In the ancient past, before the concept of demons existed, the human realm was
protected by a legion of powerful guardian angels. Among these celestial beings, one
stood out as the epitome of strength and leadership: Azazel. His prowess in battle was
unparalleled, and his presence commanded the respect and admiration of all who fought
alongside him.
Azazel was a figure of awe-inspiring power. His long black hair flowed like a midnight
river, and his black and gold armor glistened with an otherworldly sheen. A magnificent
katana, forged in the heart of a dying star, hung at his side, its blade shimmering with a
powerful light. His black wings, vast and beautiful, cast a shadow over his enemies, while
his pale skin and golden eyes radiated an ethereal beauty that was both captivating and
intimidating.
He led his fellow angels with unwavering determination, his focus on battle unshakeable.
However, Azazel's pride was a flaw that others could not ignore. Despite this, his might in
combat was undisputed. He fought alongside his partners—Beelzebub, Asmodeus,
Abaddon, Mammon, and Leviathan—against dark, godlike beings that threatened the
realm. These battles took place in the Guardian Realm, a sanctuary within the Realm of
Light where the angels resided and served their creator, the all-encompassing Great
Mother, Existence.
Female angels admired Azazel, but his heart was set on one: Sirene, a radiant angel of
higher rank who hailed from the purest reaches of the Realm of Light. Sirene, too,
harbored feelings for Azazel, though she rarely let them show. Their bond was strong,
forged in the fires of countless battles and mutual respect.
But then came the cursed day, when the Devouring Abyss—a god of destruction and dark
matter, an entity of pure nothingness—emerged to consume all creation. This being, more
powerful than Existence herself, sought to return everything to the void. It took a
physical form, an avatar of annihilation, and descended upon the Guardian Realm with a
ferocity that shook the very foundations of existence.
Azazel, Sirene, and the angels of both the Guardian and Light Realms united to face this
apocalyptic threat. They fought valiantly, but how does one combat nothingness itself?
Their strikes passed through the Abyss without harm, and the realm was slowly
consumed. Azazel and his companions fell one by one, their once-brilliant light dimming
into darkness.
In a final, desperate act, Sirene managed to trap the Devouring Abyss within the
Guardian Realm, severing it from its physical form and sealing the realm away. This
sacrifice, however, left her gravely weakened. The Guardian Realm, now isolated and
tainted by the Abyss, descended into darkness and transformed into what would become
known as the Underworld.
The angels, once beautiful and pure, became twisted, nightmarish creatures filled with
hatred and darkness. They cursed Existence, believing she had abandoned them, and
descended into madness. All but one succumbed to this insanity: Azazel, now the Demon
King, the fiercest and strongest of all. He ruled the Underworld with an iron fist, his name
spoken in hushed tones filled with fear and reverence.
Yet, a fragment of his former self remained. Azazel did not hate his creator. He spent his
existence battling the remnants of the Abyss, preventing it from opening portals and
merging with other realms. His life became a solitary vigil, a never-ending struggle to
contain the darkness within and around him. Though he had fallen from grace, Azazel
remained a legend, a guardian of the balance between worlds.
The transformation of the Guardian Realm into the Underworld marked the birth of
demons, the fallen angels who now roamed the darkness. Azazel, their reluctant king,
stood as a testament to the resilience and complexity of existence, forever fighting
against the encroaching void. This tale, filled with grandeur and tragedy, set the stage for
the endless struggle between light and darkness, a battle that would echo through the
ages and shape the destinies of many, including Johan and his brother, Malek.
Many years later, Sirene, now weakened but still radiant, often found herself lamenting
the fate of Azazel and the other fallen angels. Her heart ached for their torment, wishing
desperately that she could undo the suffering that had befallen them. One fateful night,
Azazel, ever vigilant in his battle against the void, found a rare moment of respite. The
relentless conflict took a brief pause, and for the first time in eons, he considered
venturing beyond the confines of the Underworld.
Azazel alone possessed the power to open portals to other realms, a gift that now
seemed more a curse. He longed to visit the Realm of Light, though he feared the
reception he would receive. To his former kin, he was no longer the proud guardian angel
but a demon clad in darkness.
As the night deepened, a portal opened, casting a spectral glow. Sirene, her senses attuned
to the ethereal, noticed the disturbance. Approaching cautiously, she beheld a demonic
figure through the portal's shimmering veil. Fear gripped her initially, but she steeled herself
for confrontation. The figure hesitated, then called her name in a voice she did not forget.
"Sirene," the familiar voice uttered, laden with sorrow and longing.
"Azazel?" Sirene responded, her heart racing.
Azazel stood at the threshold, hesitant to step through. Sirene, with a gentle smile, extended
her hand, beckoning him forward. As he crossed the portal, his transformed appearance
came into view: taller and more muscular, his skin a deep violet hue. His once flowing black
hair was now as dark as the void, cascading around two imposing red horns. Sharp claws
extended from his hands, and dragon-like wings spread from his back. He wore a black mask
devoid of features, save for the glowing red eyes peering through the holes.
Sirene gasped, momentarily taken aback by his fearsome visage. Yet, Azazel's demeanor
was calm, his aura one of despair rather than menace.
