chair. Across the table sat a police sketch artist, tablet ready.

"Mr. Kokushiro," Tanaka began, "we need you to describe the man you saw at the scene. The one who killed those people."

Kokushiro leaned forward, his eyes taking on a distant look. "He was... average height. Wore a salaryman's suit, but it was torn and dirty. His hair was disheveled, like he hadn't slept in days." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But his eyes... they were wrong. Not human. And when he moved, it wasn't like a person. It was something else entirely - too fast, too strong."

Kokushiro continued, his voice calm and precise. "Let's start with the face structure. It was oblong, with a pronounced jawline. The cheeks were somewhat hollow, as if he'd lost weight recently. His nose was straight, medium in width. The eyes are the most distinct feature I remember. They were deep-set, with moderate brows. His hair was dark, cut in a standard business style, but it was unkempt—falling across his forehead unevenly. His build was average for a salaryman. Perhaps a bit slender. He was wearing a standard grey suit, white shirt, but the tie was missing. The suit jacket was torn at the left shoulder, and the collar was stained. I'd estimate his height around 175 centimeters. The most important detail was his expression. It was completely vacant. No emotion, no recognition—just empty. It was less like a man and more like a puppet. Does that help with the composite?"

The sketch artist nodded, quickly adjusting the image on the tablet. After a moment, he turned the screen toward Kokushiro and Inspector Tanaka. "Like this?"

Kokushiro studied the image—the hollow cheeks, the dead eyes, the disheveled hair. It was a perfect match for the possessed salaryman. A perfect match for Belphegor's vessel.

"Yes," Kokushiro said, his voice flat. "That's him."

Inspector Tanaka studied the composite sketch. "Mr. Kokushiro, do you have some time? I have some questions regarding this case."

Kokushiro agreed. Tanaka led him to a different, more stark interrogation room. Once they were seated, the inspector leaned forward, opening a thin file.

"I looked over your details," Tanaka started, tapping the file. "Your description of the suspect was remarkably precise. It's the kind of clarity we rarely see in witness statements." He let the observation hang before shifting gears. "It actually reminds me of another inconsistency. We've been trying to complete your background check, but we've hit a wall. Our records for you only go back ten months. Before that, there's nothing. No digital footprint, no financial history. It's as if you didn't exist. Can you explain that?"

Kokushiro met his gaze, his story ready. "It's simple," he said. "I was living in New York. My family is there. I was born and raised there."

"New York?" Tanaka repeated, his skepticism clear. "International travel leaves a trail. We found no passport stamps, no flight manifests for your entry to Japan."

"My mother is Japanese," Kokushiro explained, his voice calm and even. "I returned using her passport and my Japanese citizenship, which was only formally registered when I arrived. Before that, my life wasn't one that left official records. I spent years caring for my sick father, taking cash-only jobs to get by. When he passed, I decided to come back to connect with my mother's heritage. There are no official records because I was never part of that system. I was just a son taking care of his father."

Tanaka studied him for a long moment before finally closing the file. "That will be all for now, Mr. Kokushiro. You're free to go."

The formal dismissal was a relief. Kokushiro stepped out into the night and began the drive home.

The police station's glare faded in Kokushiro's mirror as he entered the industrial sector's decaying streets. Headlights suddenly flared behind him - a van pulled forward, cutting him off.

Four men emerged before his car could reverse. The lead thug tapped a pipe against his palm while another knocked on his window. "Get out," the man ordered. "Nice ride. Let's make this quick."

Kokushiro assessed them with a glance. Amateurs. He could have escaped, but a public scene would draw attention he didn't need. "You're making a mistake," he said calmly, killing the engine.

The thug laughed. "We'll see about that."

They seized his arms, patting him down before yanking a coarse sack over his head. "Move and it'll be your last," a voice growled in his ear as they shoved him into their van.

The vehicle rumbled through empty streets for what felt like ten minutes before lurching to a stop. Rough hands pulled him out and marched him into a building, the air turning damp and stagnant. When the hood finally came off, he sat in a grim warehouse space illuminated by a single bare bulb. The four captors stood circling him, their leader stepping forward with a cruel smile.

"Comfortable?" the leader sneered, pipe resting on his shoulder. "Now, let's discuss your bank accounts and how you'll make this worth our while."