Just like promised, Soren received the instructions that led him to a special elevator—one without numbers for public offices or cafeterias. Its panel only lit up for demon-hunting divisions and mysterious levels hidden far beneath the parking structure.

  He pressed the lowest button.

  When the doors opened, silence greeted him.

  A long, cold hallway stretched into darkness, the echo of his steps trailing behind like whispers. The walls here weren’t polished or decorative like the upper levels. They were brutalist concrete—grey, uncaring, and faintly stained.

  The air was heavier here.

  Eventually, Soren reached a tall silver door, beside which sat a young man in a cheap aluminum chair.

  He wasn’t reading or watching his phone, just waiting. Next to him, leaned casually against the wall, was a golden sword nearly as tall as he was. Its hilt gleamed with minimal light, but there was no doubt—it wasn’t ornamental.

  “So... Subdirectress Nasaki told me to come here,” Soren interrupted.

  The man stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor. His smile hit like a spotlight.

  “You must be the new guy! Also, It's good to see someone down here.”

  The voice didn’t match the setting. It was warm, overly friendly—completely out of sync with the silence that reigned here.

  Soren barely had time to react before the man was shaking his hand and pulling him from the shoulder like they were old friends at a dive bar.

  “Renzo Vitale, First Division Hunter” he said, grinning. “You do know about the divisions, right?”

  "Yeah... I am Soren O'Connors by the way" he answered without hiding his awkwardness.

  “O’Connors... as in the Sullivan O’Connors?”

  Soren sighed. “That should be the fifth time.... No, it's just a coincidence.”

  Renzo burst into laughter for what he considered to be a joke. He then approached the heavy doors ahead and opened them without effort. The metal groaned, spreading the uncomfortable echo all around.

  "You must be feeling very furtunate. Most people within the Commision don't even know this place exists," he remarked by also looking at the more intense darkness ahead, then grabbing the weapon nearby. “Shall we?”

  Needless to say, Soren felt somewhat uncomfortable with Renzo’s attitude. Everyone he had met in the Commission so far had been dry, even inhuman in some ways—himself included. Renzo, by contrast, felt like someone pulled straight out of a bar or a park.

  It was hard to believe someone like that could be a First Division hunter—one of the best in Adam Hunt’s organization—but the golden sword he carried with ease spoke for itself.

  Inside, Soren saw numbered cells: a prison or dungeon for demons the Commission had managed to capture. Argos had told him about such a place—it was where the dog devil had spent most of his recent days.

  While the hunter kept walking, Soren approached one of the cell doors in order to look through the openning, not being able to see much in the end.

  "I certainly wouldn't recommend being too curious" Renzo appeared on his back, pulling him towards the dim lights. "It's not like they would dare to do anything with me around, but it's better to be safe than sorry," he suggested without any hint of reprehension, allowing them to continue walking.

  “By the way, how are you doing with the tracer? I recall him being very grumpy... What kind of contract did you make with him?” Renzo asked brightly.

  “I guess we’re work partners,” Soren replied, omitting the details about the demon being at his full disposal.

  “I see... interesting,” Renzo mused as they continued walking. “It’s rare for a demon to colaborate so close with a person, but not unheard of. Either way, you’re a lucky one.”

  What would this guy think about the slave contract I made with Tiamat? Soren thought for his own amusement.

  Back then, Soren had brought up the slave deal half-jokingly, half out of spite. No one had ever offered such a thing to a demon—it wasn’t even clear it was possible for it to happen. If anything, he might’ve been the first.

  He still wondered about what enabled the contracts to fail, but aside from the entertainment factor, he had no clear thoughts on it.

  The two hunters continued down the prison corridor. Their destination wasn’t any of the demons in the cells, but a large platform at the structure’s end. Atop it stood an altar—meant for communication or interaction with supradimensional entities.

  “Did Subdirectress Nasaki give you the ritual instructions?” Renzo asked.

  Soren nodded decisively.

  He retrieved a package of blood he’d brought along and used it to draw the hellish circle.

  “Inconsequence devil… The Commission wishes to make a deal,” he spoke aloud, unsure of what would follow.

  As in his previous encounters, the blood condensed into a form. This time, however, it remained more like an image—a static shape—rather than a living summon.

  Even so, the demon of Inconsequence appeared as a grotesque geometric amalgam, barely resembling anything coherent. It radiated an esotericism that defied logic.