"I miss you, Sirene," he said, his voice breaking. "I miss our old days. My friends are now
monsters, and I... I am their king."
Sirene's eyes filled with understanding and sorrow. "I'm so sorry, Azazel. For everything.
For sealing you away, for the fate of your realm."
Azazel shook his head. "You did what you had to. It was the only way to save the world."
With a tender smile, Sirene reached for his mask. "Let me see your face, Azazel. You may
look different, but I know you are still the Azazel I admire."
He refused at first, but reluctantly, he removed the mask, revealing his face—still the
handsome angel he once was. Sirene's smile widened, her heart swelling with affection.
"See? You haven't changed as much as you think."
Azazel smiled, a rare sight, and thanked her. "Shall we go to the human realm?" Sirene
suggested, glancing around. "The other angels may not understand."
He agreed, and they found a secluded spot to sit and reminisce about the past. They shared
stories of their youthful exploits, the battles they fought side by side, and the laughter that
once filled their days. Azazel spoke of his prideful mistakes, and Sirene of her own struggles.
As the night wore on, Azazel grew more serious. "Sirene, there's something I've always
wanted to tell you."
She looked at him with a soft smile, encouraging him to continue.
"I love you," he confessed, his voice trembling. "Not just for your beauty, but for your
intelligence, your strength, and everything that makes you who you are."
Sirene blushed, her eyes glistening. "I've something to show you, Azazel. Look into my
eyes."
He obeyed, gazing into her deep blue eyes. As he stared, he saw beyond the physical,
witnessing the entirety of existence. Every realm, every particle, every cosmic entity—
creation and destruction intertwined in a dance of infinite complexity. He saw the material
realm, the dream realm, the underworld, the realm of light, the multiverse, and the core of
life itself. All of it was Sirene. She was Existence, the All-in-One and the One-in-All.
Azazel fell to his knees, overwhelmed. "My queen," he whispered, his voice filled with
reverence and awe.
Sirene knelt beside him, taking his hand. "My king," she responded, her words shocking him
to his core.
"My queen... what do you mean by king?" he asked, bewildered.
She gently pulled him to his feet. "Come with me."
Leading him to a small wooden cabin, she beckoned him inside. Azazel, still reeling from the
revelation, followed. Inside, he found himself in the Life Core Realm, Existence's sacred
domain. The room was bathed in a radiant white light, and on a beautiful bed lay Sirene, a
pure divine beauty.
Her long white hair flowed like liquid light, her blue eyes sparkling with an otherworldly
glow. Her pale skin was flawless, and her body a perfect embodiment of grace and allure.
Azazel stood paralyzed by her beauty, speechless and blushing.
"Come closer, Azazel," she said in her true voice, soothing and commanding. "You deserve a
reward for your loyalty and the pain you've endured." He took hesitant steps toward her,
standing beside the bed. Words failed him, but Sirene took his hand, her touch warm and
reassuring. He allowed himself to be led, and soon, they were lying together.
"Azazel," she whispered, "I wanted to experience life as my creations do. To feel their joys
and sorrows, their love and pain. And my journey led me to you."
"Why me?" he finally managed to ask, his voice barely a whisper.
"I will tell you everything one day," she replied. "For now, enjoy your reward, my king."
Azazel, overwhelmed with emotion, let himself be enveloped in her love. Months later,
Sirene gave birth to a child. She showed the baby to Azazel, who held his son with trembling
hands, the baby opened his beautiful red eyes and smiled at the sight of his father, tears of
joy streamed down Azazel's face.
"What will you name him?" Sirene asked, smiling.
"Malek," Azazel replied, his voice filled with pride and love.
Sirene nodded, her smile radiant. "A beautiful name for a beautiful child."
In this moment, Azazel found a peace he had long thought lost, holding his son in his arms,
beside the woman he loved.
In Azazel's absence, the underworld seethed with chaos and upheaval. Rumors spread like
wildfire, and a new ruler emerged, believing Azazel had forsaken his throne. This new order
was an affront to the balance Azazel had maintained, and his return was met with shock and
terror among the demonic legions.
Azazel's portal tore through the fabric of the underworld, and as he stepped through, a
palpable wave of fear rippled through the ranks of demons. They fell to their knees,
trembling at the sight of their rightful king.
"Who rules in my absence?" Azazel's voice thundered, echoing through the dark corridors of
the dark realm.
A lesser demon, quaking in fear, stammered, "His name... His name is Alex Crowley, my
lord."
"Alex Crowley?" Azazel's brow furrowed in confusion. Another demon dared to add, "He is
human."
"Human?!" Azazel roared, his rage igniting. "A pitiful human has taken my throne?!"
In a fit of wrath, Azazel unleashed his fury, decimating the demons in his path as he
approached the heart of his domain. The air crackled with his power, the ground trembled
beneath his feet.
Amidst the carnage, Azazel encountered his old comrades: Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Abaddon,
Mammon, and Leviathan. Each bore the scars of their fall, yet they stood united once more.
"How did Crowley seize control?" Azazel demanded, his eyes burning with righteous fury.
Beelzebub, ever the cunning strategist, responded, "His magic is unlike anything we have
ever encountered, my lord."
