The steam enveloping the hot spring seemed to thicken, saturated not only with warmth and the aroma of sake but also with the tension of words left unspoken. Jin's question—his audacious theory about the possible existence of a being whose very soul had a Sacred Gear embedded into its architecture as a fundamental part of it—hung in the air. It was heresy, a conceptual challenge to the very foundations of the world, and Azazel, the leader of the Fallen and a genius researcher, found himself, for the first time in a long while, confronted with an idea that both terrified and fascinated him. He remained silent for a long time, his drunken gaze becoming surprisingly sober and sharp, as if he were trying to peer into the very depths of Jin's soul, to find the answer there.
But no answer came. Jin merely smirked crookedly, took a final, large gulp of sake straight from the cup, and slowly rose from the water. The languor induced by alcohol and hot water mingled with mental fatigue. The conversation had been productive, but exhausting.
"Alright, scientist, that's enough theories for today," his voice sounded a little more relaxed than usual—the alcohol had indeed taken its effect. "All your 'conceptual paradoxes' are making my head spin. Time to get out."
Azazel blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and also stood up. It turned out they were both far drunker than they had seemed. The moment they climbed out of the water's supportive density onto the slippery stone floor, the world immediately lurched.
"Whoa," Azazel staggered, flapping his black wings for balance and nearly brushing against Jin. "It seems the gravity in this sector of the Underworld has become... more insistent."
Jin grinned and tried to take a step, but his foot skidded on the wet stone. He swayed in the other direction, nearly tumbling back into the spring. At the last moment, he grabbed onto Azazel's shoulder, and they leaned on each other like two old drinking buddies, barely managing to stay upright.
"Not bad," Jin muttered, feeling the world swim before his eyes. He wasn't used to this state. His body, with its perfect metabolism, usually processed any alcohol in a matter of minutes, preventing him from getting drunk. He'd once tried drinking alone, but after a whole bottle, felt only a slight dizziness that faded within ten minutes. "How did we even get drunk?"
Azazel, leaning on him, proudly puffed out his chest as much as their unsteady position allowed.
"Ha! Did you think I, the great Azazel, would drink ordinary rotgut?" He hiccupped, wafting the scent of sake over Jin. "That, my young friend, is 'Dragon's Tear'! An exclusive beverage produced by a very ancient and secretive devil clan. They age it in barrels made from the bones of sleeping dragons, adding their own secret ingredients. This stuff works even on Elder Gods. So it's no wonder even your anomalous organism couldn't resist."
"Not. Bad," Jin repeated, this time with a note of genuine respect. He swayed again, and they both had to take several clumsy steps sideways to avoid falling.
Their exit from the spring area turned into a veritable farce. They walked with arms draped over each other's shoulders, periodically bumping into walls and giggling for any and no reason. Their loud voices and unsteady gait attracted the attention of several demon servants from the Gremory estate, who watched with horror and bewilderment as the leader of the Fallen Angels and the mysterious guest behaved like a pair of schoolboys who had gotten their hands on alcohol for the first time.
When they finally reached the exit, where the others were supposed to be waiting, they found only Rias and Grayfia. The rest, tired of waiting, had already retired to their rooms. Rias, seeing this pair, pressed a hand to her forehead and sighed heavily. Grayfia remained utterly unperturbed, only her eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Azazel! Jin!" Rias's voice was full of reproach. "Are you out of your minds?! You look like..."
"Like two victors who have conquered a cask of sake!" Azazel finished for her cheerfully, attempting to salute her and nearly falling over. "Rias-chan, don't be such a killjoy! We were discussing the fate of the world! And we came to the conclusion... what conclusion did we come to, Jin?"
"That there is too much purple in the world," Jin answered with absolute seriousness, nodding to his own thoughts.
Rias looked at them, then at Grayfia, and a flash of despair crossed her eyes.
"Grayfia-san, could you..."
"It is already done, Lady Rias," the Queen of Satan replied in an even tone, producing a magical communicator from thin air. She pressed a button. "I will summon transport for the Governor-General now."
