...Year 2000 - In another part of the world, Ueno, Tokyo

Azrael, Prince of Erubus stood admiring the rare piece of art, a picture from the great artist Gu Kaizhi. He took his time to ensure its authenticity. Contented, he looked up to see the small man stood quietly, unwilling to make eye contact, sweat glistening on his lined forehead. "I am satisfied," he gestured towards the picture. "I will grant you a further five years."

The man nodded nervously, lifting his eyes to meet the Azrael's. "Thank you Sir, you are kind, but I was hoping...fo-"

Azrael raised to his full height, his eyes narrowed, glaring until the man dropped his gaze. "You dare make an appeal?" his tone incensed. "Three years. Unless you wish to barter further?" Fear tickled his nostrils. Delicious! He raised an eyebrow as his top lip curled, albeit miniscule.

Heat burned through the old man as he shifted his weight under Azrael's stare. "I'm sorry Sir, my sincere apologies. I meant no disrespect Sir. Three... three years, you are gracious and kind."

"Use your time wisely old man. It is a rare gift I have given. I do not extend a soul's contract lightly." He reached inside his pocket to retrieve a small white card decorated with an embossed address. He held it out for the man to take. "Have the picture sent to this address."

The small man kept his head bowed as he hesitantly took the card. "Yes Sir, I will deliver it personally."

Azrael's business here was complete. He glanced one last time at his newly acquired art before exiting the back-street shop.

As he assessed the narrow street, the brightness of the early morning sun and the fresh breeze warmed his face. He was in no rush to return to the Dark Realm. He walked at a leisurely pace, inhaling the rich flavours drifting from the nearby markets. It was safe to say he liked Tokyo at this time of year.

A sudden change in the ether forced him to stop. Looking up, the sky above turned grey, darkening instantly as if the sun itself had been extinguished.

"Fuck!"

A blinding pain penetrated his mind as a thousand blades stabbed repeatedly, searing every nerve in his brain. Stumbling sideward. He felt the coolness of the wall against his arm. A lightheadedness blurred his vision as he pressed his hands either side of his head and squeezed his temples fighting against the burning agony.

Several moments passed as the torture subsided. Azrael released his breath only for it to hit him again; ten times the intensity as it flooded his whole body igniting his insides as if somebody had poured gasoline into a lit fire. He threw back his head and let out an inhuman cry, shooting towards the heavens. His breath ragged he tried to regain his bearings. Forcing his eyes to open a fresh wave of pain flooded his vessels body, his blood was ablaze, burning through to his soul. Another tortured scream left his lips, his throat burned dry, hoarse from his release.

Unable to stand, he fell to his knees pressing his hands on the cold surface of the pebbled stones. Blinking, he swallowed to ease the burning dryness of his throat.

The sky above him began to clear as the sun regained its rightful power over the skies. Shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness he remained on his knees, the pain finally easing. Breathing heavily, his strength almost returned, he rose from the ground, steadying himself against the wall as he filled his lungs with cool air, soothing his burnt insides. His mind calmed, as a chill crept the length of his spine.

The day had arrived.

When souls run empty. And darkness comes fast. It will rise. Be reborn. Cleanse. Destroy.

He knew without a doubt the significance of this event. A child was born. Born from darkness and the light, marked like no other.

Cursing, under the awareness his whole existence would now serve to find the child and under decree, ensure its destiny fulfilled and willingly he would welcome his own end.

Another strange feeling crept through his mind, one that he didn't gladly accept. He would now be governed by 'Others' Leviathans of a different era. Monsters who had no place in this plane of existence or any other. Wondering how long it would be before their emissaries would come for him, he needed to relieve this burning ache that torn strips from his freedom.

His strength fully restored he searched his mind for his desired location.

He teleported himself outside an old traditional Japanese house in the East Province. Eyeing the house carefully, he stood to admire the beauty in its simplicity, huge wood columns on top of a flat foundation made of packed earth and stones. Inside he knew to be twelve of the most ruthless crime lords in the district. He had collected the souls of their dead trophies many times over.

But today he didn't come to collect their spills of murder.

Today he came to collect their souls.

Holding his hands our palm up, he closed his eyes and rifled his mind for a weapon.

The heaviness in his palm graced by its coolness brought a curl to his upper lip as his fingers wrapped around the manifested object. He looked down to see a striking Samurai sword that had been bequeathed to him by the ruling Emperor of the Shang dynasty, thousands of years ago.

The memory of past slaughter brought a rush of blood - he had thoroughly enjoyed those times; killing the honourable traditional way still brought a slither of excitement to his weary soul.

As he gripped the handle tighter, lowering it to his side, he held out his left palm to visualise another weapon. It materialised within seconds. A much smaller weapon lay in his hand. A Wakizashi, still sheathed he reached around under his jacket and placed inside the hem of his trousers, to be used if needed.