  “What does the Commission want?” its voice echoed all around him.

  “They said you should heal my body... in exchange for ‘the usual.’”

  The demon observed him for a long moment, then gave its answer: “Very well.”

  Immediately, Soren was wracked with pain. He collapsed, only to be caught by Renzo.

  His insides twisted and convulsed in a way that could only be described as torture. And yet, after several agonizing minutes, the pain vanished—and with it, all sensations he’d had.

  It really worked?

  He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and found his stitches—and even his scars—completely gone.

  The scars actually made me look cool… he thought, somewhat disappointed at the sight of his smooth, pale skin.

  "They would also like to know what would it take in order for you to reverse my 'memory loss'" he petitioned, to which the demon resopnded quickly.

  "I sense Interference from 'Oblivion' indeed. Neither you or them would be able to pay the appropriate price" the demon declared, vanishing as quickly as it was summoned.

  Despite the Lackluster answer, Soren was still satisfied with the results.

  “By the way,” he said, buttoning up again, “do you know what they mean by paying ‘the usual’?” He brought up to the other hunter.

  “I haven’t been told,” Renzo admitted. “I fear only the higher-ups know.”

  Then it’s better not to ask, Soren concluded, thinking of the kind of shady dealings someone like Adam Hunt might engage in.

  It seemed to him that the Russian didn’t care about bending rules as long as it served his interests. In fact, things always seemed to fall within his control.

  The end justifies the means... or something like that, I think.

  Outside, the heavy doors shut behind the two hunters, casting the prison back into utter darkness.

  “In any case, it was nice to meet you,” Renzo manifested. “You don't see many young folks aligned with our cause. Regardless of your motivation, you have my full support,” He manifested with a thumbs up and a grin. "Hey, maybe one day I could invite you to have a drink"

  “Yeah…” Soren replied awkwardly, hiding the fact that he was legally too young to drink alcohol.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Renzo Vitale… What an odd person. But also... kind of refreshing.

  With Monday over, Soren left the Commission building alongside his demons, heading back to the apartment complex.

  Once there, the dog demon threw himself on the couch and turned on the TV.

  Soren shook his head at how comfortable the demon had become. In some ways, Argos no longer acted like the creature he’d first met.

  “Well… At least this place stopped being depressing,” Soren remarked aloud. “Is that good for you demons?”

  “It is good for us. Bad for the Depression Devil,” Argos replied, eyes glued to the screen.

  Meanwhile, Tiamat was quietly cleaning the dirty dishes from breakfast—rinsing them slowly and unenthusiastically. When it noticed it was being watched, it immediately sped up.

  It’s so pathetic you’d almost feel bad for it—until you remember what it tricked that boy into…

  Naturally, Soren used the slave contract to his full advantage. The dragon devil now did all the chores he didn’t want to—without resistance.

  That night, the demons fell asleep in the living room, leaving Soren to lie in bed. He stared at the ceiling, one hand holding a gun—an old habit of his.

  Soon, his mind got drifted towards far away memories.

  “Uncle Sullivan, why haven’t we gone anywhere else?” a younger Soren asked as they rode the tractor.

  “Don’t you like the farm? Seems to me you have fun here.”

  The kid shook his head. “It’s just… there’s only you and me around here.”

  “That’s true,” Sullivan said gently. “But this is the best life I can give you right now.”

  "I still want to go out and meet people. We should go to the cities and the places they show on TV, like the Statue of Liberty or the Grand Canyon"

  Despite his strong arms, the man pulled the boy close. “Tell you what. Soon I’m buying a bigger tractor. I promise I’ll let you drive it.”

  “Are you serious?" He yelled in excitement, completely changing his focus. "You have to swear!”

  “I do. Though I’ll need to be around… for safety,” he added with a smile.

  Soren cheered, the warmth of the sunset washing over him.

  *

  While the world slept, a mercilessly bright sun reigned over an expanse of rolling green.

  The grasslands—vibrant and serene—seemed almost painted. Waves of emerald stretched infinitely under a cloudless blue sky, the wind caressing every blade as if the earth itself breathed in peace.

  At the far crest of one of the hills, a solitary figure emerged—armored in silver that glinted like sunlight on steel, cutting a noble silhouette against the verdant horizon. He ascended without haste, like a pilgrim returning home.

