14 The Burial!

With every word, the truth revealed itself like a dark painting, wrapping a deceitful cloak around Marcus's fading awareness. He clung to the tree for physical support, yet his grip on reality seemed to waver with each fleeting moment.

"You knew?"

"I'd be naive not to be, Marcus," Azrael shot back, his voice oozing with a knowing irony. "A Witch Hunter bringing a boy along for a witch hunt—now that's quite the peculiar undertaking, wouldn't you say? You had to either possess an extraordinary belief in your skills or hide an underlying motive. And your cards were laid bare when your nerves were as tight as a drawn bowstring this morning."

Marcus's fists clenched, his knuckles turning white as Azrael's words sliced through him like icy blades. The intricate web of deception woven around him became painfully clear, a trap from which there seemed to be no escape.

Azrael's demeanor remained eerily calm, a facade of deliberate manipulation. "I had the poison ready, just in case," he continued, his admission chillingly matter-of-fact.

"Getting it in the dead of night wasn't easy, but with enough money, anything is attainable. It won't end your life, but it will lock down your entire nervous system, except for your pain receptors. In fact, it'll make those nerve signals scream even louder."

"Revenge won't magically bring back your lost happiness," he began, his voice carrying the weight of bitter wisdom. "But let's not deceive ourselves into thinking we can live a peaceful life while our enemies revel in their joys." His eyes, like twin embers of crimson fire, blazed through the surrounding darkness of the woods.

"That perfect dream of tranquility, of blissful ignorance—it's not my path. I've tasted every flavor this world offers. Once, I was the hero, basking in adoration. But now, a drastic change is necessary. There are other motives at play, reasons that push me to wear the mask of the villain."

Marcus was overwhelmed with questions, yet none mattered as much as the fear ignited by the intense malevolence in the young man's gaze.

"It's just so dull," he mused, his tone dripping with boredom. "To watch you fade without even a scream. Allow me to amend that."

"Aaah!" Marcus's cry cut through the air, a raw expression of pain echoing in the stillness.

With a calculated movement, Azrael drove the knife into Marcus's heart—not fatally, but enough to cause untense pain to the Witch Hunter. Marcus's body tensed, the world narrowing down to the searing ache in his chest and the malevolent glint in Azrael's eyes.

"You-you..." Marcus uttered, feeling the warm blood seep through his shirt. He wasn't going to die quickly, but rather painfully, as blood leaked from his beating heart. The poison increasing the pain, yet he could not move. "Monster!" He slid back down, planting on the ground and holding the knife to his chest.

"You truly are wrong. Taking revenge has proven to be indeed exhilarating. The feeling of blood on my hand, the feeling of taking a life, is something I crave. Even more so than a demon," he spoke with an eerie voice, the voice of a madman. "This is just a start, Marcus. Let me show the world what kind of monster I can be."

***

As Azrael stood there, his gaze locked onto the dying man, a silence settled around him, broken only by the distant sounds of nature. The weight of his actions began to seep into his consciousness, and a faint pang of unease stirred within him.

What had he become? A bringer of death, reveling in the destruction of life without remorse? The thrill he had felt in the heat of the moment now mingled with a growing sense of guilt, casting a shadow over his newfound freedom.

The once vibrant forest seemed to darken, the trees closing in on him like accusatory specters. Azrael's mind churned with conflicting emotions, grappling with the consequences of his choices.

He had sought revenge, but at what cost? The life he had taken, once so strong and full of vitality, now lay drained and cold.

A gust of wind rustled through the leaves, as if whispering a haunting reminder of the fragility of existence. Azrael's eyes fell upon his bloodied hands, the symbol of his newfound power and the mark of his descent into darkness.

The thrill he had felt began to fade, replaced by a deep sense of emptiness. The freedom he thought he had attained now felt like chains, binding him to a path he could never escape.

He crouched down near the corpse. The dead man's eyes were bulging as they held no light nor soul. This man wanted nothing but his father's approval and he was willing to go far to even sacrifice a boy he just met. But he was unlucky it was him that he met.

He reached out and closed his eyes, a final act of respect to the fallen.

He never believed in hell and heaven, until now. And he wanted to know more about them. The gods and devils, and there was no better profession than the Witch Hunter to learn everything about them.

He then without a second thought, searched the body.

Finding two knives, one lodged in his chest and the other in his back, Azrael gritted his teeth and removed them, placing them in his belt alongside the letter and vial of the elixir he had discovered.

'I guess he is no longer a hunter.' He stood up and looked around, finding the hut and walking towards it. He decided to not pick up the sword since he actually don't need it.