Rolling his shoulders, he tilted his head from left to right, a crunch of joints unleashed the built-up adrenalin.

He was equipped and dare he admit it, excited.

Azrael readied himself to kick through the door. His mind dwelled on the possibilities that faced him on the other side. They would be surprised. Of that he had no doubt. But sadly he knew they would have no respect or knowledge of the old ways and he wouldn't be greeted with the same regard or honour he would bestow on them.

To die with integrity by the sword, was a good death, an honourable death.

His foot made light work of the heavy wooden door, it burst open slamming into the supporting wall. Stepping inside, he placed his hand on the door to stop it closing. He took a moment to glance at the footwear of his intended targets lined neatly in a row. He was tempted to remove his shoes out of respect but instead looked towards the twelve pairs of eyes that narrowed in on him. Gasps of surprise followed by the screech of chairs legs on the wooden floor as they all stood in unison wearing identical black suits. Their necks each bore the mark of a dragon tattoo.

Azrael saw no fear in their eyes as they knew not who he was, or what he was capable of. In truth, he could have clicked his fingers and turned them to dust, but where was the honour in that? Where was the excitement – The fun?

One of the twelve men kicked his own chair further back, it hit the wall with a thud. The man's eyes burned with rage at the intrusion of Azrael. His hand twitched as he squeezed the weapon in his hand. One could assume him to be the leader of the other eleven. The smartly dressed Japanese man addressed Azrael directly in his own language, his words fierce, as he spat out each syllable with deadly intent.

Azrael didn't care to listen, only watched as the man raised the weapon in his hand, pulled the trigger and the first bullet hit him squarely in the chest.

Azrael threw his head back and laughed, the sort of laugh that would make any normal man question his sanity. Dropping his head, he sensed their unease wash over him, the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. His whole body vibrated with anticipation as the air became thick around them all, the tension palpable.

He looked down to his chest. Only a dribble of blood exited the wound. Quite amused by this small wound, he inserted two fingers and retrieved the bullet freeing more blood, flooding his white shirt with red. Flicking the bloodied bullet to the floor he pondered briefly assessing how many seconds it would take to kill them all - but instead of calculating further he pushed himself forward as he landed effortlessly onto the magnificent round table, he raised his Samurai sword.

He surveyed the man's eyes, fear and shock greeted him. Without hesitation he circled swiftly. Lifted his samurai sword and sliced through the man's throat. Cutting his head clean off, watching as it bounced on the table before him.

The severed head sat upright on the table, eyes wide, mouth agape as its headless body crumpled to the floor. Blood gushed, spreading outwards like a freed dam. Azrael's lip curled into a devilish smile as he marvelled at the surprise in the headless man's eyes, as they took their final moments of life to realise its fate.

The metallic smell of blood seeped into his nostrils, as a frenzied impulse to slaughter them all burned through him.

The remaining eleven crime lords had not witnessed his sudden movement, only felt the air move around them as he had shifted faster that their eyes and minds could accommodate.

All eleven pairs of eyes landed on the severed head that sat in the middle of the table.

Azrael waited, inhaling a slow breath. Their lack of honour did not surprise him.

In unison working as one. They raised their mechanical man-made weapons; taking aim they opened fire, blanketing him in a hailstorm of bullets.

One after the other the bullets penetrated his vessel. But still, they were no match against his skill. Not one would stop him. Not one of their insignificant human weapons would alter the inevitable outcome.

Azrael waited until silence fell upon the room, the smell of nitroglycerin filled the air. His eyes bounced from one to the next. "Today, your souls are mine."

He moved with blistering speed; the air vibrated as the table shook beneath his feet. They would have no time to reload their pitiful weapons. He raised his sword, not careful with his aim as hands, arms and heads were severed. Limbs flew in all directions as their blood sprayed the room decorating the walls, table and floor. Carnage surrounded him as one by one their cries were silenced and their dismembered bodies twitched and fell to the floor.

As the last of the crime lords dropped before his mighty sword, the room was awash with the smell of blood and fear. He jumped down from the table and assessed the damage to his vessel. At least fifteen bullets decorated his torso with another four to six in each arm. One in his shoulder and another three in his thigh. Focusing his mind, a ripple of energy travelled the length of his vessel pushing out each of the intruders, leaving small open wounds. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme; by the end of the day he would replace this vessel with another.

Perhaps a vessel of Japanese origin? To honour the dead, he thought.

Azrael inhaled another deep breath, as he cast his eyes around the blood-splattered room, aware that little time was left before he would be summoned. Somewhat satisfied, he held out his Samurai sword and returned it back to his home. He removed the Wakizashi sword, saddened that he hadn't used it on this occasion and with a blink of an eye he returned it back home.