Mammon added, "Crowley seeks to prove himself mightier than you, Azazel. He wishes to
show he is worthy."
Asmodeus interjected, "He desires to become one with the dark entity, to merge the
underworld with the other realms."
Azazel's eyes blazed with fury. "Over my dead body," he declared, his voice a menacing
growl.
Leviathan, his voice hesitant, asked, "Why do you not wish the underworld to consume all, in
the name of the void?"
Azazel turned his gaze upon Leviathan, a look so filled with dread that it silenced the entire
assembly. "I serve only one true god," Azazel intoned, his voice a chilling whisper that
carried the weight of aeons. "I am prepared to do the impossible to destroy that entity. I am
the key and the lock to the underworld, the guardian of realms. And we are all trapped here,
bound by this duty, you are all trapped here down with me."
His comrades, faces etched with fear and remorse, bowed their heads. "Forgive us, Lord
Azazel," they implored.
Azazel's gaze softened, but only slightly. "Your apology will be accepted when Crowley is
vanquished."
Azazel and his comrades stormed Crowley's domain. The dark halls echoed with his
footsteps, a harbinger of impending doom. The demonic legions parted like a sea before
them, their fear palpable. Azazel, at the forefront, radiated a menacing power that seemed to
dim the very light around him.
"Mortal," Azazel's voice was a low growl, each word dripping with barely contained fury,
"leave now or feel my wrath."
Crowley, seated on Azazel's throne, laughed derisively. "Why should I fear someone like
you? You are soft, weak. Your emotions cloud your judgment and hinder the progress the
underworld deserves."
Azazel's eyes burned with an inner fire, but he maintained his composure. "I'll give you
ten seconds to leave," he warned, his voice echoing ominously.
Crowley smirked and then, with a flourish, declared, "Azazel, your secret is out. You are
engaged with an angel."
A murmur spread through the gathered demons, shock and disbelief mingling with their fear.
Azazel, however, chuckled darkly. "You mostly got it right," he admitted, his tone mocking.
"But the angel I am engaged with is no ordinary angel."
Crowley seized the moment, trying to sway the demons. "Azazel is a traitor! Humans are far
worse, for thier corruption is the key to elevating the underworld!"
Azazel slowly removed his mask, revealing a twisted smile that mirrored the sinister grin of
his future son. "Yes, humans," he said, his voice filled with contempt, "a miserable pile of
hate and lies. Fight me then, and die for their sins."
The air grew thick with tension as the battle commenced. Crowley unleashed his formidable
magic, dark tendrils of power lashing out towards Azazel. But Azazel, with a grace that
belied his monstrous form, dodged and countered with his claws, slicing through the very
fabric of reality.
Crowley summoned a storm of arcane energy, bolts of eldritch lightning crackling through
the air. Azazel met each attack with a ferocity that left the demons in awe. His claws, imbued
with a power that could cut through anything, rendered Crowley's defenses useless. Each
swipe cleaved through barriers, each blow shattering Crowley's spells.
"You are nothing," Azazel snarled, his eyes blazing. "A pretender in my domain!"
Crowley, desperation creeping into his eyes, summoned a swirling vortex of dark energy,
hurling it towards Azazel. But the demon king was relentless. He tore through the vortex
with ease, his claws cutting through the darkness.
The two combatants clashed, a whirlwind of power and fury. Crowley, using every ounce of
his magical prowess, found himself overwhelmed by Azazel's raw, unbridled strength. The
ground beneath them cracked and splintered, the very air vibrating with the force of their
battle.
Crowley, bloodied and battered, stumbled back. "You... you cannot defeat me!" he said,
though his voice trembled.
Azazel's laughter was a low, menacing rumble. "I already have," he replied, his claws glowing
with a deadly light.
With a final, devastating strike, Azazel slashed through Crowley's defenses, leaving a deep,
gaping wound across the sorcerer's chest. Crowley cried out in pain, his power faltering. He
knew he was outmatched.
"You nearly had me, Azazel" said Crowley, his voice mixed with pain. "Your end is inevitable,
death comes for us all."
"Death can have me when it earns me. Can't wait to see how your story ends." Azazel's
voice was sinister, accompanied by a twisted smile.
Crowley, clutching his wound, staggered back. He cast one last, hateful glance at Azazel
before conjuring a portal and escaping to the human realm. The demons, witnessing their
king's triumphant return, roared in approval, their loyalty and fear firmly reinstated. Azazel
reclaimed his throne, his comrades standing by his side. He surveyed his realm, a sense of
grim satisfaction washing over him. The underworld was his once more, he is the guardian
of realms.
Years passed, and the legend of Azazel grew darker. In the underworld, he became known
as the cruelest demon, his iron fist the only force capable of maintaining order among the
chaotic masses. The underworld, teeming with nightmarish creatures, thrived on savagery
and power. To control such a realm, Azazel imposed relentless and brutal rules.
Absolute Loyalty: Any demon found conspiring or disobeying Azazel's direct commands
would face immediate and excruciating punishment. Betrayal was met with a fate worse
than death, a prolonged torment in the Pits of Eternal Agony.
Tribute and Sacrifice: Lesser demons were required to offer tributes of blood and power.