"Taxi-i-i!" Azazel roared joyfully upon hearing the familiar word. "Exactly! We need a taxi! Jin, let's go to my place! Let's continue the banquet! I have a few more interesting specimens in my lab!"
"Let's go," Jin agreed easily. The idea of visiting the Fallen Angel leader's lair, even in this state, seemed appealing.
A few minutes later, a Grigori magic circle appeared at the estate gates, from which stepped a tall, slender Fallen woman with long, light hair and a stern expression. She was one of Azazel's assistants. Seeing her boss hanging off the blond man's shoulder, she merely sighed wearily.
"Azazel-sama, at it again, are you?"
"Mika-chan!" he beamed. "My taxi has arrived! Meet Jin! Although... you've seen each other before... He and I are friends now! And he's coming with us!"
Mika swept Jin with an appraising but professionally impassive glance and nodded.
"As you command, Azazel-sama. Please, enter the circle."
With Mika's help, they somehow loaded Azazel into the center of the teleportation circle. Jin, waving goodbye to a stunned Rias, stepped in after him. The circle flared and faded, whisking them away.
***
In the Grigori headquarters, located in a separate sector of the Underworld, life went on as usual. After the failed operation in Kuoh and the subsequent capture of Kokabiel, the Fallen Angel organization was undergoing a period of quiet but tense restructuring. Azazel, having returned to direct leadership, had restored order with an iron hand, but his methods were far from the tyranny of the old leaders. He hadn't conducted purges or show executions. Instead, he gathered everyone who had been involved in any way with Kokabiel's adventure and gave them a grandiose dressing-down, seasoned with sarcastic jokes and unambiguous threats. And then... he simply sent everyone back to work.
Reynalle sat in the spacious but ascetically furnished room allocated to her after her return. The window overlooked the base's inner courtyard, where young Fallen were training. She hadn't left this room for a long time, locking herself away in her depression. The humiliation she had experienced was worse than any physical pain. Her pride, her belief in her own strength and beauty, had been trampled. She had been waiting for punishment. Waiting for a tribunal, torture, perhaps even execution for failing the mission and losing valuable agents.
But no punishment came. Instead, Azazel, upon his return from Kuoh, summoned her to his office. She walked to his office, expecting the worst. And he, sprawled in his chair and sipping sake, merely surveyed her lazily and said, "Your failure is Kokabiel's failure. He led you to a slaughter without bothering to check the enemy's strength. So consider yourself lucky. Kokabiel is now meditating in Cocytus until the end of time, and you... you are going for rehabilitation and retraining. And if I ever hear of you trying to start a war without my orders again, I will personally tear off your other wing. Now go, get to work."
And that was it. No torture, no tribunal. Just work. Lots of work. She and the other survivors—Kalawarner, Mittelt—were sent on the dullest, most routine assignments: patrolling distant borders, analyzing data, training recruits. It was humiliating, but it was a life.
Gradually, the shock and depression began to recede, replaced by a complex mixture of relief and anger. She was angry at Kokabiel for his madness, which had nearly cost them all their lives. She was angry at Azazel for his cynical mercy. And most of all, she was angry at that blond man. The memory of his power, of his cold violet eyes, evoked not only fear but a burning, impotent rage within her.
There was a quiet knock on the door.
"Reynalle? Can I come in?"
It was Mittelt. The small, gothic-lolita-like Fallen with two light-blonde pigtails. She was the youngest in their group, and the most emotional.
"Come in," Reynalle said indifferently, not taking her eyes off the window.
Mittelt slipped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
"How are you?" she asked quietly. "Kalawarner-san said you haven't come out at all."
"And where would I go?" Reynalle laughed bitterly. "To watch everyone whispering behind my back? 'There's the one who got her wing broken.' 'The one who was used and discarded.'"
"No one is whispering!" Mittelt objected. "Everyone is scared! After Azazel-sama said that anyone spreading rumors would be sent to clean the toilets, everyone went silent."
Reynalle turned around. "Really?"