As he stepped over a fallen dismembered body, another scent fanned through his nose. Fear along with a delicate smell, the smell of a female. There was nothing sweeter to his senses, fear mixed with sweat and the sweet scent of her skin.

The only thing he enjoyed more than claiming lives and extracting their souls, was to bask in their warm flesh, take and give pleasure.

Walking to the corner of the room where the scent was at its strongest. He moved a traditional Zaisu chair, with a high patterned back. There he found a small Japanese woman cowering, hands over her head, obscuring her face. With no words spoken he reached down and took hold of one hand, so small in his. Pulling her up she stood before him, so small her size compared to his, as she barely came up to his chest. He assessed she looked around thirty human years and the smell of her tears were enticing to his already aroused state.

Gently he pushed her black hair behind her ear and ran his finger down her cheek. She shivered under his touch. But just this simple touch would be enough for her to come to him, for her to want him. To adore him.

"Look at me, sweet little one. I mean you no harm, it is your body I seek pleasure. I have no need of your soul." His tone was commanding but soft.

She would not understand his language, but clearly understood the request behind his foreign words. Looking up towards him, his face smeared with the blood of the men she had despised.

Relief flooded her small body as she relaxed her hand in his, feeling no fear. One thought now dominated her mind as her desire to please him overwhelmed her. She released her hand from his and unbuttoned the blouse she wore, pushing it from her shoulders to reveal her smooth pale skin beneath. Reaching around the back she unclipped skirt and let it fall to the ground.

Still no words were spoken as she removed her underwear to stand before him naked.

Azrael watched, arousal intensifying as his focused on her pretty deep brown eyes, desire flashed across them. He observed her chest rise and fall quickly as goosebumps appeared where he ran a finger across her collarbone and down her arm. "Do you gift me this body?" he asked in her mother tongue.

She need not answer but nodded her response.

The air was charged with something other than blood and fear... Arousal, as he touched her breast, feeling her nipple harden under his touch. "Perfect," he whispered.

Her breath hitched and her eyes closed as she tilted her head back slightly.

Lowering himself, he replaced his hand with his mouth as he sucked her small breast hard. She freed a moan and ran her hand through his hair pulling him closer.

Azrael pulled back and released a low growl, as the urge to take her quickly overcame him. With just a simple request from his mind he burned through his blood-soaked clothes discharging tiny sparked ashes into the air. He caught the surprise in her pretty eyes as they widened in shock at his many wounds. "Do not worry my sweet one, they cause me no pain."

No words passed her lips.

Moving closer he pushed her against the wall, reaching around to find his large hands swamp her small bum. Marvelling at the feel of her soft skin, smooth and hot beneath his fingers, he lifted, as she automatically placed her legs around his waist.

He positioned himself but felt her tremble against him, eyes bulging with fright.

The change in the air happened swiftly as hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

They were here, here for him.

Sighing heavily, he stared down at the small Japanese woman. Slowly he let her drop to the floor. "Perfect timing boys," his tone was low, edged with sarcasm. "I assume you're not willing to wait outside to allow me a moment of celebration?"

Silence.

"I thought not." He inhaled deeply, her fear made his head spin as his cock twitched, desperate to fuck this willing female, but sadly time would not allow for such indulgences. "You will not remember any death from this day. Return home my sweet one and dream that one day I will call upon you." He pressed his lips to her forehead for a brief moment before he stepped away.

Turning, he came face to face with the root of his female companion's fear. Two hooded creatures, Hollows, waited for him. The stench of decay filled the air as only their yellow glowing eyes were visible from the dark recesses of their hoods. Claw-like hands protruded from the ragged black cloaks. Standing seven feet tall. Any demon would be a fool to not treat them with respect, as just a thought from their blackened minds would tear any demon from their vessel and consume them whole. By many they were treated as myths in the Demon world.

He heard the woman behind him, the scent of her fear caused a shiver to break over his body. The Hollow turned its head slowly to watch her as she scooped up her clothes and scuttle from the room.

Azrael clicked his fingers to get its attention, the last thing he wanted was to watch one of these creatures devour a human.

They made no sound, only waited.

Looking down his naked body, littered with puncture wounds. Perhaps I should have replaced this vessel before attempting to fuck the nearest female.

Snapping his fingers, for a second time, he now stood fully dressed in a suit.

He strode towards them, stepping over the cold dead bodies. One bowed it head in respect whilst the other turned and opened up a portal. The air rushed around him as the brightness of the portal engulfed the whole room. He stepped into the light. He was home, back in Erubus.

Erubus was neither a dark realm nor one matching the heavens. Erubus was the birthplace of the one true Deity, the Goddess Anaia mother to the God of the Physical Realm, Mother and creator of everything, but long forgotten by the mortals.

