"Asgard… sounds familiar somehow."
Jill, holding a collection of Norse myths, prompted a thoughtful murmur from Bul-Kathos.
The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil filled the forge, setting the moment's tempo.
"It says here the Thunder God wields a magical hammer that commands lightning."
Jill flipped through the storybook, his voice tinged with excitement as he read to Bul-Kathos.
"Ha, I've got something like that here too."
Bul-Kathos's reply was half-hearted.
He'd forged weapons that harnessed lightning long ago.
Son of Odin, the name of that legendary weapon.
He'd long forgotten who Odin was, but that didn't stop him from wondering how someone named Odin could birth a hammer.
Mythical tales held little charm for Bul-Kathos.
His days used to begin with meetings with an archangel, followed by endless tasks from dawn to dusk. Demons were slaughtered by the dozens at every encounter, just to satisfy his bloodlust.
When exhaustion hit, he'd find a spot to sleep, always downing a few swigs of liquor first, scanning the surroundings to ensure no demon survived to see another day.
Even the most seasoned healers, after examining Bul-Kathos, declared him perfectly healthy.
Myths, to him, were no different from daily life.
That hammer, constantly rumbling with thunder, had been used briefly before he tossed it into a corner.
Its power was too feeble for his liking.
Jill's face fell, not because Bul-Kathos dismissed the hammer as ordinary, but because his enthusiasm hadn't been met with genuine interest.
"If you're into that kind of weapon, I'll forge you one to play with once you're a great warrior."
Bul-Kathos continued his steady forging.
The legendary powers imbued in such gear, though he rarely cared for them, often embodied some rule of existence.
Death's Breath, that rare material, existed to give objects a chance to hold such rules.
Why else would it only drop from "powerful" demons?
Demons themselves were fragments of Hell's rules, their deaths manifesting a piece of that order.
On a rare day off, Jill was itching for something to do. Shuttling between school and the forge was getting too dull.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! This place is something else!"
A lazy, eccentric voice cut through the air.
A haggard-looking man stepped into the forge.
"There's something extraordinary here—man, that's exciting!"
He rambled on, completely at ease, as if he belonged.
Jill tucked away his storybook and darted to the other side of the table, keeping his distance.
His eyes fixed on the stranger, brimming with curiosity.
Messy hair, stubbled chin, a stained shirt with several buttons undone, and a crooked tie slung around his neck.
This guy was the picture of dishevelment.
Bul-Kathos kept forging, showing no interest in the newcomer.
"What's up, kid? My look catching you off guard?"
The man grinned at Jill, waving casually.
"Look at that—what a powerhouse of a body! Incredible!"
He turned to Bul-Kathos, his exaggerated tone dripping with insincere awe.
Bul-Kathos paused, tossing the material on the anvil back into the furnace.
"Scum."
That was his verdict on the stranger.
Tainted by traces of demonic and angelic essence, yet reeking of unrestrained sin.
Though his aura wove sin and justice together, Bul-Kathos had no patience for treating him like a normal person.
If not for the faint sense that this man's life was nearing its end, Bul-Kathos might've thrown him out without hesitation.
"Isn't that a bit harsh?"
The man, unfazed by Bul-Kathos's thunderous voice, responded with a cheeky grin.
Dignity seemed to mean nothing to him.
"A wretch stained by Heaven and Hell, steeped in sin—you don't even deserve to breathe!"
Bul-Kathos's hammer crashed onto the anvil. He turned, striding toward the repulsive stranger.
The mingled aura was like perfume sprayed on a rotting garbage heap—pointless and nauseating.
As if on cue, the man broke into a violent coughing fit, pulling a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and sticking it in his mouth.
"Hey, buddy, got a light?"
Suppressing his cough, he nodded toward the blazing furnace, showing no fear of Bul-Kathos.
For a man with little time left, there was little left to fear.
Bul-Kathos stepped closer, his white beard quivering with his movement.
"Fool, you'd better leave before I lose my temper."
This world's Hell was a shadow of the one he knew, and its angels lacked the righteous might to command respect.
Still, Bul-Kathos reined in his quicker-than-thought reflexes.
This man was worse than a thug.
"Don't be so hostile, pal. I sense you need my help—that's why I'm here."
The man fumbled in his pocket for a lighter, struggling to spark a flame.
"I think I still need that light."
He tilted his chin at Bul-Kathos again.
That earned him a swift grab by the collar, as Bul-Kathos hurled him out of the forge.
Unable to tolerate the man's antics, Bul-Kathos sent him flying.
Complex auras often meant complex people, but the stench of sin couldn't be washed away, not even by Heaven's purest springs.
Yet, a glimmer of light in the filth could never be fully smothered.
Chaotic types like this were best kept at a distance—otherwise, they'd bring nothing but revolting trouble.
Annoying as he was, there was no need to kill him. His body wouldn't hold out much longer anyway.
"Cough, cough! Here's my card—you look like you could use a professional's help!"
Sprawled on the ground, the man pulled out a crumpled business card, holding it aloft.
(End of Chapter)
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