Death

Butler Casper Foss was already over sixty years old. He was actually much younger than James, but perhaps the length of one's lifespan truly affects a person's mindset and perspective. Casper handled matters exactly as one would expect from a steady elder, while James remained the same as he had always been, becoming increasingly laid-back.

"Ahem, sir, I must remind you that Azazel... Master Azazel has run off to the city center to cause a scene for the third time this month without any disguise. The entire Edmonton is buzzing with rumors, talking about demons appearing in the human world and such."

Butler Casper, wearing the monocle passed down from his father Vane Foss, cleared his throat. He folded his hands with a grave expression and spoke sternly, casting an unsatisfied glance at James, who was buried in his writing, and coughed lightly once more.

"You'll have to call me 'young master' soon, Casper. In a little while, I will formally appear before everyone as Bruce Howlett. Make sure you don't slip up when the time comes."

James continued to scribble on the ledger with a fountain pen embossed with the pure gold Howlett family crest, seemingly nearing the end of his task.

It was already 1910, and James Howlett was nearly eighty years old. He had not appeared in public or before outsiders for many years; even within the old family estate, only a small circle of his closest old companions ever saw him.

To the outside world, this super-tycoon, famous throughout the Western world and patriarch of the Howlett Family, had long since retired to his old estate in Canada to wither away due to poor health and old age. He would soon re-enter the world under the identity of Bruce Howlett, the son he had secretly raised.

All relevant documentation and measures had been prepared long ago. To say nothing else, his appearance, which was identical to "James Howlett," left no room for outsiders to doubt.

James paused his pen, placing a temporary period, and seeing Butler Casper still standing by, he said apologetically: "What about Azazel? Has he returned? I will go discipline him. Don't worry yourself; you've watched this child grow up, you know what he's like."

Butler Casper pursed his lips noncommittally and sighed helplessly: "He isn't as obedient and cute as he was when he was little. I still remember when he first arrived, just a tiny thing, trembling slightly in my arms."

The butler seemed touched, blinking his eyes unnaturally like a grandfather remembering his grandson.

James picked up a black-and-white photo of Azazel from his childhood off the desk. In the photo, Azazel was wearing a knit sweater with alternating dark and light shades and a pointed beanie, sitting happily on James's lap. He looked a little older, baring his small, sharp teeth, holding an exquisitely carved model train, with his little tail wrapped around the Christmas tree beside him.

James leaned back against his chair, propping his legs up on the desk, and said leisurely: "Yes, he was much more likable when he was little."

Beneath the manor.

Poof! Poof!

A lean, red-and-black figure flickered constantly through the underground space, with wisps of black smoke slowly dissipating where he had stood.

Azazel Howlett landed lightly on the stone floor, peering around cautiously. He had grown very tall, over 180 centimeters, and was wearing a finely crafted black linen suit. Several buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a sturdy chest. His build was lean but well-proportioned; he was no longer the big-headed toddler he once was, looking quite fit and agile.

His face was somewhat narrow with a prominent nose, and he had medium-length hair, which he would occasionally toss back, thinking himself dashing. His skin was not as bright as it had been in his youth, possessing a dark red, leathery texture with faint, peculiar patterns. The tail behind him was slender yet tough and powerful, the tip appearing to be a bone-like triangular spike that looked exceptionally hard and sharp.

"Old man? Old man? Are you looking for me?"

Azazel called out tentatively into the empty underground space. His voice was somewhat shrill, his tone carrying a hint of flippancy.

"Come here." James's deep voice came from the inner sanctum. Hearing this, Azazel poofed and teleported into the stone room.

He fidgeted with his tail, his eyes darting around uncomfortably.

"Going out to play is one thing, but you didn't even cover yourself up. Do you think you don't turn enough heads as it is?"

James spoke with a sharp tone. He was sitting cross-legged on a stone dais, shirtless, staring at Azazel as the boy scratched his head.

"That stuff is too much trouble! Wrapping it up makes me feel like a mummy. I can't do it, and Uncle Casper certainly won't help me. If he knew I wanted to go out, he'd nag me for days."

"Then you've gone too far. Running out three times in a month, relying on your abilities, thinking no one can keep you in check, right?" James's tone hardened further.

Azazel's appearance was far too eye-catching. In the past, whenever he went out, he would use specially tailored cloths to wrap the exposed parts of his body. Others who saw him simply assumed he was someone who had suffered burns or had a disability.

He seemed to lose his temper, turning his head to complain and grumble about promises to take him on long trips, arguing back with indignation.

"To what extent have you practiced what I taught you? Have you even touched the edge of the third stage?"

Azazel seemed to have been pinched at his weak spot, stammering and unable to speak, only muttering that the third stage was simply too difficult.

James stopped pushing him, softened his tone, and said seriously: "Stay here with me for these next few days and watch how I practice the final step. It will be good for you. Then, we will..."

He weighed his words, thought for a moment, and left the rest unsaid. He closed his eyes, and his aura began to surge.

Azazel retreated into a corner, his pupils reflecting James's form.

He began to grow, becoming exaggeratedly tall and strong, gradually approaching the height of the stone room's ceiling. The frequency of his heartbeat grew faster and more violent, forcing Azazel to cover his ears to alleviate the discomfort in his eardrums.

The temperature in the room rose steadily, as if baking under the sun, and the air itself began to distort.

Even though this was the father who had raised him, Azazel still felt immense fear toward this form.

BOOM!

A shockwave of force erupted from James, pinning Azazel firmly against the wall like a painting hung on display.

Every object in the stone room was repelled. Suddenly, the repulsive force retracted violently, and the high heat radiating from James seemed to be pulled back into his body. His heart stopped beating entirely, his aura turned deathly silent, and every sign of life retreated into a deep, hidden place within James's body.

Azazel could no longer feel a single trace of vitality from his adoptive father. James's face and skin turned deathly pale, completely drained of color. It was as if he had been dead for a long time.