The Extra Wants Control

[Azrael POV]

The metallic tang of blood filled my nostrils as I ran alongside my father, the village alarm a horrifying screech in my ears. Today's lesson on the ancient technique, passed down through generations, was cut short by the shrill cry of distress. Fear coiled in my stomach, a cold serpent tightening with every frantic step.

Reaching the village square, I saw only carnage. Bodies lay strewn on the ground, mutilated in a way that spoke of pure, sadistic cruelty. My young mind reeled at the sight. Then, a guttural shriek tore through the air, drawing our gaze towards the outskirts.

"There!" My father roared, his voice edged with raw fury. A hulking creature, grotesque beyond imagining, stood in front of our house. It held my mother aloft by the throat, a sickening smile twisting its inhuman face. My mother, her eyes locked on us, a silent apology flashing across them, did the unthinkable. She channeled mana, not to attack, but inwards, a desperate act of self-destruction.

Her eyes glazed over, the light dimming in them as the creature roared in frustration.

My father, his voice thick with grief and rage, roared, "What have you done to my village? To my wife! I'll kill you!"

"Wife, you say? Such a waste," the demon clucked its tongue, its voice dripping with perverse pleasure. "She could have been quite the… entertainment.And I would have made her experience otherworldly pleasure. But alas, a wasted opportunity."

The creature, with a sickening splatter, dropped my mother's body. A geyser of gore erupted from the point-blank mana blast. It snarled in a language unlike any I'd heard, a harsh cacophony that morphed into something almost understandable.

"Disappointing," it rumbled, its voice dripping with sadistic amusement. "Weak, all of you. Now, little monkey," it rasped, turning its malevolent gaze to my father. "How about you entertain me?"

Father unleashed a torrent of aura, the family's defensive technique, and charged towards the beast. He felled several smaller creatures along the way, his movements a blur of desperate rage. I, a mere three-star knight – a prodigy they called me, a rising star in the human realm – could only watch, my body heavy with grief and a burning desire for revenge.

By the time I reached the house, all that remained was a scene from a nightmare. My father lay crumpled on the ground, a sickeningly deep kick mark staining his side. The creature, its anger momentarily diverted, turned its attention to him. My mother, her lifeless body discarded like a broken doll, lay a few feet away.

My father's aura spiked, a surge of raw energy surrounding him. He hurled himself at the beast, a whirlwind of rage and despair. His blade flashed, a desperate dance of left and right, up and down, but the creature sidestepped each blow with effortless grace. It even yawned, flaunting its disregard for my father's fury.

"Pathetic," the demon scoffed, its voice laced with boredom. It flicked its clawed hand, sending my father reeling backwards. A casual swipe followed, severing my father's arm and leg in one sickening motion.

My father crumpled to the ground, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He met my gaze, his eyes filled with a defeated love. "Run, Azrael," he rasped, his voice weak. "Run and don't look back. Please… live…"

The demon cut him off with a brutal kick. "Speak when spoken to, worm! Don't you dare ignore me!" it roared, a monstrous parody of authority. "I decide who lives and who dies. It's my right, by virtue of my strength!"

Rage, raw and primal, surged through me. I couldn't let this happen. Not my mother, not my father. Ignoring the fear that threatened to paralyze me, I grabbed my sword and channeled my aura. It blazed to life, fueled by grief and vengeance.

The demon's laughter echoed across the battlefield, a horrifying melody of malice. It kicked me aside with ease, sending me crashing into the dirt. "Pathetic!" it roared.

"Why?" I gasped, the pain a dull throb compared to the burning inferno in my heart.

"Because I can," the demon boomed, its voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "Because it amuses me. We are demons," it declared, its form shifting, revealing a grotesque parody of power. "We are the embodiment of desire,masters of cruelty. We do whatever we please, and you, weakling, can't stop us. Can't stop me!"

"Demons…" I rasped, the word a promise and a curse on my lips. "Then kill me now. If you don't, I swear…on the ashes of my village, on the blood of my family, I will hunt you down. Even if it takes a lifetime, I will see your head on a pike... I will..."

The demon interrupted me with a vicious kick to the chest. "You don't understand your position, little monkey," it sneered. "You're too weak to threaten me. But entertaining. So be it. I'll let you live to fulfill your empty promise."

My vision swam in a sea of red as the screams of my father faded into the background. Pain overwhelmed me, dragging me into the abyss of unconsciousness. The last thing I heard was the demon's mocking laughter, a promise of more suffering to come,"...fulfill your promise, little monkey."

