Azrael cast a glance out the window, his silhouette sharp and tense in the golden-red light of the setting sun. “The time is drawing near,” he said coolly. “Soon we can finally leave this cursed place.”

19:40

Everything was ready. They stood before the door, equipped, their faces marked by a mixture of determination and fear.

The screams outside—distant, yet relentless—seemed to welcome them. Part of them longed nothing more than to leave the house and escape this nightmare. Yet another part, governed by primal fear, whispered: Hide. Take cover.

Azrael took a step forward, his voice calm but unmistakable. "Let's go. Remember: we're not saving anyone. No unnecessary interactions. We only fight if we have to."

Lyren nodded slowly. "Understood."

Bartho was, as always, in the forge. Uunmoved, almost stoic, as though the hell outside didn't exist for him. His eyes spoke a different language, yet he silently obeyed the rules. They couldn't stop him without using force, so all they could do was ask: "Don't leave the room."

Three knocks loud, one soft, four quick—only with this pattern would he open the door. "I hope he doesn't do something stupid," Azrael silently prayed.

Lyren sighed. "I'm worried about him."

Azrael didn't look at him, instead focusing on the door before them. "We’re all worried. But there's nothing we can do."

A brief moment of silence passed, and then he whispered almost to himself, "I hope we survive this."

They left the house quietly. Immediately, the scent of copious amounts of blood filled their noses. It mingled with the smell of burning wood.

They stepped outside.

Splash.

The dull sound made them stop. Azrael's gaze fell downward. Blood. It spread like streams after a heavy rain through the streets, shimmering in the pale light of the moon.

But they did not hesitate. With heavy steps, they moved forward, ignoring the sticky wetness on their boots. The street ahead of them was empty. Or more precisely: there was no one alive. Bodies lay everywhere, at least a dozen, carelessly scattered like discarded toys that someone had tired of.

A cold shiver crawled up Azrael's back, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. They stayed close to the shadows of the house walls, moving silently and hunched. Their destination lay near the center, a large warehouse.

As they turned into the next street, the wind shifted. It carried something with it, a melody, quiet and disturbing, like the lullaby of a madman.

"I grill, oh I grill, 'cause that's my thrill,

Flames rising high, it's such a skill.

Even my neighbor, oh so near,

On my grill, they disappear.

Tender and juicy, seasoned just right,

They’ll be my dinner, oh, tonight.

Sizzling and golden, a feast so divine,

Well-fed and tender, they’re truly mine."

The words made Lyren pale. Azrael shot him a quick glance, his own expression tense. Then, they saw it.

A fire blazed in the darkness, a bright, ominous point in the chaos of the night. The sight made Lyren gag, his body instinctively curling. Azrael tasted the bitter tang of bile in his throat, but he forced himself to remain calm.

There he was. The man with the axe.

He danced around the fire, his movements jerky, unnatural, as if the music of his cruel song drove him. Around him lay the bodies. A pile of arms, legs, and heads, chaotically stacked, bloody monuments to his madness.

Above the flames, a body spun. A young woman, her belly slit open, her insides torn out. A stick protruded through her body, roasting her like a suckling pig over the hungry, licking flames. The fat dripped into the coals, sending sparks flying like tiny ghosts fleeing into the night.

The smell of roasted meat reached their noses.

Lyren staggered back, his hands over his mouth. Azrael felt his heart race, the danger like a cold grip around his throat. But he could not give in—not now.

Azrael drew his bow. The man stood in their way—a monster with a blood-smeared ax. There was no other path. This madman had to die.

He knew how much Lyren wanted to kill him, but speed was crucial. The faster he fell, the better.

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With fluid precision, Azrael drew the string and released the arrow. At the last moment, the man turned. The arrow sank with a sickening squelch into his shoulder. Azrael winced, then shouted, "Lyren, finish him off. I'll cover you!"

Without hesitation, Lyren charged forward, his swords drawn, eyes full of hatred. Azrael melted into the shadows, another arrow already on the string.

"Two new pigs," grunted the man, his voice distorted with excitement. With terrifying speed, he charged at Lyren, his heavy ax poised for a strike.

The weapon whistled through the air, a deadly arc of raw force. Lyren raised his sword at the last moment. Metal collided with metal with a deafening crash, sending Lyren flying back.

Boom.

The ground trembled as the weapon came crashing down, barely missing Lyren’s head. The boy rolled, landing on his knees. His sword gleamed in the moonlight. His strike aimed for the man’s flank. A clean cut. But the monster leapt into the air with a surprising lightness that contradicted its massive frame.

“Back!” Azrael shouted, his eyes fixed on Lyren.

Lyren shot several meters backward, a cloud of dust swirling around him. With a flash, the two short swords in his hands ignited, flames licking threateningly over the blades.

