There was no more time to lose.
Azazel darted through the narrow backstreets of Constantinople, where oil lanterns flickered dimly and the stones were still warm from the day's sun. The shadows wrapped around him like a cloak, the Codex's stealth effect pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. His coat fluttered behind him like wings of a predator. The city slept, but the hunter was wide awake.
Before climbing, he decided to circle the area and find the best way of escaping to the harbor. When he found the best road, he placed his suitcase next to someone's door.
He climbed the side of a nearby house with the practiced ease of someone who had trained in secrecy. With a firm grip and soft feet, he reached the tiled rooftop. A few more steps and a silent jump later, he landed on the roof of Basil's home—silent as judgment.
He took a breath.
Then, from within his coat, he pulled the explosive device—small, black, almost innocent-looking. A toy from the Black Market, bought with one hyperpyron, gold coin. It was quite expensive because the weekly earnings of Brimstone Barrel barely reached one or a half of hyperpyron.
This explosive looked like a miniature carriage. It wasn't too detailed and big, just enough to hide inside one kilo of explosive material.
He fastened beneath the tiles just above where the attic should be.
"Sorry, Basil," Azazel muttered.
Click. Boom.
The explosion was compact but precise, punching a hole through the roof with a muffled thump that resounded through the neighborhood. A cloud of dust and splintered wood curled into the air, obscuring the attic in total darkness.
Azazel leapt into the breach just as the smoke began to settle.
As he landed inside, his eyes flashed. The Codex responded, activating the next ability—enhanced vision through smoke and shadow. Like peeling back a veil, everything snapped into clarity.
Paper rustled in the thick air.
Artifacts and relics glinted.
And there—the safe, built into the wall. Exactly where the divination had shown him.
Azazel rushed to it, fingers already forming the code—the date of birth of Basil's apprentice, which the Codex had helped him uncover.
Click.
The safe creaked open.
Inside, buried beneath scattered scrolls and yellowed maps, relics and artifacts sat the object that shimmered in his divination:
—a bronze urn, etched with ancient glyphs. His grandfather's ashes.
He grabbed it.
Held it tight to his chest.
And ran.
There was no time for sentiment.
He bounded across the beams of the attic, and with a smooth roll, dropped back onto the roof, then down the side of the house, feet barely touching the tiles.
Azazel took a conveniently placed on the way of running his suitcase. He didn't waste time opening it and placing urn into.
Less than thirty seconds.
Like a whisper in the wind, he disappeared into the night.