With a mix of anticipation and unease, he unfolded the letter and began to read, his eyes widening as he absorbed its contents.

Suddenly, he froze in his tracks, unable to believe the name that stared back at him—Anain Thrawn, Marcus's father and the very person he was destined to seek training from

'You gotta be shitting me!' He shook his head at the coincidence. This was the man he was supposed to go for training and he just killed the man's son. 'Oh wow! Destiny itself blessed up on me.'

He looked at the corps feeling complicated. He would lie. He needed to lie.

He took a deep breath and walked back. He needs a proper burial, at least.

"Gaian." He uttered as he pointed his palm at the ground. The earth trembled beneath his command, and a perfect rectangular fissure formed, seven feet in length, ready to serve as a final resting place for the fallen witch hunter.

He grabbed the hunter by his legs and dragged him to his resting place. His plan was to bury him but by his luck, if anyone were to find this corpse they could instantly understand that the Witch Hunter did not die on his field work but rather was murdered with a knife on his chest.

He again pointed his palm at the man, perfectly sleeping in his eternal resting place. He felt the unrefined mana inside his body. Without a mana core, it danced around his whole body.

Not having a mana core doesn't mean you can't be a mage or use magic but it means that there's a higher chance you would be dead in the next five to ten years due to mana intoxication.

Excessive mana in the body can poison you and make you dead or cripple your mind. For that, mages create a little organ with magic on their body. The ideal part is around the heart so the user can always feel the flow of magic through his body but it is highly difficult to do so.

"Ignis," he uttered again and he felt the heating of the mana through his whole body. The way Mana accepted his command and produced fire and finally spat it through his open palm to the man on the ground.

The fire started with a small flame and slowly grew. Soon it was burning the corpse, turning the corpse into ash and releasing the smoke through the fissure.

Azrael stood up and sighed, his body full of energy.

After the burning was complete, Azrael again uttered the Earth spell. "Gaian," and the fissure sealed itself, making the corpse to be found as if nothing happened.

But the boy didn't leave without doing anything. He had to do something before he left. To remember him. He placed the hunter's sword on the gravel, and walked away, towards the shed.

...

The Witch had decimated wholly. There were no remains of her left. Only ash and bones. The magic fire with the holy water has done a wonderful job. He doesn't know about the ingredients on it, yet. It was his first time seeing witch hunting.

He walked along the only trails left on the grassy ground. The fallen branch in which she sat was now a mess. All the leaves were scattered everywhere.

Then at a little distance, he saw the hut wholly. A lone hut made of wood stood tall, surrounded by a thin layer of mud on its outer wall. The whole silence of the forest was giving him creeps.

He walked towards the hut and was instantly hit by the smell of burning incense sticks and herbs. Sandalwood and some other fragrant herbs filled the air, creating an intoxicating aroma that enveloped the small wooden hut.

As he approached, Azrael noticed intricate symbols carved into the door, symbols that spoke of ancient rituals and mystic knowledge.

Cautiously, he pushed open the creaking door, revealing a dimly lit interior. The room was cluttered with shelves lined with jars and bottles containing various herbs, roots, and powders.

Smoke from smoldering incense sticks curled lazily in the air, casting ethereal shadows on the worn wooden floor.

His eyes fell upon a worn desk in the corner, where a leather-bound book lay open. Its pages were filled with handwritten notes and drawings, detailing the secrets of spellcasting, potion-making, and the identification of supernatural creatures.

The words were written in a language he couldn't understand, but their significance was palpable.

As he continued his exploration, he discovered shelves filled with vials of shimmering liquids, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and bundles of sage and lavender neatly arranged in a woven basket.

Intrigued, Azrael picked up the book again, flipping through the pages, his fingers tracing the faded ink.

He turned page after page until he stopped on a specific hand-drawn diagram of a human figure adorned with a pair of curved horns.

The name "Lucifron" was scrawled beneath it, accompanied by a large question mark. Intrigued, Azrael's gaze lingered on the image, his mind racing with possibilities.

"The fallen sovereign, known to wield both sides of the Eternal Nectar," he muttered to himself, the words heavy with mystery. "Last seen twelve centuries ago... somewhere in this world?"

His heart quickened with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. 'He's here?'

At the same time, he heard a thud sound from the room adjoining the main one, as if something heavy had been dropped.

His ears twitched at the sound, and his hand instinctively flew to the hilt of his blade. His senses sharpened as he strained his ears to listen for any further sound or movement, his mind racing with possibilities.