Failure to provide the demanded offerings resulted in their essence being consumed by
Azazel himself.
Territorial Dominance: Demons had to constantly prove their strength. Weakness was not
tolerated. Those unable to defend their territory were mercilessly obliterated.
Silence of Secrets: Any whisper of rebellion or insurrection against the all in one was met
with swift and brutal suppression. Azazel's spies permeated every corner of the
underworld, ensuring no seditious words went unnoticed.
To maintain this order, Azazel demonstrated a relentless and unyielding cruelty. His
punishments were legendary, each more horrifying than the last, designed to instill absolute
terror. Demons obeyed not out of respect, but out of a paralyzing fear of their ruler.
However, in the shadows, a secret organization formed—a resistance determined to
overthrow Azazel and plunge the underworld into anarchy. The resistance, a coalition of
powerful demons, sought to consume all realms, merging them into a single dominion of
darkness and chaos.
The demons of the resistance were Zariel, A cunning and deceptive demon with the ability
to manipulate shadows and conceal his presence. Lilith, the daughter of Asmodeus, a
seductive and deadly enchantress, capable of bending minds and hearts to her will. Baal, A
brutish and powerful warrior demon, unmatched in physical strength and brutality. Morwen,
A master of dark sorcery, her spells capable of causing immense destruction and pain.
Azazel's reign was constantly challenged by these insurgents. Assassination attempts
were frequent, each one more desperate than the last. Yet, every attempt failed. Azazel's
instincts and power made him nearly invincible. Each failure only served to fuel his rage,
driving him to hunt down the traitors himself, with a fervor unmatched.
One by one, he tracked them, his wrath leaving a trail of carnage. His hunts were
methodical, each strike a calculated blow against the resistance. Despite the secrecy of the
organization, Azazel's relentless pursuit brought him closer to uncovering the head of the
serpent.
Azazel's patience finally bore fruit when he discovered the location of the hidden
stronghold. It was a fortress carved into the obsidian cliffs of the underworld, shrouded in
dark magic to conceal its existence. Azazel, with his unmatched power, tore through the
barriers protecting it.
The carnage that followed was beyond comprehension. Azazel's onslaught was swift and
brutal. Zariel, attempting to flee into the shadows, was ripped from his hiding place and torn
apart. Lilith tried to enchant him, but her spells were shattered by Azazel's sheer
willpower, her demise a swift, merciless end. Baal, confident in his strength, faced Azazel
head-on but was outmatched and dismembered. Morwen's dark sorcery failed her, her life
extinguished in a blaze of Azazel's wrath.
Azazel's claws and power wrought devastation upon the stronghold. Demons screamed
and begged for mercy that would never come. The fortress crumbled under the weight of
Azazel's fury, reduced to ruins and blood-soaked earth. Yet, despite the overwhelming
destruction, the head of the organization remained elusive. In the aftermath, Azazel stood
amidst the ruins, his eyes blazing with unquenched fury. The head of the serpent had slipped
through his grasp once more. The underworld trembled in the silence that followed, the
demons aware that their king's wrath was far from sated.
Azazel vowed to find the mastermind behind the resistance. He would not rest until the
traitor was brought to justice. His reign, forged in cruelty and fear, would continue until
every last ember of rebellion was extinguished. The underworld, a realm of darkness and
despair, remained firmly under the rule of Azazel—the cruelest and most relentless demon
king.
Azazel sat upon his throne, the weight of centuries bearing down upon him. His mind
wandered through the annals of his own cruelty, the merciless rules he had enforced, the
countless lives he had shattered. The realization gnawed at him that he was worse than the
demons he ruled. He felt a darkness creeping within him, feeding on his wrath, pushing him
towards the brink of insanity.
In the silence of his throne room, a dark, mocking laughter echoed around him. It was as if
the underworld itself was mocking him. Azazel's eyes flared with anger as he commanded,
"Show yourself now, stop playing games."
A sinister voice responded, sending a chill through even Azazel's formidable spine. "I am the
head of the serpent, the one who feeds on your rage," it hissed.
Azazel's fury surged. "Reveal yourself," he demanded in an angry tone.
The voice continued, "You already know me, Azazel. I am the underworld. I am the
Devouring Abyss, the nothingness."
Azazel's eyes widened in realization. "You," he said. "Last time we met, you were roaring like
an animal. I'll have my revenge for what you did, for turning me and my kind into demons."
The entity laughed, a sound that seemed to reverberate from the depths of the abyss. "You
are all in your true form now, Azazel. You were never meant to be angels. Embrace the
darkness. Everything will return to nothing one day. It is already written."
Azazel felt a paralysis grip him, a dark shadowy figure materializing behind him. The entity,
the Devouring Abyss, loomed over him. "You've given me enough rage and pain to take
control. I made the resistance to fuel your anger. I gave Crowley the power to take your
throne just to infuriate you further. Every move, every act of cruelty, it was all orchestrated
by me."
Azazel's mind reeled as his anger increased. He tried to respond but found himself unable to
move or speak. The entity's presence was overwhelming, a dark, oppressive force that
sapped his will. "Yes, more hate. I like that," the entity taunted.
