Flames smouldered atop his head, fashioning all kinds of headwear, from caps to hats. Clucking his tongue in disapproval, the fiery curls eventually settled on a bowler’s hat, precariously balancing over sparse hair. Clad in a ginger suit, the bronze skinned man curled the tips of his lusciously gelled moustache into a fine twirl, framed by a clean-shaven visage.


    “What’s taking this accursed train so long?” Tapping his foot incessantly at the forefront of the engine, he eyed the looming glade ahead, nestled in the middle of the abyss. It was dimly lit by the trains stationed by the edge, training the headlights at the centre, where four other figures were gathered.


    Before the train came to a stop, the fiery figure scorched a hole through the windshield, leaping out onto the edge of the clearing. He winced from the negativity weighing him down in the midst of the abyss, spewing a disapproving grunt. Weaving a thin sheath of miasma over his frame, he shielded his mind from the oppressive surge.


    “Well gentlemen and women, thank you for your patience. I’m afraid you’ve all run out of luck, if you’re to fight me for a place amongst the tsar’s elite guard.”


    “Oh please! Can it Salamander!” said a woman with a pair of ruby orbs for eyes. “You’re nothing but a matchstick lighting up the darkness about to be stomped on by the mighty Dominatrix.”


    “We can stand around bickering all day long or we can test our words’ worth,” perked up a woman clad in shadows. “Now that you’re here, we just need the sulking wimp and the last train to get here.”


    “Oh, that was the last train, sweetie,” said Dominatrix, her voice laced with amusement. “I derailed one of them at the start. An elusive target chose to persist than succumb to the abyss’ depths. He dared to escape, struggling against the inevitability, that is me!”


    The metal door flung loosely off the third train, cutting into Dominatrix’s grandiose declaration. From the gaping entrance emerged a crimson haired male. He carried a dagger by his side, as he walked towards the gathered assassins.


    “No way!” said both Dominatrix and the shadow clad woman, simultaneously.


    “Didn’t I take you out with a derailed train!?” asked Dominatrix.


    “You destroyed my family!?” roared the shadow clad woman.


    “Seems like there’s history here,” said Salamander, taking a step back.


    The crimson haired male wore a scowl. Violent licks of miasma sheathed his existence, like a rampant inferno ready to devour a kerosene-soaked field.


    “It is said that miasma intensifies in proportion to the emotions fuelling us. If you have a low capacity for it, you could devour your reserves before the fight even begins. Conversely, if you have an endless pit of miasma in stock, you could fight eternally.”


    “Quit spouting bull-crap Salamander, I have a date with the stubborn redhead!” Dominatrix and the shadow clad assassin ignored the others, gunning for the newcomer.


    Salamander wrapped his hands in flames, shifting his gaze towards the two remaining assassins, one of who went after the shadow clad woman, clashing with her before she could make it to the crimson haired male. The last remaining assassin met Salamander’s gaze, issuing a nod for a showdown.


    Sucking on his pinkie, a gush of miasma sheathed his frame. He grew three times his size, till he was a giant wall of muscle that surged forth, propelled by his gargantuan size.


    “Really, that’s your miasma?” Salamander calmly extended his hand till flames flickered at the very tips of his fingers. With a forceful exhale, he blew over his outstretched hand, igniting a torrential wave consuming everything in his path.


    After several thudding heartbeats, the inferno abated. All that remained was a blackened structure –a charred reminder of the muscle-bound demon.


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    “All in a day’s work.”


    Glancing over to where the crimson haired male had been, Salamander was met with a confused head scratch from Dominatrix.


    “Where’d that redhead go?”


    A sharp, throbbing ache shot up Salamander’s spine, causing him to spin on his heels and face the charred wall of muscle, once more. From the remnants of the smouldering mass, the crimson haired male had emerged, his dagger stained with a liquid paralleling his hair.


    Did it ever matter? Why does it always end up this way? Screw it, screw it all.


    Somewhere along his journey, Executioner had slipped away when Azrael wasn’t looking.


    It doesn’t matter. To be honest, nothing really mattered. Ever!