  Right at the top of the slope stood a small wooden cabin. Smoke rose softly from the chimney, and the wood looked aged but well kept. The knight reached the entrance, the porch creaking faintly under his weight. He opened the door and stepped inside without hesitation.

  Within, warmth filled the space—not just from the fire, but from something older. A presence.

  Before the fire sat a tall figure clad in dark and pale tones alike, tossing logs into the flame with methodical precision. A long dark cape hung from his back, and his face—though only half-lit by the fire—radiated the quiet authority of someone who had long transcended rage.

  A crib sat beside him, carved from blackened wood, and inside it rested a small, rabbit-like creature that remained in torpor.

  The knight knelt without hesitation, pressing a hand to the wooden floor.

  “My Lord. The rumors have begun to spread among the demonkind.”

  The Demon Lord did not turn to face him.

  “That was inevitable,” he said calmly. “Our oracle’s blindness ripples through the layers of Hell. But as long as the true secret remains between us... the board is still on our side.”

  “Your wishes are my command,” the knight said with no hint of hesitation.

  The Lord stood slowly, his figure towering as his dark cape swept behind him like smoke. Before exiting, he glanced over his shoulder.

  “Pride... I leave Laplace in your care.”

  The knight nodded. There was no protest at all. Pride—one of the seven deadly sins— currently found most of his strength in service. Unlike the others, he did not crave dominance. His pride came from loyalty, and that gave him power unlike.

  As the Demon Lord stepped outside, the breeze met him again. He closed his eyes and reached out his hand, letting the wind move through his clawed fingers.

  The scene was still, but his thoughts weren’t. Images resurfaced in his mind—what had taken place just days before.

  Laplace, the demon of the future, had always seen what others couldn’t. His prophecies, although not absolute, provided a good resource for strategy and intelligence.

  “Tides of change must be approaching. The golden era of the enemies of Hell is bound to end,” The Demon Lord murmored to the rabbit.

  But that day, when ordered to look further, Laplace opened all four of his eyes and stared deep into the flow of inevitability.

  What he saw looked back.

  Instead of answers, Laplace received agony. He screamed. Tried to claw his eyes out. The prophecy punished him for what should never have been seen.

  The Demon Lord and Pride had rushed in, but even then, the damage was irreversible.

  Still, before breaking down completely, Laplace managed to speak.

  “The world of humans is about to end. With Earth gone, Hell is going to perish from its own hunger...”

  “Laplace—” Pride had tried to intervene; but the Demon Lord raised a hand, stopping him.

  “How?” he asked with slow intensity.

  “The Gehenna will reappear,” Laplace whispered. “And with it... the world of humans will burn until there’s only ash.”

  Now, standing once more at the edge of the hill, the Demon Lord watched the green plains ripple with the wind. The scenery felt peaceful—perfect even—but that only made it more absurd.

  The Gehenna…The lost passage between Hell and Earth was a dream sealed long ago. And now, it would open again.

  With it, all of Hell’s primordial evils will fight for control. The one to secure it is going to roam free over Earth, fulfilling their instinct of destruction but doomed from their own short-sightedness.

  The Demon Lord turned and completed his walk back to the cabin.

  Inside, Pride waited in silence.

  “The appearance of the Gehenna could mean our total destruction,” the Lord said plainly. “But it can also be an opportunity. The 72 legions and their commanders must prepare. We will seize victory—by any means necessary.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  There is still one obstacle however… Even before all the primordial evils notice, I have to get to Gehena before Adam Hunt does.

  *

  A couple of days later, Soren and Argos arrived at a busy avenue that had been blocked off by a sizable mob. The city’s Police Department, in collaboration with the Commission, had set up a wide security perimeter in front of one of the many European-style buildings lining the street.

  Before approaching the scene, Soren suddenly veered off into a nearby pastry shop, drawing the attention of everyone inside.

  “Uh, g-good m-morning,” the female attendant stuttered, her voice cracking. Despite trying to maintain a commercial smile, her face was filled with barely concealed anxiety.

  “Anti-Demon Commission of Europe,” Soren said plainly, flashing his official identification. Then, pointing toward the display case, he added, “You see that cake right there?”

  The attendant hesitated, glancing to the side before refocusing on him.

  “I’d like half of that chocolate cake to go, please,” he said while fishing out some loose cash from his wallet.

  “Ah, o-of course!”

  The patrons seated around the shop, quietly enjoying their desserts, were just as startled. Some pulled out their phones and started recording.

