Belphegor strolled through the winding medieval streets, taking in the sights and sounds of the night. Torches flickered in their sconces, casting dancing shadows along the worn stone walls. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and cheap ale.

  He walked with slow, calculated steps—an ancient predator in a world that had long forgotten his name.

  Passersby turned to stare. Some quickly averted their gaze. Others, emboldened by ignorance or drink, dared to meet his eyes.

  He longed to snap their necks.

  But the System's invisible leash held him fast.

  How the mighty have fallen, he thought bitterly.

  He passed a brothel, its entrance marked by worn crimson curtains. Laughter spilled out into the street, accompanied by the soft plucking of a lute. Women lounged in the doorway—some bored, others hopeful. A few leaned against the walls, shadows hiding their expressions.

  Several watched him with interest.

  One, bold and brazen, stepped forward.

  > “Hey, handsome,” she purred, trailing her fingers along his arm.

  “Want some company?”

  Her touch was light, practiced.

  Belphegor's face twisted.

  How dare she?

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  He raised a hand, fingers tensing.

  > "Not. A. Good. Idea," the System cut in, its tone deadly flat.

  He froze mid-swing. The prostitute’s smile faltered as fear crept into her eyes. She backed away quickly, nearly stumbling as she retreated into the shadows.

  Belphegor’s hand dropped. He exhaled sharply.

  > “That feels better,” he muttered, not entirely sure if he meant it.

  From a nearby alley, the shadowy figure continued to observe him—intrigued, puzzled, silent.

  ---

  Belphegor continued down the narrow street, each step aimless yet heavy with purpose. He muttered curses under his breath, raging against his situation, his humiliation, and the System’s constant meddling.

  Then something caught his eye.

  A small, dimly lit stall tucked between two buildings. Its owner, a grizzled man with a lazy eye, leaned on the counter. A crude wooden sign above read:

  > STEEL & FURY — OPEN TILL MOONFALL

  On the table before him lay weapons—daggers, axes, maces, and battered swords.

  Belphegor approached, his expression a mix of disdain and reluctant curiosity.

  > Let’s see if any of the toys made by these puny humans can get me started.

  His fingers hovered over a chipped longsword. The blade was poorly balanced, the edge dull.

  As he examined it, his thoughts drifted.

  To his weapon.

  His true weapon.

  Erebus’ Fury.

  Forged in the black flame of the fallen stars, etched with runes that drank the light, Erebus’ Fury had been an extension of his will. It had cleaved through kings and creatures alike. It had shattered the skies during the War of the Veil.

  He had wielded it as a god.

  But now…

  > “Confiscated,” the System announced.

  “Until you unlock all your powers and embrace your resurrection purpose, it’s out of reach.”

  > “You need to behave—and start seeing humans as your people. That’s the only way to speed up recovery.”

  Belphegor laughed bitterly.

  > “Take these selfish, meat-scraping rodents as my people? You ask the impossible.”

  His eyes scanned the street as his mind seethed.

  > “They’re greedy. Curious to a fault. Never satisfied. They murder each other over crumbs.

  And now I’m supposed to save them?”

  He clenched his fists.

  > “You’re an embarrassment placed on me,” he spat at the System.

  “I fault myself for losing to Michael. Now I’m nothing more than a pawn in a scheme your Most High couldn’t finish.”

  The stall keeper shifted nervously behind the counter, sensing the tension but not understanding its source.

  ---

  From the alley, the figure watched closely.

  Belphegor had stood frozen for several minutes, emotions rolling off him like waves.

  What kind of man carried that much rage… yet refused to move?

  The watcher’s curiosity deepened.

  He followed.

  Inside the shop, he pretended to browse the wares, always keeping Belphegor in the corner of his eye.

  He didn’t know what he was looking for—answers, perhaps. Or maybe just a reason not to be afraid.

  But something about the man—his energy, his aura—whispered of something old, something dangerous.

  And the figure knew: this was no ordinary stranger.