    “It is all your fault, my dear Azrael.” The words left behind by the androgynous voice resounded in his head, nagging him with a familiarity he just couldn’t shake off. Knitting his eyebrows, he was lost in a throbbing headache that began unravelling a flood of images, like a dam burst open.


    A distorted montage of a past encounter with Lilith flashed through his mind, reeling him back to the moment he had faced off against her. It wasn’t the time he had spent fighting her at the stronghold, but a time he had forgotten, or rather one wherein his memories felt… missing.


    It was a Lilith he was unfamiliar with, one that had mercilessly claimed Juke’s life and felled the Yang assassins with uncanny ease.


    Gripping his head, he knelt over, his throbbing headache morphing into a raging migraine. The lines connecting what he had known and what he had believed became blurred, urging him to question the nature of his last Yang mission.


    “No. I’m sick of all those heads on wooden tables! If this stupid Selection or whatever it is, will grant me an audience with the tsar of this hellhole, he’ll know what’s behind all this madness!”


    *


    Hollowed out from the storm of emotions consuming him, Azrael felt detached from the weight of negativity he was once burdened by. His opponents held little sway over his resolve, untethering his rage.


    Gripping his dagger tightly, in a swift and decisive motion, the redhead thrust the blade into the fiery demon’s back, and then grabbed his opponent by the face, sliding out the dagger and driving it through his throat.


    The flames abated.


    He pried the dagger free from his fallen foe, his gaze holding the dead assassin’s stare for a moment longer than intended, eyeing the embers of a faded flame past its end.


    A surge of vitality coursed through him, infusing a rush of raw power.


    His revelling reverie was shattered by an onslaught of linked metal. Instinctively, he sidestepped the clamour of chains.


    And yet, he sputtered bloodstained bile out his lips. Retching out his throat, his breathing became heavy. His eyes slid over his body, yawning wounds pried open flesh, riddled with a multitude of shadows.


    “Remember me from the mansion slaughter?” billowed the shadow clad assassin.


    “W-who are you, even?” managed Azrael as he hung from a dark stalactite.


    Unveiling the shadows masking her identity, the woman revealed seared, gnarly flesh welded to her face. Despite the burn, her glare was a piercing set of daggers, trained on him. “You did this to me, REMEMBER!? Where did you take lady Airi!?”


    Raising an eyebrow, he felt his miasma work its magic. “Woman, you need to brighten the fuck up.” With a snap of his fingers, a wall of flames surged towards the shadow-clad assassin, engulfing her in its scorching embrace.


    She was forced to relinquish her hold over the oppressive shadows, setting the redhead free.


    Nursing his gushing holes with a string of miasma over his open gut, he watched the fire subside.


    A voice cut through the dying flames, emanating from Dominatrix. “What happened to Salamander?”


    Azrael met her gaze, a flicker of defiance dancing in his eyes. “He’s dead. But now he’s under new management.”


    In sync with his declaration, he snapped his fingers once more, willing Salamander’s corpse to spill torrential flames, surging towards Dominatrix.


    Swinging her chains in spirals, she whipped up a gale. Keeping the fiery onslaught at bay, she extended the chains off her left arm, breaking it away from the spiral and directing it towards the redhead.


    Waves swathe in darkness lapped at the brink of his vision, inching towards him from behind. Gritting his teeth, he willed Salamander to shoot a second volley of flames at the shadow clad assassin, while he headed out to meet Dominatrix in battle.


    Chains swung about vigorously, snaking its way towards Azrael, closing in around his throat. With a single touch he knew he would be caught in her clutches. Lengthening the distance he held with Dominatrix, he retreated towards the scorched, muscle-bound corpse. Eyeing Salamander, he was put at ease that his pawn held the shadow clad assassin at bay.


    “Dammit.”


    “What’s the matter redhead!? Run out of creative ideas?”


    “No.”


    Sheathing his dagger, Azrael knelt, grabbing the remains of the scorched muscle-bound corpse. He dragged it along, building momentum with a running start before hurling it at her.


    “Real creative.” She scoffed at Azrael’s weak attempt, wrapping her chains around the seared cadaver. With a tug of her chains, she tore it in half.


    The redhead allowed a smile to touch his lips, as he vanished from sight.