He has companions, Azrael realized with growing unease as the rough voice echoed through the underground tunnels.
The logic was sound, no rational demon would venture to such a remote location for personal business unless circumstances demanded absolute privacy. More concerning was the deceased demon's obvious intent to alert his allies before Pride had silenced him permanently.
After adjusting the ill-fitting garments to better conceal his human physique, Azrael pulled up the borrowed pants and began moving toward the source of the voice with affected urgency. His performance needed to suggest someone hurrying back from necessary but time-consuming business.
Why would anyone choose such a distant location for basic bodily functions? he wondered, though he felt grateful for the privacy it had provided. Discovery immediately upon breaching their concealment would have forced him into open combat before gathering essential intelligence about their numbers and capabilities.
The voice grew louder as he navigated through the underground complex, its echoes distorted by stone corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly into the mountain's depths. The architecture spoke of hasty but functional construction, rough-hewn passages connecting natural cave systems with brutal efficiency rather than aesthetic consideration.
After several minutes of careful navigation, Azrael spotted four humanoid figures stationed around what appeared to be a crude sentry post. Each possessed the same distinctive animal ears he'd observed on his victim, their pointed tips twitching with obvious alertness despite their relaxed postures.
Fortune favored his approach, the exit from his improvised tunnel had placed him behind a substantial earthen mound that blocked the guards' line of sight. Even better, the demons seemed more focused on casual conversation than vigilant observation, their attention directed inward rather than monitoring their assigned sector.
Professional soldiers would never allow such lax security, Azrael noted with tactical disdain. These are militia at best, survivors playing at being warriors.
Just as he prepared to emerge from concealment, a powerfully built male demon with scarred forearms raised his hand in a commanding gesture.
"Stop right there," the demon commanded, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "You take a shit and forget all the protocols?"
Azrael froze mid-step, his mind racing to process this unexpected challenge. Protocols? What protocols?
The deceased demon's complete lack of cooperation had left him dangerously ignorant about even basic operational procedures. Without proper context, any response carried the risk of immediate exposure.
As the guards' expressions gradually shifted from mild annoyance to growing suspicion, Azrael felt Pride responding to his rising tension. His right hand, concealed behind his back, began darkening as the symbiote prepared for emergency action.
If diplomacy fails, overwhelming violence remains an option, he calculated grimly. According to his spiritual pressure readings, the strongest demon present barely achieved Bronze-level advancement. Against Pride's enhanced capabilities, the entire sentry post could be eliminated within seconds.
However, such direct action would create problems that extended far beyond immediate survival. These guards were obviously part of a larger defensive structure, and their simultaneous disappearance would trigger investigations that would compromise his infiltration before it truly began.
Just as Azrael prepared to transition from stealth to slaughter, his enhanced senses detected something unexpected, a faint but distinctive odor that reminded him of Pride's most recent genetic acquisition.
Understanding dawned with sudden clarity. The [Scent Gland Generation] module extracted from his victim wasn't merely an offensive capability, it was apparently part of their identification protocols.
Worth attempting before resorting to mass murder, he decided, already switching Pride's active genetic configuration.
Currently active genetic modules: [Scent Gland Generation] 1/1
A stream of yellow, noxious gas erupted from Azrael's position with impressive authenticity. The putrid stench filled the immediate area with eye-watering efficiency, creating an olfactory experience that would have been unbearable under normal circumstances.
The transformation in the guards' demeanor was immediate and dramatic. Tension evaporated as recognition replaced suspicion, though their expressions suggested this particular identification method wasn't exactly pleasant for anyone involved.
"Why so slow this time?" the muscular leader asked with obvious relief, though he took several discrete steps upwind. "Usually you're much faster with your ability deployment."
Success flooded through Azrael as his gamble paid off perfectly. Arranging his features into an expression of embarrassed discomfort, he offered the most plausible explanation he could devise.
"My stomach's still acting up," he replied with convincing sheepishness. "I think there might have been something mixed in with my last meal."
The four guards exchanged meaningful glances before simultaneously holding their breath and backing away from his position with obvious haste. Their synchronized retreat spoke of previous experiences with whatever digestive complications his assumed identity typically endured.
