Azrakkoth

The room was heavy with tension. Max's glare was locked onto Daniel, his hands clenched into fists, but he knew—this wasn't the time for personal grudges.

The tall man seated across from them finally spoke. His voice was deep, steady, and authoritative.

"Roger Caldwell Smith. Former senior exorcist of the PTRD. And an old friend of George's."

Max finally broke his stare away from Daniel, shifting his attention to the man. So this was George's friend. The guy didn't look weak—he had that air of experience, like someone who had been on the frontlines long enough to know things no one else should.

Out of nowhere, the bathroom door creaked open.

Richard walked out, rubbing a towel over his damp hair, his bathrobe lazily tied around him. His expression immediately twisted in confusion when he saw the unfamiliar people sitting in the living room.

"...Who the hell are these guys?" Richard asked, his eyes shifting between Max, George, and the strangers.

George sighed, already tired of the unnecessary questions. "They're from the PTRD. Here to help."

Before Richard could process that, a mocking voice cut through the air.

"You the flame boy?"

The words were casual, but the tone carried nothing but disdain. Richard turned his gaze toward the source, and there he was—the smug-looking guy with white hair, wearing a beanie, leaning back like he owned the place.

"Thought someone with your ability would be strong." Daniel scoffed, tilting his head slightly. Then, as if it was an afterthought, he added, "Guess I was wrong. You look just as pitiful as him."

He didn't even look at Max when he said it.

But Max knew.

Max instantly tensed, his eyes twitching with fury. But before he could spit out a retort, Richard raised an eyebrow, now even more confused.

"Who the fuck are you?" Richard asked, pointing directly at Daniel.

Daniel finally looked at him, but there was no respect in his gaze. He was evaluating Richard like he was some broken tool.

George, seeing where this was going, decided he had enough of the pointless back-and-forth.

"Enough chit-chat. Sit down." His tone wasn't loud, but it carried absolute authority.

Richard gave George a side-eye but didn't argue. He dropped down onto the couch beside his grandfather, still drying his hair. His gaze lingered on Daniel, still trying to figure out who the hell this guy was and why he acted like he owned the room.

Across from them, Roger cleared his throat.

"Ahem. We should get started."

And just like that, the room turned dead serious.

The real conversation was about to begin.

Roger exhaled slowly, his fingers pressing together as he chose his words carefully.

"We're here to talk about Raven."

The weight in his voice silenced the room.

Richard shifted slightly in his seat, his damp hair sticking to his forehead as he pulled the towel from his head. Max leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching Roger intently. Daniel, for once, said nothing. Even George, who had been lounging back, now sat with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed at his old friend.

Raven.

The name itself didn't mean much to Richard or Max. They had only heard it in passing, whispers between the police and exorcists, but the way Roger spoke… it was like saying the name alone could invite something unwanted into the room.

Max frowned. "So what? He's a criminal, right?"

Roger's gaze lifted, locking onto him with a seriousness that made Max hesitate for just a second.

"Raven is one of the top 10 most wanted supernatural fugitives in the world."

Max's brows furrowed. Richard sat up slightly.

"...The world?"

"Yes."

Roger's voice was steady. Not casual, not exaggerated—just a cold, undeniable fact.

"Raven isn't just a criminal. He's something else entirely. The first time we heard his name was three years ago." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly before continuing. "When he murdered an exorcist."

The words landed heavily.

Richard felt the weight of them sink in, but something about the way Roger said it felt off. It wasn't just that Raven had killed someone—it was the way he had done it. The way Roger spoke, the way his voice slowed when he said the word "murdered," made Richard's stomach twist slightly.

Exorcists didn't just get murdered.

Max crossed his arms. "Exorcists die all the time."

Roger's gaze snapped to him, and for the first time, his tone sharpened.

"Not like this."

Silence.

George, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke. His voice was low, but controlled.

"…Who?"

Roger's gaze flicked to him, and when he answered, his voice softened just slightly.

"Robert Scott."

A slight change in George's expression. Barely noticeable—but Richard caught it. A flicker of something.

Recognition.

Roger continued. "Scott was a veteran exorcist. Meticulous, intelligent, always thinking two steps ahead. He had a reputation for finding things that were better left buried."

His fingers curled slightly against his knee.

"And three years ago, he started looking into something. A case that should have been small. Insignificant."

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "But it wasn't."

Max tilted his head. "…What was he investigating?"

Roger's lips pressed into a thin line. His expression darkened.

"…A group."