"Yep," Mittelt nodded. "And besides... we're lucky, Reynalle. Really lucky. I heard Kokabiel was sent to the deepest dungeon, in Cocytus. They say no one has ever returned from there. And we... we were just demoted. We're alive."
They were silent for a moment.
"It's terrifying," Reynalle whispered. "But... you're right. We are lucky. Azazel-sama, for all his eccentricity, turned out to be a more reasonable leader."
"Yeah," Mittelt sighed. "It's a good thing he's in charge now. He's a total pervert, of course, but at least he's not a fanatic like Kokabiel. He's someone you can live with."
Reynalle nodded. She hated Azazel for his condescension, but she was grateful he hadn't destroyed her. It gave her a chance. A chance to become stronger. A chance to one day have her revenge.
"Come on," Mittelt stood up and offered her hand. "Enough sitting in here. Kalawarner-san is waiting for us in the mess hall."
Reynalle looked at her outstretched hand, then at her sincere, concerned face. And for the first time in a long while, a faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across her lips.
"Alright," she said, rising. "Let's go."
They walked down the long corridor of the Grigori base, illuminated by magical lights. Mittelt was chattering cheerfully about her training sessions with the recruits; Reynalle listened with half an ear, absorbed in her own thoughts. Suddenly, they froze. Loud, unsteady footsteps and equally loud voices were coming from around the corner.
A procession appeared. In front, supported on both sides by his assistant Mika and another Fallen, staggered Azazel himself. He was dead drunk, his black wings dragging on the floor, an idiotic smile plastered on his face. And beside him, trying to walk straight but periodically stumbling, was... him. Izayoi Jin.
Reynalle and Mittelt stood rooted to the spot like two statues of salt. Cold terror seized their limbs. There he was. The one. Here. On their base. And he was drunk. A drunken monster capable of defeating a Quadrum Fallen and annihilating magic. This was a hundred times more terrifying than a monster by itself.
Their brains refused to process the image. The memories of that night in Kuoh surged back with renewed force. Reynalle felt the phantom pain in her broken wing again, the icy cold of his voice, the humiliation of her powerlessness. Mittelt recalled his speed, his terrifying strength, the way he had toyed with and scattered her comrades. They stood, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, praying to all the gods (in whom they no longer believed) that they wouldn't be noticed.
The procession drew near. Azazel, seeing them, waved cheerfully.
"Oh, Reynalle-chan! Mittelt-chan! Hello, girls! My new friend and I..." he hiccupped, "...Jin... are celebrating the dawn of a new era!"
Jin, hearing his name, turned his head. His gaze was hazy, unfocused. He looked at the frozen girls, and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. He stopped, forcing the whole procession to halt as well.
"Oh," he drawled, his tongue slightly slurred. "Feathery ones..."
He stared at them for several seconds, and then a drunken, slightly goofy smile spread across his face.
Reynalle and Mittelt nearly lost consciousness from sheer terror. That smile was more frightening than any snarl.
"Alright, Azazel-sama, we must be going," Mika said quickly, trying to lead her boss away. She recognized the girls too and understood the situation could get out of hand.
They passed by. Reynalle and Mittelt didn't move, following them with their eyes until the sound of their footsteps faded at the end of the corridor.
"Dodged that..." Mittelt breathed out, her legs trembling.
Reynalle nodded silently, her heart pounding wildly.
"Hic..."
A quiet hiccup sounded right behind them. They whirled around.
Jin. He was standing right between them, having materialized out of nowhere. His hands familiarly draped over their shoulders, pulling them toward him. They smelled the sake and his warmth. They froze, paralyzed by terror, feeling his breath on their necks.
He leaned in, his face right between theirs. His violet eyes, though clouded by alcohol, looked from one to the other.
"See you later," he whispered with a drunken smirk, his voice hoarse and far too close.
And then he was gone. He simply turned and kept walking, leaving behind only a faint scent of sake and two Fallen Angels standing in an embrace in the empty corridor, unable to move from the shock they had just experienced.