The next attack came like a storm. Lyren parried the axe again, the heat from his swords causing the metal of the axe to sizzle. At the same time, he swung one of his swords in a fluid motion toward the man’s leg.

The flesh sizzled, blisters forming, the acrid smell of burnt skin filling the air. The affected area began to burn, blisters rising in response, and the sharp scent of charring flesh spread out.

But the man did not react. No scream, no twitch – nothing. His madness seemed to make him immune to pain.

Azrael stayed alert, his eyes tracking every movement, the next arrow loosely nocked on his string. They had to finish him now – or they would be the next victims of this butcher.

The man grabbed Lyren by the throat, lifting him effortlessly and slamming him with brutal force against the wall. A guttural groan escaped Lyren’s lips as the bloody axe hovered menacingly over his head.

Suddenly, a hiss.

An arrow shot through the darkness, embedding itself deep into the man’s stomach. The force made him stagger. Lyren seized the opportunity, kicking him with all his might in the kneecap.

With a strangled growl, the man fell to one knee. Lyren quickly twisted free from his iron grip.

“Die, you bastard!” he yelled, driving his curved sword with a determined thrust into the man’s torso.

For a fleeting moment, the man’s bloodshot, maddened eyes cleared. His voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you... I’m sorry.”

Then his breath ceased.

Lyren’s shoulders sagged, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But there was no joy, no relief. Only emptiness. And regret.

He knelt, gently laying the lifeless body on the blood-soaked ground, whispering softly, “May you be forgiven.”

With his fingers, he traced the word “Forgiven” in the warm blood next to the dead man. For a moment, he lingered, before Azrael’s voice broke him from his trance.

“We need to move.”

They left the place as quickly as their legs could carry them.

But the darkness of the city had more horrors in store for them.

A few minutes later, they spotted two men. Their heavy bodies moved rhythmically over a motionless, young woman. Perhaps fifteen years old, at most.

Her eyes stared blankly into the void, wide open and empty, as if she had long since left the pain behind.

Lyren clenched his fists, but Azrael’s hand on his shoulder held him back. Without another word, they slipped past, their faces frozen into masks of control.

Every breath burned, every fiber of their being wanted to scream, wanted to fight. But they stuck to the plan.

The goal was close. Just one more street.

When they turned the corner, they froze.

At least a hundred people stood motionless between them and the warehouse. Their lifeless eyes locked onto the two boys. No sound, no twitch, only those stares, rigid and eerie.

Azrael felt a cold wave crawl down his spine. His breath was shallow, but he forced himself to stay calm. “I don’t think they’ll harm us… as long as we leave them be.”

Lyren nodded uncertainly, his hands already resting on the hilts of his swords. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

Slowly, they moved, veering in a wide arc, never taking their eyes off the silent figures. It felt as if hundreds of invisible hands were trying to hold them back. The stares followed them, searing into their backs.

But no one attacked.

With one final, hasty step, they reached the heavy door of the warehouse. The creak of the hinges echoed through the silence as they closed it behind them. For a moment, they leaned against it, both breathing heavily.

“As planned,” Azrael said, straightening up. “We’ll separate now. Did you memorize the locations well?”

Lyren flashed a crooked grin. “After all your rambling, it’d be a miracle if I didn’t.”

The warehouse was dim, filled with a musty odor. Dust swirled in the sparse light as they moved quietly. Finally, they found what they were looking for. Two massive barrels, mounted on wheels, with small drains at the bottom.

“Tar,” was written in thick black letters on the barrels.

Azrael knelt down, inspecting the mechanism and nodding in satisfaction. “Remember: Do it exactly as planned. And if you see a flame behind you... run.”

Lyren clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to be grilled either.”

They drilled small holes into the underside of the barrels and carefully connected the two trails. Then they separated, each heading in a different direction.

Azrael moved cautiously, careful not to draw unnecessary attention. He only paused to reinforce the pitch trail at particularly flammable spots, like an old barn.

But the city was vigilant.

Now and then, he noticed figures slipping from the darkness to follow him. Azrael gritted his teeth, kept his pace steady, and dodged until the pursuers abandoned the chase. His heart raced with every sound, every movement in the shadows.

He knew they wouldn't get a second chance.

22.59

Azrael was the first to reach the agreed meeting point. His white hair stuck to his forehead, dripping with blood—though not all of it was his. He had had to kill four people to get here. Every shot, every blow still echoed in his head.

A deep cut gaped on his left arm, hastily bound with cloth. Blood still seeped through, making his sleeve damp and sticky. Azrael ignored the pain. His gaze wandered back into the darkness, searching.

23.12

"Where is he?" Azrael muttered, peering into the silent night. "He should have been here by now."