Oblivion devoured the plane of existence.

  Faint bubbles in a waterless sea escaped a lipless mouth,

  Murkiness of an iridescent shade coated the world.

  Awareness wasn’t a luxury one possessed

  Gripping a formless body

  That drowned and sank

  Into the depths of nothingness.

  A fire lit up the waterless sea

  Illuminating a land of murky constellations,

  Moulding a snout of iridescence

  With orbs of light forming a pair

  Marked by obsidian irises,

  Following the formless body.

  Breathing an abalone inferno

  Unto the formless frame,

  The smouldering flames

  Awakened the insentient.

  Throwing open his eyes, Azrael sat up on the bloodied terrain, gasping for breath. Reflexively, he clutched his throat feeling for the wound that had taken his life. Against the dried, matted blood, he felt a smooth patch of unpuckered skin, imparting awareness tauter than the wolfman’s bite. “Requiem?”

  Peering around, he saw reinforcements spill into the mansion in droves, past the door he and Nakta had used. The demons passed by his seemingly lifeless frame, clambering up the stairs in heated turmoil. To them he was of lesser importance than the uproar upstairs, which worked in his favour.

  Digging up the fallen blades, the redhead propped himself up on his feet using the katana with a sudden spring in his step, sheathing his shorter blade. He noticed his body had moved with renewed vigour, a sense of vitality he had never experienced before. Strength flowed through him, like a gentle stream which could trickle off a ledge and channel the immensity of a waterfall.

  His body moved of its own accord, twisting his wrist and running his blade through a charging goblin from behind, slicing through flesh and bone as easily as butter. Then again, the goblin did most of the work. He just had to stand with slanting steel in hand.

  In the same flow, he swung his katana in a wide arc. The blade spilled the ghoulish face off a lurching body in a single stroke, till a tumble of limbs fell at his feet. He could sense his power rising, faint traces of smoke curling off his lips, thin wisps casing his blade and body.

  Half the onslaught of charging demons turned their attention from climbing the stairs to Azrael, baring their weapons at a new enemy.

  Vixens bearing humanoid features, moulded bullets from thin air. The miasma infused rounds surged forth, tearing through his freshly mended body, buried in his thighs and shoulders.

  Grimacing, Azrael staggered back, nearly falling over the ghoul he had slain, while a second goblin took advantage of his moment of weakness, rushing him from his left flank.

  A spear found its mark through his abdomen.

  The sharpened prick reached his innards till his belly was stretched wide open, and his guts were spilled, rushing bloodstained bile past clenched teeth. A hog-faced demon popped up, tangling in the mix, cleaving a portion of flesh off his back.

  Agony tore through him, dropping him on his knees in a pool of liquid crimson. A vixen approached him, glowering at his fallen frame, aiming a dozen miasma infused rounds at the nearly downed redhead.

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  “Fuck, I thought you’d be a threat,” said the vixen. She motioned the bullets to sink their teeth into flesh, once more.

  The surge of power he had brimmed with, intensified.

  Clutching the spear in his belly, he pulled out the shaft and rolled away from the line of fire. In spite of the injury he’d sustained, he could feel his agony ebb. He tenderly ran his fingers over his belly where the spear had skewered him. To his surprise, the skin was smooth and unpuckered, as though he had never been impaled in the first place.

  Jumping into a crouched position, he launched himself off his feet. He ran nearly parallel to the ground, while switching up the hold on his katana to an inverse grip.

  The ghoul and hog-faced demon poised their weapons, ready to strike.

  Azrael switched trajectory, jumping off his low stride, he was flung higher than he had anticipated. He slid his hand over his secondary blade’s hilt. Twisting his pelvis mid-air, he landed behind the two vixen who had shot him earlier. In a clamour of steel over bone, his blades exited out their skulls in a seamless flow.

  “I can see how Nakta pulled off his earlier moves,” said Azrael. He turned his focus to the ghoul and hog-headed demon he had evaded earlier, clenching his katana upright and inversing his grip on the shorter blade. These chumps won’t know what hit them.

  A smile cracked his lips, realising he’d reached a point he’d sought after. Past an eternity of effort, he was finally at the point where the scales weren’t tipped against his favour. Perhaps, even tipping the scales in his favour. A surreal sensation.