Azazel tried to stay calm, knowing that rage would only feed the entity further. The entity
spoke again, "You killed Lilith. Her mother Asmodeus is filled with sadness. Morwen's death
left her brothers broken. You did this, Azazel, to protect your wife and son, but what about
theirs? You are a monster, forcing others to do your bidding, treating them like animals. I
thought that they were your friends."
Azazel struggled against the entity's words, but a part of him agreed. He had become a
monster, no different from the demons he ruled. The entity pressed on, "Do you think
Existence loves you? She only cares for herself."
Azazel ignored the entity, trying to stay calm, praying silently for his wife Existence to free
him from this nightmare. "No, Azazel, no freedom," the entity whispered, reading his mind.
"You are all shackled in a prewritten path. Free will is an illusion. She forces you to do what
you cannot do for yourselves, all to satisfy herself before the inevitable end. All will return
to nothing. She is using you. Obey me, Azazel, and I will give you peace and acceptance of
the end."
Azazel fought against the entity's words, clinging to the beautiful memories of Existence.
But doubt gnawed at him, a small part of him agreeing with the entity. "Still not convinced?"
said the entity, then the entity showed Azazel a vision that shattered his resolve. He saw his
wife, Sirene, being assaulted by another man. Azazel's heart wrenched in agony. He wanted
to scream, to save her, but he was paralyzed.
"This is not real," Azazel told himself. "It cannot be real, the entity is lying." But the entity
spoke, "This is real, Azazel. She left you for him. She was using you."
Azazel's mind raced. How could this be true? Existence, the All-in-One, the goddess, was
supposed to be omnipotent. The entity laughed, "You said it your self, Azazel. She could do
whatever she wants. This is her choice."
But Azazel remembered that she had been weakened by the entity. He knew the entity was
stronger than her, having emerged from it. Yet, he could not look away, forced to watch as
the entity fed on his pain. Azazel's tears flowed freely as the entity's laughter grew louder.
"Despair, Azazel. Feed me, no matter what you do, you are still doing my will," the entity
taunted. Azazel tried to speak but found himself unable. His expressions conveyed his plea
for mercy, but the entity mocked him further, "Should I show you the same mercy you
showed the others?"
Azazel's cries intensified, the entity reveling in his torment. "Fine, I will leave you to think
about your choices, choose wise, Azazel, as if you have a choice anyway." the entity said, its
laughter echoing as it left Azazel in his despair. Azazel, the demon king, fell to the floor,
broken and weeping. He screamed, "What the hell are you?!"
The entity's voice responded with chilling finality, "Call me....Baphomet."
Azazel's scream echoed through the halls of the underworld, a cry of rage, pain, and
helplessness. He had been brought to the brink, his spirit crushed by Baphomet's malevolent
power. The underworld, his kingdom, now felt like a prison, a place where his darkest fears
and deepest regrets were laid bare. As Baphomet's laughter faded into the distance, Azazel
knew that his battle was far from over. The true enemy were not the demons, but the
darkness within himself. And that was a fight he was determined to win. "You will pay for
this, I swear." said Azazel as tears streamed from his crimson eyes.
Years had passed, and Azazel, once the undisputed king of the underworld, now felt more
like its prisoner. The realm that had once been his dominion had become a mental hell, a
place where his own wrath was turned against him, feeding the darkness within. He longed
to escape, to see his wife and son, and to exact vengeance on the man who had assaulted his
beloved Sirene. Abraham Van Helsing—a name that boiled his blood. But Azazel knew that to
act on his rage would be to fall into Baphomet's trap. He had to stay calm, to maintain
control, or risk losing himself entirely to the entity that lurked within the shadows of his
mind.
Time passed, and Azazel, through sheer force of will, managed to tear open a portal to the
material realm. Stepping through, he found himself standing on the soil of the mortal world.
The air felt different here, lighter, as though he could breathe freely for the first time in years.
But he knew his time was limited—he had to return soon, lest the underworld goes out of
control without him.
As he walked through the mortal landscape back to his wife's home, he spotted a familiar
figure under the shade of a tree. His son, Malek, was playing with a wooden sword, imagining
himself a great warrior. The sight brought a rare smile to Azazel's face. When Malek saw his
father, he dropped the sword and ran to him, throwing his small arms around Azazel's leg in
an embrace that melted the demon's heart.
"Father!" Malek exclaimed, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
Azazel knelt down, returning the hug. "Where is your mother, Malek?"
"She's inside," Malek replied, already turning to get her. Azazel watched as his son
disappeared into the house, his heart heavy with the weight of what he had seen and endured.
Moments later, Sirene emerged, her ethereal beauty undiminished by time. She saw the look
of despair on Azazel's face, the tears that streamed down his cheeks, and without a word,
she approached him. Her eyes, deep and understanding, searched his soul as she gently
touched his face.
"I know everything, Azazel," she whispered, her voice full of empathy. "It wasn't your
fault. You couldn't save me."
Azazel's resolve crumbled in her arms, and he held her tightly, his voice choked with
emotion. "I don't want to go back, Sirene. The underworld—it's a prison. I can't bear it
any longer."
Sirene stroked his hair, trying to soothe his torment. "It will be over soon, my love. I
promise."