A human would never be able to comprehend the sight that set out before him. It was said, whatever you imagined Erubus to be, then Erubus would let you see.

Azrael saw lush yellow meadows rolling in the gentle breeze. The sun much bigger here, its golden rays spread out in all directions. Its light and warmth a gift for anyone who cared to open their eyes and marvel at its beauty. The hills in the distance stretched the horizon like a great quilt of golden, brown and greens. Looking left he saw a river, water so blue and clear, it could wash away the darkest of sins.

A touch to his arm forced him to look at the Hollow, he knew if he could slide into the mind of the creatures stood beside him, he would only see darkness, death and destruction.

A flicker of light in the corner of his eyes forced him to look back towards the water. An eerie sensation slithered up his spine as beyond the stretch of water, he saw the reason why he rarely returned to his home. A memory, a trick of the light, shimmering brightly. An echo of a soul he could neither forget nor join. His eyes grew hot, a contrast to the cold weight crushing his lungs.

He closed his eyes briefly, refusing to look or face his truth, his loss.

Another touch, a vice like grip to his shoulder from the second Hollow, an impatient reminder of why he was here. The pain he swallowed down not willing to show weakness to his two companions.

He looked over to the West, where a grand castle stood, built from materials not known to man, It stood as if conjured from a story-book. The light reflected from its great walls and far reaching towers, almost making it hidden to all who gaze upon it. He knew he could teleport inside but instead he wanted to extend the quiet moment and appreciate the beauty of home.

As he began his journey towards the castle. A heavy burden settled in his gut. His freedom about to be held hostage. As he would be tasked with finding the child, a responsibility he neither cared for nor desired. His insides twisted and groaned as if a caged monster was climbing his internal walls, desperate for release.

He felt the air swift around him as he was transported unwillingly to inside the castle.

What the? Azrael stumbled backwards to find himself stood in the throne room. He adjusted his eyes to the darkness of the room.

In past times this had been a magnificent room. Gold had once decorated the walls, beautiful pictures and chandeliers had graced the once great ceiling. But the creatures that held ownership now had no desire for beauty. The walls and ceilings had been scrubbed bare and replaced by symbols, written in blood, speaking of stories. He knew some of them well, but the new ones? They were a mystery to him.

A low growl forced him to look upon a throne. Sat upon the throne made from the bones of being's unknown was a Leviathan, a creature from the darkness of nightmares, a creature too hideous for any realm, sprung from the depths of hell. A gaze from any mortal would bring screaming madness followed by death. Its hair – if you could call it hair hung either side of his face gracing it bony shoulders. Its eyes were darkness, colourless pits of nothing.

It raised its hand, its claws long and black and pointed to the round table where a bowl and a chalice sat. Lowering his head offering his respect he strode, holding his head high. Fear could not be shown in their presence.

Peering into the bowl, filled with a black substance, an eyeball surfaced, its optic nerve still attached. Picking up the chalice, he dipped it into the gloopy ingredient, scooping just enough to accomplish the task. He raised the foul-smelling substance to his lips and drank.

The thick putrefied liquid coated his tongue, reluctantly easing its way down his gullet, he was pleased he would occupy a new vessel by the end of the day. It was disgusting even for him. He dropped the chalice as his eyes glazed over white as a vision split open his mind followed by an onslaught of images.

He saw a child. A girl, her curly blond hair bouncing as she ran through a meadow of yellow. He felt something odd pass over him but could not place the feeling.

His mind muttered lost words. Words he had not spoken for a millennia. His eyes widened as she skipped towards him but keeping her head lowered. His heart raced as she stood only feet away. She sang to him, a familiar song, but still he could not see her face.

He attempted to talk, but no words came. As she stepped closer, her golden curls shone like the sun itself. She wrapped her small arms around on his legs. It felt so real, her warmth sent a ripple of hope through his worn-out soul.

"Quod anima non invenitur nisi agnita," she said in a voice he recognised.

His mind exploded with a flurry of questions as his heart exploded with sadness and pain, tearing strips from his hard exterior.

How could this be? It was her voice, the voice of Angelina, only softer... younger.

Desperate to see the child's face, he tried to pull her from his leg but was abruptly the vision was ripped from his mind.

Azrael found himself kneeling on the floor, fingers splayed wide, trembling against the cold marble floor, the colour drained from them. His ragged breaths echoed in the large room.

Calm, calm. Show them nothing. He told himself forcing his breath and heartbeat to slow. His eyes restored he turned to look at the Leviathan.

The creature spoke to his mind, the screaming pain of it words sliced through him.

Blood tears slipped from his eyes, down his cheeks.

'Find her,' it stated.

It was not a request he could refuse.