  Splash.

  A floodgate of liquid drenched him, halting him in his tracks. He turned about, panning his surroundings in search of his latest opponent. The liquid seared his nostrils with a foul, yet addictively odourful stench. He gagged, flaring his nares.

  A hose headed demon stood atop a flight of stairs, holding a lit matchstick in hand, dangling it over his fingers. With a flick, the matchstick touched Azrael’s boot, lighting his existence in a pall of flames. He blinked confusedly, wondering what had happened. And then, it all came flooding in, all at once.

  His senses were violated by abject agony beyond the works of gunfire or steel, unleashing an unbridled howl past scorched lips.

  Being burnt alive was new, even for him.

  Steadying his lightly worked up pulse, Nakta stood in front of seven bronzed women in suits. Nestled at the forefront of the formation was a young girl, nearly half his height, squinting with blatant disdain.

  “Look at the mess you’ve made.” The girl pouted, running a hand through her shoulder length, electric blue hair.

  “He’s an assassin, most likely hired by the remnants of Yin,” interjected an afro haired woman, from the ensemble.

  “Remy, dispose of this clown at once!” said the girl.

  “Aye milady,” replied the afro haired woman.

  “You must be the head of the Yang.” Nakta scoffed, tensing his body, noticing the shadows fluctuate and writhe. An armada of spikes protruded from the protracted darkness, emanating from the women in suits. The shadow clad spikes shot off the ground and skewered him like a kebab before he could make a move.

  Remy held out a hand, moulding a javelin from the darkness, hurling the weapon towards her right. A dull clang resounded, and a raven-haired male materialised an arm’s length away from her, while the impaled Nakta dissipated.

  “The shadows don’t lie.” Remy willed a second volley of spikes to impale the intruder.

  Nakta cussed under his breath, leaping off the ground and perching atop the handrails, beside the stairway. He could feel his knee buckle, as he tipped from side to side. A trickle of blood seeped into his ankles. “Quite the troublesome women we have here.” He smirked, holding up his katanas for a rematch.

  “How much did the Yin pay you?” asked the girl. “Work for me, and I’ll double it.”

  “It’s not about the money. It’s a matter of pride.”

  “A shame.” The girl sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “Here I was willing to give up the real Yang head’s location and identity.”

  “Lady Airi!” Remy protested, apprehension staining her voice.

  “Pull back!” said Airi. “I want to have a chat with our visitor.” On command, the shadows retreated, reverting to regular lapping waves against the bronzed women’s feet. “Get down from the handrails and join us on the ground. Otherwise, we can’t negotiate on even terms.”

  “What makes you think, I’ll negotiate?” asked Nakta, his perched form dissolving.

  A katana materialised from thin air, pointed at Airi’s throat, while the bronzed women, including Remy held their position.

  “If you think taking my head will resolve the matter, then you’re na?ve.” She flashed an indifferent grin, an expression unbefitting a child.

  “I wouldn’t taunt me, if I were you. You still have your head intact for now, and I suggest you get on with whatever’s on your mind, before I change mine.” He inched closer, the tip of his blade resting under Airi’s chin.

  “I’ll tell you where the head of the Yang family is. In return, I want you to support my rise to power. Your mission is to assassinate the current head of the Yang family, no?”

  The women standing guard, stiffened.

  Lowering his katana, Nakta scratched his head. From what he saw, he knew he wasn’t being deceived. “If you aren’t the head, then who is?”

  Producing a tied-up piece of parchment from her sleeve, she motioned towards him. Tentatively, he sheathed his second katana, and took the piece, examining the length of rolled up, neatly tied parchment.

  “Everything you wish to know is there.” She winked at him, splaying a playful smile.

  “Lady Airi? Is it wise to–”

  Remy’s words faltered.

  A splash of a foul, yet addictively odourful liquid permeated the air. An ominous crackle cut through the parley, urging Nakta to instinctively distance himself from Airi.

  A blink later, he noticed a smouldering humanoid gripping a hose attached to a bloodied neck, tracing a blazing trail of kerosene enveloping the bronzed women and Airi. A flurry of howls and agonizing screams filled the top of the mansion, accompanying the stench of seared flesh.