  What truly drew their attention wasn’t Soren, but the presence of the dog devil standing calmly behind him—arms crossed, gaze unflinching. Despite the discomfort, Argos noted that the attention was ever so slightly increasing his existential strength. Not by much, but enough to be noticed.

  “Here you go…” the attendant said nervously.

  Soren immediately stuffed a bite into his mouth and took the rest to go. Still munching, he exited the shop and returned to the crowded street, heading straight toward the officers and agents stationed at the scene.

  He quickly recognized a familiar face— the Third Division agents who had worked with him briefly during the Crocodile and Alligator subjugations.

  “Hello there… Musashi? Matsumoto?” he guessed carelessly.

  “Matsuda. Third Division,” the man corrected, unimpressed. “You showed up earlier than expected,” he added with a touch of unreadable sarcasm.

  Matsuda's gaze drifted to the pastry bag hanging from Soren’s hand and the smudge of chocolate on his lip.

  “I wasn’t told much aside from the fact that it’s urgent,” Soren replied, wiping his mouth with his thumb. “So, what’s the situation?”

  Before answering, Matsuda glanced around at the civilians and officers still distracted by Argos's presence. He gestured for Soren to follow him to a more discreet location.

  “We’ve got intel on a group of heavily armed criminals in the middle of a demon ritual. We were expecting a fourth or third-grade entity.”

  Soren nodded and looked around. All he saw was a typical city street—far from the ideal location for anything low-profile. The mention of "heavily armed" also didn’t match the peaceful facade.

  “Where exactly?”

  “You see that flower shop over there?” Matsuda pointed to a quaint storefront just off the main avenue. “It’s a front. The whole operation is based underground. We cleared the entrance, only to find a hidden passageway, and it’s heavily guarded. We suspect the ritual is happening below.”

  “I see,” Soren said, handing Matsuda both his jacket and the pastry bag as if passing them to a hotel bellboy.

  Just as they were preparing to move in, Matsuda stepped in again with a note of caution.

  “Listen, this job isn’t like most others. There are multiple human targets—and they’re all heavily armed.”

  “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

  Despite being a demon hunter, there were times when agents were forced to deal with humans. That made training more complicated—not just logistically, but psychologically. Taking a life was no small matter.

  But Soren didn’t seem particularly troubled.

  I told myself I wouldn’t kill people anymore… but if they’re working with demons, then there’s no issue, he rationalized to himself, loading both silver pistols.

  “Technically, I’m acting as a law enforcement officer, right?” he asked. Matsuda gave a reluctant nod. “So if they shoot first, it’s self-defense.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Soren walked straight into the flower shop.

  “There are also civilians involved in this operation,” Matsuda called after him. “You need to proceed with absolute care!”

  But Soren semeed to barely acknowledged the warning.

  What the hell were Director Hunt and Subdirectress Nasaki thinking, sending this kid alone? Matsuda thought, rubbing his temple.

  “Don’t worry,” Soren called over his shoulder. “Despite everything, I like to be careful.”

  Inside the shop, signs of struggle were everywhere—rubble scattered across the floor, floral displays torn apart, shattered vases and blood stains mixing with soil. A SWAT barricade had been set up near the rear.

  With a sigh, Matsuda slung a black bag over the store counter and gestured for Soren to gear up.

  Soren immediately strapped on a Kevlar vest, eyes scanning the available equipment. There were flashbangs, pistols, tactical belts, and various supplies—tools he gladly used instead of dipping into the arsenal stashed in the back of his rusty van.

  “Not having to spend my own… I like this,” he said, snapping the belt into place.

  Once fully equipped, they approached the SWAT barricade that protected the trapdoor leading underground.

  “Any last-minute advice?” Soren asked casually to Matsuda, who chose to remain observant. He then looked towards the devil, awaiting his participation. “So?”

  “I smell several humans directly below,” Argos replied, focused.

  Soren moved to open the hatch, but the moment it creaked, bullets flew upward. He slammed it shut instantly, narrowly avoiding being shot.

  The officers jumped, startled, but held their ground.

  “I see…” Soren muttered, reaching for a grenade from his belt.

  He flipped the hatch open just enough to toss it down. Yells erupted from below, followed by the sharp blast of detonation.

  Argos raised an eyebrow.

  Soren just shrugged—then jumped straight into the chaos.