Azazel pulled back slightly, his eyes filled with sorrow. "How? By letting Baphomet consume
all? Or by following a path you've already written?"
She shook her head gently. "No, Azazel. Baphomet is the one writing this story, not me. But I
plan to rewrite the ending, our way."
He searched her face for any sign of doubt but found none. "I count on you, Sirene," he
said softly, then added with a hint of his old fire, "Where is that bastard Van Helsing? I will
tear him apart with my own hands."
Sirene's expression grew somber as she replied, "He's already dead. Killed by the
vampire king, Dracula, who rules Nyxmoor."
Azazel felt a brief moment of relief, but it was tinged with disappointment. "I wanted to do it
myself," he muttered.
Just then, Malek returned, holding the hand of a smaller child—a boy with white hair and gray
eyes, the unmistakable sign of blindness. Azazel's heart froze as he realized who this child
was.
"Look, Father," Malek said excitedly, "This is my little brother."
Azazel stared at the boy, torn between conflicting emotions. A part of him rejected the child,
seeing him as the offspring of his enemy. But another part of him, the part that still held on to
some semblance of compassion, tried desperately to accept him.
Sirene, sensing his turmoil, picked up the child and brought him closer to Azazel. "I know
he's not your son," she said gently, "but he didn't choose to come into this world. He's
innocent."
Azazel looked into the boy's face, searching for any trace of Van Helsing, but all he saw was
a child who resembled his own son, Malek, except for the white hair he had inherited from his
mother. The boy's blind, gray eyes seemed to stare into Azazel's soul, filling him with a
deep sadness.
The child, still learning to speak, looked up at Azazel and asked, "Are you Superman?"
Azazel blinked, not understanding. "Superman?"
The child nodded, smiling shyly. "Mommy talks a lot about you. She says you keep the scary
boogeymen away."
Azazel couldn't help but smile, his heart swelling with a joy he hadn't felt in ages. "Yes,"
he said, his voice softening, "I am Azazel, the Superman."
The child's smile grew wider, and he reached out his tiny hands, asking Azazel to carry him.
Azazel lifted the boy into his arms, feeling the warmth of the child's embrace as he hugged
him tightly. Sirene and Malek stood by, smiling at the beautiful moment.
"What's your name, little Superman?" Azazel asked.
The boy tilted his head, as if trying to understand the question. "Me?"
Azazel chuckled. "Yes, you."
"I'm Johan," the boy replied proudly. "Mommy named me."
Azazel looked at Sirene, a soft smile playing on his lips. "A beautiful name for a beautiful
child."
Johan puffed out his chest, trying to appear older than he was. "I'm not a child—I'm a
man!"
Azazel laughed, the sound rich and full, as if the darkness within him had lifted, even if only
for a moment. "Of course, you are."
For the next few hours, Azazel experienced a peace he hadn't known in years. He watched
as Malek and Johan played together under the tree, Malek carefully guiding his younger
brother, making sure he didn't trip or fall. They chased each other around, laughing and
shouting, their joy infectious. Azazel and Sirene sat nearby, watching their sons with a mixture
of pride and love.
Azazel found himself lost in the moment, forgetting, if only for a while, the horrors of the
underworld and the shadow of Baphomet that loomed over him. It was as if time had stopped,
allowing him to savor this fleeting happiness.
As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Azazel knew that his time with
them was running out. The underworld called to him, its chaotic whispers reminding him of his
duty. One night, as they lay together, Azazel turned to Sirene and said, "I have to go back."
She nodded, understanding the weight of his words. "Soon, this suffering will be over," she
whispered, pressing her lips to his in a tender kiss.
As Azazel prepared to leave, Johan came running up to him, tears in his sightless eyes.
"Where is Daddy going?" he asked, his small voice trembling.
Azazel knelt down, pulling Johan into a hug. "I have to keep the monsters away, little
Superman," he said gently.
Johan's tears flowed freely as he clung to his father. "Will you come back?" he asked, his
voice breaking.
Azazel's heart ached as he answered, "I promise, I will come back." He held Johan tightly,
as if trying to absorb the boy's innocence and love into his own weary soul.
Malek appeared beside them, trying to lighten the mood. "Don't worry, Johan. Dad always
does this and always comes back smelling like burnt coal."
The tension broke as laughter filled the air. Azazel, a rare smile on his face, playfully chased
Malek, who ran, laughing, through the garden. "Who smells like burnt coal?" Azazel growled
in mock anger as he caught Malek and tickled him mercilessly.
"No one! I'm sorry!" Malek gasped between fits of laughter.
The joy of that moment stayed with Azazel as he finally tore himself away from his family and
returned to the underworld. But as he stepped through the portal, he carried with him the
memory of their love and laughter, a beacon of light in the darkness that awaited him. He had
made a promise, and for the sake of his wife and sons, he would keep it. One day, he would
return. Until then, he would face whatever horrors the underworld and Baphomet had in store
for him, knowing that his family's love was the only thing that kept him from falling into the
abyss.
Azazel returned to the underworld, the memory of his family's love sustaining him through
the darkness that awaited. Yet, the passage of time in the mortal world was cruel, and when
he finally emerged from the abyss, it was to a scene of utter devastation.