*****************

Panic clawed at the demon scout as he burst into the main tent. "Young master!" he gasped, "An army approaches, led by beings as powerful as Count-level demons!"

The air crackled with tension as the news settled in. The leader, a handsome demon with an air of jaded amusement, was Incubus royalty – an Incubus Lord, in fact. A cruel smile played on his lips. "Count-level, you say? Intriguing." He glanced at the lifeless body of Azrael's father, currently serving as a morbid centerpiece on a metal spike. "Very well.

We shall retreat for now. But leave the boy alive."

The scout blinked, surprised. "Leave the boy alive?"

"Let's see if he survives. Perhaps he'll make for a future plaything." Said the Incubus.

With that, he and his soldiers vanished in a swirl of dark magic, leaving behind a scene of unspeakable horror.

Human soldiers, clad in heavy armor, soon arrived, their faces grim as they surveyed the carnage. Scattered limbs, defiled bodies – the hallmarks of demonic brutality.

"We were too late," a soldier muttered, his voice heavy with despair.

Their commander, a man of imposing stature, barked orders. "Search the ruins! Find any survivors! We need information on these invaders, even scraps!"

As the soldiers combed the wreckage, a tense silence hung in the air. Then, a shout pierced the air. "Commander! We found a survivor! A boy, badly injured!"

A spark ignited in the Holy Daughter's eyes. "Bring him to me," she commanded, her voice surprisingly firm.

The Saintess frowned. "Why?"

"Precisely," the Holy Daughter countered, her gaze unwavering. "He's the only one who survived such a brutal massacre. Why is he the only one left breathing? There's more to this story, and I intend to find out."

The soldiers returned with the battered boy, barely clinging to consciousness. Despite the carnage surrounding him, a spark of defiance still flickered within his broken form. "He's tough," a soldier noted gruffly. "A peak Three-Star Knight at his age, and in this village with limited resources. He's talented."

The Saintess, ever pragmatic, saw an opportunity. "Heal him," she instructed the Holy Daughter. "Once he recovers, he'll make a fine addition to the Order."

Azrael blinked his eyes open to a blurry world of white and pain. Every groan felt like a battle cry against the agony that wracked his body. A gruff voice cut through the haze.

"Seems you're awake, boy. Now tell me, why are you the only one left standing?"

The voice belonged to a man with a broad chest and a beard that looked like a tangled forest. His weathered face held a hint of kindness beneath the scowl. Azrael tried to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper. He coughed, a dry, ragged sound.

"Easy there, lad," the man said, his voice softening. "Take it slow."

With a monumental effort, Azrael managed to croak out the story. The demons, the slaughter, the mocking leader who left him alive for some twisted amusement. The memory sent a fresh wave of fury through him, momentarily pushing back the pain.

As he finished, a beautiful girl materialized by his bedside. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her blue eyes held a curious glint. "Such a tragedy," she said, her voice surprisingly young for her regal bearing. "But don't despair. I can help you become strong, strong enough to defeat those creatures."

She placed a hand on his chest, and a warmth spread through him, battling the cold grip of pain. "My powers resonated with yours," she continued. "You have a natural affinity for light magic. It's a rare gift."

Azrael looked between the two, confusion clouding his rage.

"The question is, child," the older woman spoke, her voice laced with power, "are you interested? Do you want the strength to be more than a plaything for those demons? Tell us, boy, what do you desire most?"

Azrael's voice, though weak, held the steely resolve forged in the fires of loss. "Strength," he rasped. "Strength to kill every single one of them. I want them dead."

A smile, genuine and fierce, lit up the woman's face. "Well said, child. The church will be your sanctuary. We will train you, sharpen your skills and your blade. We will make you a paladin, a champion of light. You have the talent for greatness."

She extended a hand towards him. "So, tell me your name, young warrior."

Azrael met her gaze, his voice ringing clear despite the pain. "Azrael Mor."

"Azrael, huh..." the woman said, her eyes twinkling. "The angel of death. A fitting name for one who will rain down destruction on the demons. I, Saintess Seraphina Orion, welcome you to the Human Church, serving the goddess Althea."

Beside her, the younger girl smiled warmly. "Hi, I'm Vera Orion. Nice to meet you."

Azrael looked from the Saintess to the young woman, a glimmer of hope flickering in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, with these people and the strength they promised, he could live up to his name – Azrael, the Angel of Death, bringer of vengeance upon the demons. He closed his eyes, the pain a dull echo compared to the fire that now burned within him. The path to vengeance had begun.

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