The tribunal doors groaned open, their iron weight dragging across the marble floor like the claws of a beast. From within the chamber, the stench of something unholy still lingered—thick and heavy like rotting blood soaked in smoke. Asari stepped into the dying light of dusk, the crimson rays slicing across his blood-stained robes.
No one dared to follow him. No one dared to breathe.
The air outside was cold, but it was a cold that kissed the skin rather than clung to it. Unlike the cursed illusion that had gripped the tribunal—a grotesque mirage of hellish tendrils, rivers of flesh, and shrieking shadows—this air was real. And yet, it felt no less terrifying in his presence.
Students and instructors had gathered at the plaza just outside the building. Whispers slithered between them like snakes in the grass.
"Did you see it?" "His eyes—like voids…" "He smiled when they screamed."
Asari ignored it all. His boots thudded on the path, trailing bloody footprints that refused to fade. His gaze was fixed, hollow, as if staring beyond the reality others shared.
Aicha stood among the crowd. Her eyes trembled when she saw him. The boy who once helped her pick up books… The boy who pushed her wheelchair through mockery and bloodshed… That boy had just walked out of the tribunal that transformed into hell itself.
"Asari…" she whispered, but her voice vanished into the void between them.
He didn't turn to her.
He kept walking.
Within the tribunal chamber, the enforcers remained collapsed, drenched in sweat, some vomiting, some convulsing. What they had seen defied understanding. It wasn't just fear; it was the unraveling of the self. They had glimpsed a fragment of a soul so dark that even nightmares would reject it.
One of them screamed again. Just the memory made his bones itch. Another curled up like a fetus, mumbling prayers to gods that wouldn't answer.
And on the tribunal floor, where Asari had once stood, remained a single black feather. Not from any bird—its shape unnatural, sharp as blades and curved like crescent moons. It pulsed.
Asari walked to the edge of the academy's central lake, where the moonlight touched the water like silver threads. He looked at his reflection. But the surface didn't reflect him. Instead, it showed a boy—six years old—blood on his cheeks, staring at the disemboweled corpse of his mother, her stomach sliced open like an offering to some cruel god. His father crawling on the ground, legless, screaming until his voice bled.
Asari blinked.
The image vanished.
"You're still clinging to it," came a voice from behind.
Asari didn't turn. He knew that voice. That terrible warmth wrapped in chill. The hallucination born from his sealed soul.
It looked like his master. Dante.
"They saw what you are, didn't they?"
Asari remained silent.
Dante's illusion crouched beside him, eyes empty as hollow stars. "What you showed them was only the surface. A hint. But your soul, Asari… even the devils in hell fear it. You know why? Because you do not cry. Not for your parents. Not for the lives you take."
The lake bubbled.
Asari's fists tightened.
"I didn't ask to be this," he muttered.
"No one does," the illusion replied. "But you accepted it. That's what makes you different. That's why I chose you."
The water rippled again, but this time, it took shape. A figure, black and red, crawled from the lake. Not real. Not physical. But real enough for Asari. It was his soul—manifested.
A monster made of screams.
Its body was stitched together with memories. Its eyes wept black ichor. Its voice echoed with the agony of a thousand deaths.
"Why do you show yourself now?" Asari asked.
The monster spoke in his voice, distorted and layered. "Because they will come again. And next time… they won't be afraid. They'll come with holy blades and righteous fury. They'll come with numbers. And you, child of Dante, must decide. Will you run—or will you awaken?"
Asari said nothing.
At the academy, chaos unfolded.
News of the tribunal illusion spread faster than wildfire. Some wanted Asari expelled. Others wanted him executed. But the higher-ups hesitated. They had seen what he could do—and no one wanted to be the one to pull the trigger.
Yet, from one of the dark towers at the edge of the continent, a letter was sent. Sealed in wax, marked with an emblem of two swords crossing over a sun.
A hunter had been dispatched.
Not just any hunter—an Executor.
Someone meant to kill monsters.
Night fell.
Asari sat alone at the edge of the lake. The wind played with his blood-matted hair. The stars above twinkled mockingly.
Aicha approached, slowly, carefully. She didn't speak until she was right behind him.
"I'm not afraid," she said.
"I don't care," he replied.
She wheeled closer. "You could've killed them all, but you didn't."
He turned, just slightly. "That's because it's not time yet."
"Time for what?"
His eyes met hers. In them, she saw not rage… but mourning.
"When the gates open," he said, "and the real devils walk the earth… I'll be the one holding the key."
Aicha didn't understand. But her chest ached.
Because even in that terrible moment, she didn't see a monster.
She saw a boy—haunted, shattered, waiting.
And for the first time, she reached out.
Her hand, shaking, touched his.
"Asari… you don't have to be alone."
He didn't respond.
But he didn't pull away either.
Far away, deep within the underrealm of the Dummer continent, a bell rang.
It hadn't rung in centuries.
And every creature that heard it—demon, devil, or god—shuddered.
Because the bell signaled that the seal had thinned.
And the one carrying the Devil Cry was awakening.