The once lively and serene home that had been a sanctuary for his family was now a ruin,
charred and broken. The sight made his heart sink, a deep, agonizing pain twisting within him.
The air was thick with the scent of death and destruction, the echoes of violence still lingering
like ghosts.
His steps were slow, heavy, as he moved through the wreckage, his mind numb with dread.
The earth beneath him seemed to pulse with the dark energy that had torn his world apart. It
wasn't long before he found her—Sirene, his beloved wife. She lay motionless among the
ruins, her once vibrant form now still and lifeless.
Azazel fell to his knees beside her, cradling her body in his arms. His hands trembled as he
brushed her hair back, revealing a bite mark on her neck. Rage and sorrow warred within him,
but he knew what Sirene was. She was no ordinary being, she was far more than mortal. As he
held her, her body began to turn to ash, crumbling away until nothing remained but her blood
stained clothes. Azazel's heart shattered at the sight, his chest heaving with the weight of his
grief. How could this have happened? He had only been gone for a short time, and yet his
world had been ripped apart.
A noise—small, hurried footsteps—snapped him out of his despair. He quickly covered
himself with a cloak, hiding his demonic appearance as he set out to find the source of the
sound. It was the only thing that could distract him from the soul-crushing fate he had just
endured.
He followed the sound through the broken landscape until he found one of Dracula's men, a
vile creature, attempting to escape with a small, frail figure in his arms. Azazel's blood boiled
when he saw it was Johan, his innocent child—partially conscious and clearly terrified.
Without a second thought, Azazel's fury erupted. He grabbed the man, lifting him effortlessly
before smashing him against the ground with such force that the earth cracked beneath him.
Over and over, he pounded the man into the dirt, reducing him to nothing more than a
formless, bloodied pulp. The rage that coursed through Azazel was unlike any rage he had felt
before, a raw, unfiltered wrath that consumed him entirely, but he had to remain calm.
When the man was nothing more than liquid, Azazel turned to Johan, who was trembling and
dazed, barely aware of what was happening. Azazel's heart ached as he knelt beside him,
gently picking him up and cradling him in his arms. "It's okay," Azazel whispered, his
voice thick with emotion. "Superman is here. You're safe now."
But Johan did not respond. His eyes were unfocused, his little body limp in Azazel's arms.
Desperation clawed at Azazel's heart as he tried to reach his son, but the child was too far
gone, lost in the horrors he had witnessed.
And then, a voice—soft, familiar—echoed in Azazel's mind. It was Sirene. "Azazel," she
said, her tone calm despite the urgency in her words. "I will explain everything later, but you
must get Johan to safety. Baphomet is breaking free, spreading his influence into other realms.
I need you now."
Azazel's eyes burned with unshed tears as he clutched Johan closer. "I just left for a short
time, and everything's gone to hell," he whispered bitterly. "What about Malek? Where is
he?"
"Malek will be fine," Sirene reassured him, though there was an edge of sorrow in her
voice. "He's a god, Azazel, but if you want to see him alive, you must stop Baphomet now.
There is no time to waste."
Azazel's heart was a storm of conflicting emotions—grief, anger, fear, and a deep,
overwhelming sadness. Baphomet had ruined his life, taken everything from him. The thought
of facing that monstrous entity again filled him with dread, but he knew he had no choice.
With a heavy heart, Azazel took Johan to an orphanage outside Nyxmoor, a place far enough
away that he hoped his son would be safe from the horrors that stalked their world. As he left
Johan there, his heart broke all over again, the pain almost too much to bear.
He knelt beside his son one last time, brushing a hand gently over the child's pale hair, a part
of Azazel felt that he might not return to Johan or Malek. Azazel's voice was a deep, resonant
whisper, carrying with it a sense of both sorrow and hope. "Your journey begins anew, young
one," he murmured, his words like a soft caress against Johan's weary mind. "You are stronger
than you know, and in time, you will find your path."
As he stood and turned away, a portal opened before him, swirling with divine energy.
Sirene's voice called to him from within, and he knew he had to go. He had to face
Baphomet, to stop the entity before it consumed everything he held dear. Azazel stepped
through the portal, leaving the mortal realm behind. But his heart remained with his children,
with the memories of the love and laughter they had shared. He carried those memories with
him, a flickering light in the darkness that awaited him.
In the desolate heart of the underworld, where shadows writhed and darkness reigned
supreme, Azazel stood before Sirene, his once-vibrant eyes now hollow and cold. The weight
of his task bore down on him like an iron shroud, but there was no turning back. His wife,
Sirene, the very embodiment of Existence, had told him what needed to be done: Baphomet,
the Devouring Abyss, the Lord of the Void, had to be pushed back, sealed away once more. It
was a task of monumental proportions, one that would strip Azazel of all that made him who
he was. But he understood; there was no other way.
"How can I fight the nothingness?" Azazel's voice was a mere whisper, devoid of the
fiery anger and deep sorrow that had so often defined him. Sirene, her radiant form flickering
like a distant star in the suffocating gloom, approached him with a soft, knowing smile. Her
touch was gentle as she placed her hand upon his chest, where his heart had once beat with
love, fury, and despair. Now, it was empty, a hollow void.