There was something off about the way he said it.

Not a cult. Not an organization.

A group.

Something that didn't just exist—it lingered.

Roger glanced at George, then back at the younger exorcists. "At first, it seemed harmless. A bunch of teenagers who got too obsessed with the supernatural. You see that kind of thing all the time—kids messing with rituals they don't understand."

Richard nodded slightly. That wasn't new. People always tried to summon things they shouldn't, believing in internet rumors, urban legends, or horror stories passed around in whispers.

But Roger wasn't finished.

"…Scott realized something was wrong. Because these kids? They weren't just playing."

The room felt colder.

Roger exhaled, rubbing his fingers together before continuing.

"They weren't summoning ghosts. They weren't calling spirits. They were doing something else entirely."

He looked at George again before speaking.

"They were building a religion."

Silence.

Richard blinked. "...A religion?"

Roger nodded.

"They called themselves the Crimson Choir."

The name itself felt wrong. Richard couldn't explain why, but it sent a faint unease crawling over his skin.

Max frowned. "And what were they worshipping?"

Roger hesitated. Just for a second.

Richard saw it.

Max saw it.

That moment of hesitation.

It wasn't because the information was classified.

It was because Roger didn't want to say it.

George exhaled sharply. "Roger."

Roger glanced at him.

"…You're sure you want to say it?"

The shift in George's tone was noticeable.

Richard felt something shift in the air.

Like speaking the name aloud might bring something unwanted.

George's fingers tapped against his knee. "Say it."

Roger hesitated again. Then, he exhaled, leaning forward slightly, his voice lower now.

"They were trying to summon something ancient."

A heavy pause.

Roger's fingers curled together. His voice dropped even lower.

"Something that existed before human civilization."

Max's breath hitched slightly.

"Something that, even at its weakest, could bring ruin to everything we know."

Richard exhaled through his nose. "And what is that something?"

Another pause.

Then, finally, Roger spoke.

"Azrakkoth, the Eternal Harbinger."

The room felt different.

Like the temperature had dropped. Like something unseen had just shifted around them.

The lights flickered.

And then, silence.

George's fingers tightened into a fist. His breathing slowed.

Max's jaw clenched. Even he felt it.

Richard swallowed.

Even saying the name felt… wrong.

"…Azrakkoth." Richard repeated quietly.

It felt like speaking it made something hear them.

George exhaled slowly.

Then, his voice—calm, controlled, but just slightly strained—finally broke the silence.

"You're telling me they were trying to summon one of the Seven?"

Max blinked. "…The Seven?"

Daniel suddenly let out a low chuckle.

He was grinning.

Like this entire conversation amused him.

"Wow. You guys really don't know shit, huh?"

He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees.

"The Seven Ancient Ones. The strongest demons ever recorded. Pre-human, pre-civilization. Gods of destruction, basically."

His grin widened slightly.

"And Azrakkoth? He's one of the worst."

Max inhaled sharply. Richard said nothing.

This was beyond them.

Roger exhaled, his hands tightening.

"They didn't just try."

His voice was lower.

"They succeeded."

The lights flickered again.

And for the first time since the conversation started, Max felt cold.

The room was quiet.

Not the kind of silence that came from a pause in conversation.

Not the kind of silence that came from waiting for someone to speak.

No.

This was a deeper silence.

A silence weighted with something unnatural—something thick and suffocating, like the air had been drained of warmth and replaced with something dead.

Max exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. His usual cocky attitude was gone. Richard sat perfectly still, his mind racing, trying to process the sheer scale of what had just been revealed.

They succeeded.

That thought alone made his skin crawl.

Raven and his cult hadn't just been delusional teenagers playing with forces beyond their comprehension.

They had actually done it.

They had actually opened the portal.

They had actually called forth something beyond human comprehension.

And the result?

Fifty thousand lives.

Not fifty.

Not five hundred.

Fifty thousand.

An entire city's worth of people—gone.

Richard felt his stomach tighten.

His fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his bathrobe as the number sank deeper into his bones.

There was no hiding something like that. No way that many deaths could be forgotten.

So why?

Why had neither he nor Max ever heard of this?

His voice came out before he could think.

"What… what actually happened?"

Roger exhaled slowly. Steady. Controlled.

But Richard could see it.

The way his fingers drummed against his knee.

The way his eyes looked not at them, but through them—like he was seeing something long buried in the past.

Like he was remembering something that shouldn't be remembered.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"It started with the three leaders."

Richard's pulse ticked faster.