The squad leader's eye twitched as he processed this information. "Try to get it under control soon," he said with poorly concealed distaste. "Today's our family's turn for duty rotation, and shift change happens in a few hours."
His tone carried the resigned frustration of someone assigned to undesirable duties through bureaucratic misfortune rather than personal failing.
"Just our luck," he continued with growing irritation. "Master Viktor sends us to this remote posting while everyone else gets comfortable assignments closer to the main complex."
The leader's voice rose with indignation as he warmed to his complaint. "If you ask me, this whole operation is excessive paranoia. We're guarding one entrance against some surface-dwelling primitives. What are they so afraid of?"
One of his subordinates tugged discretely at the leader's sleeve, shooting meaningful glances toward Azrael with obvious discomfort. The gesture carried clear warning about the direction of their conversation.
The leader paused mid-sentence as understanding dawned. "Oh, right. I forgot, Kael," he said with genuine contrition. "Your parents died fighting those surface creatures during the initial invasion."
His apology carried authentic remorse rather than calculated manipulation. "Sorry about that. I shouldn't have been so dismissive."
The remaining guards suddenly found the stone walls fascinating, their gazes carefully directed away from what had become an awkward social situation. None wanted to be caught staring during such a personal moment.
Azrael studied the leader's earnest expression, uncertain whether he was witnessing genuine social clumsiness or subtle psychological manipulation designed to test his reactions. Either way, the information provided valuable context for his assumed identity.
Orphaned by the initial surface invasion, he cataloged mentally. That explains the deceased demon's positioning here, probably assigned to perimeter duty rather than critical defensive roles due to personal motivations that might compromise judgment.
The background also provided perfect justification for antisocial behavior or emotional withdrawal if his performance required such adjustments.
"No offense taken," Azrael replied with what he hoped was appropriate magnanimity. "You didn't mean anything by it."
The leader opened his mouth to respond, but approaching footsteps interrupted their conversation. Five new demons emerged from the underground complex's depths, their appearances immediately distinguishing them from Azrael's current companions.
Where his group possessed pointed, fox-like ears, the newcomers displayed round, furry appendages that suggested completely different subspecies or tribal affiliations. The distinction was immediately obvious and apparently significant within their social hierarchy.
"Shift change," announced the newcomer's apparent leader without preamble. "You're relieved. Report back to your assigned quarters."
The muscular demon who'd been questioning Azrael showed no interest in prolonging their duty period. He gathered his squad with brisk efficiency and led them away from the sentry post without ceremony or unnecessary conversation.
The journey through the underground complex revealed its impressive scope. Azrael counted several additional guard posts during their transit, each staffed by different demon subspecies but maintaining similar security protocols. The defensive network clearly extended far beyond what his initial reconnaissance had suggested.
More troubling was the pervasive atmosphere of tension and fear that seemed to grip every demon they encountered. Conversations were conducted in whispers when they occurred at all, while most individuals moved through the corridors with the furtive urgency of people expecting catastrophe at any moment.
This isn't the confident behavior of an occupying force, Azrael observed with growing interest. These demons are terrified of something, but whether that something is the surface-dwellers or their own leadership remains unclear.
As they walked, Azrael maintained careful silence, recognizing that his ignorance of local customs and personalities made every word a potential trap. The deceased demon's social connections, personal history, and typical behavior patterns were complete mysteries that couldn't be risked through casual conversation.
The more I speak, the more opportunities I create for exposure, he reasoned pragmatically. Better to seem withdrawn or ill than to say something that reveals my deception.
If pressed for explanation, he could always claim his stomach problems were affecting his mood and appetite for social interaction. Such complaints would fit perfectly with the digestive issues he'd already established.
After what felt like endless navigation through identical stone corridors, their group finally halted before an imposing barrier that dominated the underground complex's central area.
The massive metal door stretched at least ten meters in height, its surface inscribed with intricate magical circles that pulsed with faint but unmistakable supernatural energy. The craftsmanship spoke of significant investment in both materials and expertise, this wasn't improvised defensive construction.
Surrounding the barrier, dozens of temporary shelters had been erected in neat military formations. Tents and lean-tos housed what appeared to be a substantial garrison force, their numbers far exceeding what Azrael had anticipated for a simple evacuation.