"You are a being of dark energy, Azazel," she explained, her voice calm and soothing. "If
you rid yourself of all emotion, become as hollow as the void itself, then Baphomet will find
nothing to feed on. Then you will be able to make him feel pain, but remember—he cannot be
killed. This battle will be like fighting fire with fire."
Azazel's brow furrowed slightly, a fleeting remnant of his former self. "How?" was all he
could muster.
Sirene's hand glowed with a soft light as she pressed it deeper against his chest. Azazel felt
a coldness spread through him, numbing every nerve, every thought, until all that remained
was a void—a reflection of Baphomet's own dark essence. His emotions drained away,
leaving behind an eerie calmness, an emptiness that neither pain nor joy could penetrate.
"When this is over," Sirene promised, her voice tinged with a sorrow she no longer had to
suppress, "I will give you back what was taken. But for now, you must become what you
despise to defeat what you fear."
Azazel nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. The hollowness within him was a cold
comfort, but it was a necessary one. Without another word, he donned his black mask, a
symbol of his transformation, and stepped into the shadowed realm where Baphomet waited.
The air thickened as Azazel entered the abyss, the oppressive weight of Baphomet's
presence pressing down on him from all sides. The darkness was alive, seething with
malevolent energy, and from within it, the void spoke, his voice a deep, echoing rumble that
reverberated through the very fabric of reality.
"Well done, Azazel. Well done." Baphomet's voice dripped with mockery, his words like
poison seeping into the soul. "You made the right choice. See? You had free will after all,
right?." His laughter was a low, sinister growl, meant to provoke, to enrage, to feed.
But Azazel did not react. His hollow gaze stared into the abyss, unflinching, unyielding. The
void within him reflected Baphomet's own essence, leaving the entity with nothing to latch
onto, nothing to consume. Baphomet's laughter faltered, turning into a snarl of anger.
"Clever girl, Sirene. But your favorite assassin will fall."
The fight began with a roar that shook the underworld to its core. Baphomet, a swirling mass
of dark energy and twisted shadows, lunged at Azazel, tendrils of blackness seeking to
ensnare him, to crush him. But Azazel was faster, his movements a blur of shadow as he
dodged the attacks with inhuman precision, impressive how someone could dodge the
shadows.
He lashed out with his reality-shredding claws, that could tear through the very fabric of
reality. The claws met Baphomet's essence, rending through the void with a sickening
screech. Baphomet felt pain—real, searing pain that coursed through his dark form. He howled
in fury, the sound echoing through the underworld like a death knell.
Sirene, watching from above, channeled her divine energy into a focused beam of light that
pierced through the abyss, striking Baphomet with a force that drove him back. The entity
recoiled, his form flickering and distorting as he struggled against the combined assault. But
Sirene was relentless, her power pushing Baphomet further and further down, deeper into the
darkness from which he had emerged.
The battle raged on for years, the passage of time meaningless in the endless void. Azazel
fought with a cold, calculated fury, every strike of his claws drawing more of Baphomet's
dark essence into the void of his own hollow soul. The pain he inflicted was nothing short of
agonizing, each blow weakening the entity bit by bit. Sirene's light, pure and unyielding,
seared Baphomet's form, preventing him from regenerating, from regrouping.
Baphomet thrashed against them, his rage palpable as he realized the extent of his
vulnerability. The void lord, who had once believed himself invincible, was now experiencing
pain. And it was unbearable. Baphomet's voice filled with fury and desperation said "You
cannot destroy me, Azazel. Not even your queen can. I am the void, the darkness in every
corner of existence! This world will return to nothing, and on that inevitable day, everything—
including you—will be mine!"
Azazel, his form a dark silhouette against the swirling chaos, turned to face Baphomet one last
time. His voice was devoid of emotion, cold and final. "In the meantime, you would best
burrow deep."
Baphomet was forced back into the depths of the underworld, his form dissipating into the
shadows. The entity's presence lingered for a moment, a dark whisper of malevolence,
before it was sealed away once more. Azazel stood still for a moment, his breathing steady, his
heart silent in his chest. The battle was over, but the cost had been great. He turned to Sirene,
who descended to his side, her divine light softening as she approached him.
Without a word, Sirene reached up and touched his face, her fingers brushing against the
edge of his mask. Slowly, she removed the mask, she leaned in and kissed him, her warmth
seeping into his cold form. The hollowness within him began to fade, replaced by a flood of
emotions that he had thought lost forever. Pain, sorrow, love, and relief all surged through him
as the void was filled with the essence of who he truly was.
Azazel pulled Sirene into a tight embrace, his heart pounding in his chest as he felt the
weight of everything they had endured together. "Now," he said, his voice cracking
with emotion, "We go find our kids."
Sirene nodded, her eyes shining with determination. "They are alive, Azazel. Both
Johan and Malek. But Baphomet wants Malek as his vessel to break free again."
Azazel's fists clenched, a renewed sense of purpose burning within him. He would
not allow Baphomet to take his son, to destroy what little remained of his family.
"Then let's go," he said, his voice firm. With that, the two of them set out on their
journey, the underworld behind them and the mortal realm ahead. Their reunion quest
had begun, and nothing would stand in their way.
To be continued...