Roger continued.

"The ones in black robes. They weren't just kids messing around with the occult. They were… different. Fully committed. Their faith was absolute."

His gaze darkened.

"They believed in their god. Believed in the ritual. Believed that what they were calling would elevate them beyond humanity."

His fingers curled slightly.

"And Robert Scott walked right into it."

Richard clenched his jaw. Robert Scott. The name had been thrown around earlier, but now—now it carried weight.

Roger leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter.

"Scott had been tracking them for months. Watching their movements. Piecing together the ritual. He knew they were trying to summon something, but he didn't realize how deep they had fallen—not until it was too late."

A slow inhale.

"He found them the night of the summoning. The ritual was already underway."

Max frowned slightly. "And he tried to stop them?"

Roger nodded. "He didn't want to kill them. They were just kids. Lost, misguided, brainwashed—but still kids. He thought he could talk them down."

He exhaled sharply.

"But they weren't kids anymore."

Richard stiffened.

Roger's voice grew lower.

"They had already crossed the threshold. They weren't hesitating. They weren't uncertain. Their faith in what they were doing… it was absolute."

A pause.

Then—

"They overpowered him."

Max's breath hitched.

"Wait—"

"They stabbed him."

The words were spoken flatly.

Not dramatic. Not emotional.

Just a simple, horrific truth.

"Multiple times.

One after the other.

One knife, then two, then three.

Then four.

Then five.

And they didn't stop.

Max exhaled through his nose, trying not to imagine it.

But Roger wasn't done.

"They didn't just kill him."

His voice was cold now.

"They carved him open. Pulled out his insides. Held his still-beating heart above the altar as they chanted."

Richard's stomach turned.

"And that… was the final offering."

Silence.

"That was enough to complete the ritual."

Roger exhaled, his breath slow and steady.

Then, after a long pause, he said:

"The portal opened."

The air in the room seemed to shift.

A chill crept over Richard's skin.

Max felt it too.

Roger's voice dropped lower.

"And for exactly seven minutes and sixteen seconds… something on the other side looked back."

A deep, hollow stillness.

Richard swallowed. "What do you mean… looked back?"

Roger's gaze lifted.

"The entity they called—the thing beyond the veil—it didn't step through. But it saw us."

Max shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming against his bicep.

"And?"

Roger's fingers curled against his knee.

"And it wasn't supposed to."

His voice had dropped to almost a whisper.

"The moment it saw our world, everything started to unravel."

Max leaned forward slightly.

"Unravel how?"

Roger exhaled slowly, as if he didn't want to relive it—but knew he had to say it.

"People began… disappearing."

Richard's stomach twisted.

"Disappearing?"

Roger nodded.

"Not dying. Not being torn apart. Not being burned alive."

His voice grew colder.

"Just… vanishing. No screams. No sounds. One moment they were there, and the next? Gone."

Richard exhaled shakily.

"Like they never existed?"

Roger nodded grimly.

"Exactly."

Max clenched his jaw. "And that's how fifty thousand people died?"

Roger slowly shook his head.

"No."

Silence.

"That's how the first three thousand died."

Richard blinked. "Wait—three thousand?"

Roger's expression darkened.

"The other forty-seven thousand?"

A slow inhale.

"They went insane."

A deep, suffocating quiet filled the room.

Roger continued.

"People started clawing at their own faces. Some fell to their knees, whispering nonsense, speaking in languages that didn't exist. Others began screaming—screaming like they were being burned alive, even though there was nothing happening to them."

Max swallowed hard.

"Some turned on their families. Others started tearing at their own flesh. Some people collapsed, catatonic, their minds completely shattered. Others just… laughed."

Richard clenched his fists. "And this all happened in seven minutes?"

Roger nodded. "Seven minutes and sixteen seconds."

Max ran a hand through his hair.

"And the PTRD covered it up?"

Roger leaned back slightly.

"We had to."

Max scoffed. "That's bullshit. You're telling me you just erased fifty thousand deaths?!"

Roger exhaled.

"Max, tell me. Have you ever heard of Clearwater?"

Max frowned. "No."

"Exactly."

Max opened his mouth, then closed it.

Richard felt a chill crawl up his spine.

Roger's stare didn't waver.

"You think we erased it?"

A pause.

Then, Roger leaned forward slightly.

"Clearwater erased itself."

Silence.

George exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.

"Fucking hell."

And for once, Richard and Max agreed.

Because whatever was coming next?

It would be worse.