Thank the ancestors I didn't attempt a frontal assault, he thought with genuine relief. Trying to breach such a fortified position would have been suicide, even with all his cards deployed simultaneously.
More concerning was the congregation of demons gathered before the metal door, dozens of individuals who shared his current appearance down to the smallest detail. The homogeneous crowd suggested either strict tribal organization or some form of biological manipulation that enforced physical conformity.
Standing on an elevated platform that commanded the entire assembly area, a middle-aged male demon surveyed the arriving guards with cold, calculating eyes. His spiritual pressure hit Azrael like a physical blow, confirming his worst fears about the complexity of their defensive arrangements.
Silver-level, he identified with sinking dread. And if this is just middle management, what does their actual leadership look like?
"Everyone's accounted for," the Silver-tier demon announced with bureaucratic precision. "Return to your assigned quarters for rest and meal allocation."
This had to be Master Viktor, the authority figure the guard leader had mentioned earlier. His casual command of such a substantial force suggested the underground complex housed a complete military organization rather than simple refugees.
The implications were staggering. If every entrance was defended by Silver-level demons backed by substantial garrisons, the true scope of their evacuation became clear. This wasn't a desperate flight from overwhelming force, it was a strategic withdrawal that preserved their military capability while forcing attackers to commit to costly siege operations.
Senior Brother Corey's warnings were completely justified, Azrael realized with growing respect for his third senior brother's combat experience. The danger level of high-tier secret realms has been severely underestimated.
But greater risks implied greater rewards. Even if these Silver-level demons were considered fugitives by Association standards, their numbers alone represented tremendous value when converted to materials through Wolfgang's trading networks. A successful elimination of this entire complex could fund his advancement for years.
As they followed Viktor toward what appeared to be the main residential district, Azrael's enhanced vision detected an extensive settlement stretching deep into the mountain's interior. Simple but functional housing had been carved directly from the living rock, creating a subterranean city that could support thousands of inhabitants.
Standing prominently in the settlement's central plaza, two figures awaited their arrival, a young male demon whose bearing suggested high rank despite his apparent youth, and an elderly individual whose spiritual pressure made Azrael's enhanced senses scream warnings about imminent danger.
Another Silver-level at minimum, he assessed grimly. Possibly higher.
Viktor approached the pair with obvious deference, his confident demeanor transforming into respectful subordination that spoke volumes about the established hierarchy.
The elderly demon whispered something inaudible in Viktor's ear, his words causing the younger demon to turn and study Azrael's group with suddenly focused attention.
"Marcus," Viktor called out, his voice carrying across the plaza with clear authority. "Come forward."
The muscular guard leader who'd questioned Azrael about protocols stepped forward with obvious nervousness, his earlier confidence completely evaporated in the presence of superior authority.
So his name is Marcus, Azrael noted, filing away another piece of information about the social structure he was attempting to navigate.
Marcus prostrated himself before the elderly demon with practiced submission, his entire body radiating tension as sweat beaded across his forehead despite the underground complex's cool temperature.
The old demon's voice carried gentle warmth that somehow made his words infinitely more terrifying than shouted threats would have been. "Relax, my friend. I simply need to ask whether you observed anything unusual during today's patrol assignment."
Marcus's throat worked visibly as he swallowed his fear before responding. "Nothing abnormal to report, Elder. Our sector remained completely quiet throughout the entire shift."
The elderly demon's smile widened with predatory satisfaction, his ancient eyes glittering with intelligence that suggested he knew far more than he was revealing.
"Indeed?" he asked with deceptive casualness. "Then perhaps you can explain why our perimeter detection barrier was triggered exactly forty-seven minutes ago?"
The question hung in the air like a death sentence, while every demon in the plaza held their breath and waited to see how Marcus would respond to what was obviously an impossible situation.
Azrael felt Pride stirring beneath his skin as the symbiote prepared for the violence that seemed increasingly inevitable. His infiltration had been discovered, and now he faced a choice between maintaining his cover through whatever explanation might prove acceptable, or abandoning stealth entirely in favor of survival.
Either way, the next few moments would determine whether he completed his mission as a spy or a warrior.