Michael stood, or more accurately, hovered in the air, looking at the Earth beneath his feet, silently scanning the millions of tiny dots below him with his gaze, each one a light. Humanity, civilization, the creation of humans, his Father's favorite creature.
At a height of just a few kilometers, people disappeared from view entirely, cars turned into barely noticeable black dots, smaller than ants scurrying about their business, and neighborhoods, built with such diligence by people over many months and even years of their tireless work, became like a small mosaic, laid out by a diligent child assembling a puzzle. If one were to rise a little higher, ten kilometers, twenty, thirty, this entire picture would merge completely, turning into an image of solid colors. The green carpet was the plains, the slight bumps, mountains, and the small gray spot that would turn into a bright kaleidoscope of colors at night, an entire city…
Michael did not want to hurt or kill any of his Father's creations. Neither his enemies, whose guilt lay on the shoulders of their commanders, nor his followers, who had entrusted their lives to the holy church, when ordered to fight the enemy.
If the world were perfect, if the Holy Father's vision had been realized across the entire Earth, if the Great War had been won thousands of years ago…
If the world were beautiful and perfect – there would be no wars, battles, and loss of life.
Michael did not want to turn a peaceful town in the midst of idyllic scenes of tranquil rural lands into a war zone. He would have to prefer to call for order, sit at the negotiating table and come to a perfect solution for all possible conflicts. To ask, negotiate with his Fallen brothers to hand over the criminals from his faction, come to a peaceful resolution, but…
"The die is cast" Michael silently observed the small gray dot, barely discernible from high above, an entire city filled with the fallen, who had fled from one grand tragedy, one that had twinged on his heart strings. So many of his former brothers and sisters are dying… It was almost enough for Michael to wage war on the Devils again, even if he would be alone in that.
And from that massacre, only to then become hostages of the vampires and the Fallen that wanted nothing more to burn the world. The Fallen had met an unfortunate fate
Michael could take heart in how Azazel had sheltered his fellow Fallen so fastidiously, but allowing the rotten apples to fester as well. He supposed that he cannot throw stones himself, with how many scandals that Church had caused.
Probably, no, definitely, most of the fallen at this moment were hostages of the small group of obsessed, insane fanatics who wanted not just to die, but to drag down the remnants of their faction to total destruction. Madness, a rotten seed poisoning the gathered harvest, terrorists in the most literal sense of the word. If only Michael could negotiate with Azazel, resolve everything peacefully, deal with these rotten seeds with the help of his Fallen brother…
Michael had not forgiven the Fallen Angels, even as they accepted them all the same. He could not understand and accept what they embodied, traitors to the Lord, but he did not hate them as something devoid of any positive traits, he did not consider them absolute evil.
He could not forgive them, but only that.
Even the opinion of the most blessed of all angels, even Gabriel, exalted as the Angel of Mercy, did not treat Azazel's followers as gently. However, Michael hoped, against all hope and past betrayals, he hoped that one day he would be able to find common ground with the Fallen.
Not to forgive, but to reconcile, for peace. To try to find a new common road along which he could walk together with them…
Naivety was a vice inherent in the young, but Michael considered himself eternally young – as it turned out, being 'young' meant more than an ageless appearance.
Michael saw nothing sad in judging a sinner for his sins, and may his Father guide his blade against His enemy, but when it came to his personal judgment – here Michael was powerless. He could not defend himself with the infinite wisdom of the Father, for the Father stood above the concepts of good and evil, for He is the Alpha and Omega. Michael was merely His creation, and each of his steps had to follow His words and be judged by His will.
And so now, perhaps, Michael was taking upon his soul a grave sin – the genocide of his former brothers and sisters.
"May the Lord be my judge." Michael raised his hand upward, after which one after another, [Spears of Light] of monstrous power and scale appeared in the air, accumulating one after another, emerging from the air.
"And may He be merciful to their souls."
And all at once, the many gigantic pillars of light rushed downward, marking the beginning of the shortest war between the three Factions, a war for the total annihilation of the remnants of Fallen Angels so devastated previously by the Crimson Satan. Well now, the last of them would be put to the sword by Heaven.
"I hope I have killed many… I could not bear for the others to bear this sin on their hearts." Without stopping, Michael sent spear after spear downward.
"For each one I kill, may it be a sin upon my soul, each one dead upon my hands would be one less that would stain my brothers and sisters, and will not be a sin and burden upon their souls."
With a heart as heavy as lead, Michael committed the next stage of the plan, even as his Light continued falling downwards like Judgement from the Heavens.
Instantly, at the signal, hundreds of fully armed angels, a sight never before seen after the Great War, rushed forward. Once again the army of Heaven marched for war, and the holy Seraphims, following Michael's actions, continued bombardment of the homes of the people that they used to call brothers and sisters.
Unbidden, despite the steely expression that he tried to adopt, tears started falling from Michael's eyes. Tears for the Fallen, for his doomed Brothers and Sisters, killed by his own hand.
In a matter of moments, the Army of Heaven fell on the Fallen that had survived the initial bombardment, and a desperate clash soon ensued. But it was nothing more than the last gasp of a wounded beast.
Angels, though they are Fallen, were soon cut down to pieces in front of Michael's sorrowful gaze at his brothers and sisters, consumed by destruction in the name of the holiest church.
"Amen".
***
Gerard was going through one of the worst days of his life – and then he was vaporized by a [Spear of Light] from the strongest angel of the Biblical Faction.
Christina was having a comparatively good day in her life, and then she was vaporized by yet another spear.
Victor Gren was asleep and therefore not feeling much of anything but enjoying a deep, dreamless sleep. The previous day of his life had already ended, the new day of his life had not yet begun, but even so, the spear of light vaporized him like his surroundings.
Azazel sensed the approach of a huge number of extremely powerful [Spears of Light] a moment before they collided with his surroundings, and didn't even have time to draw air into his lungs for a sharp cry. In half a moment, it took his lips to change their position for a sharp roar, of defiance, of desperation or a plea for his brothers to escape was lost – as most of the fallen around him ceased to exist.
This attack was no more destructive than Lucifer's attack, but Sirzechs was in a frenzy. He sought to kill Azazel, caring not for everything and everyone else, they are all nothing more than collateral – their destruction and death nothing more than an accident in his rampage. Random victims killed by the enraged, the strongest Devil in history.
The Fallen had adopted a pattern of living far away from each other, their desire for freedom manifesting in the way they lived far away from each other. Some Fallen lived close to Azazel, to his residence, but a significant part of them were scattered around, a boon when the Crimson Satan had attacked. Of course, it still meant that a large part of the Fallen still died, but those that had the good luck to be far away from the Crimson Satan's rampage, also had the good sense to run away immediately.
Now everything was done differently. Azazel had to pull together the scattered population of the Fallen in a desperate attempt to deceive the other Factions and convince them that, by the simplest trick, they had not lost their entire faction. To make them gather in one place so that each of them could see as many other Fallen and their allies around them as possible. To guard the remains of the destroyed Faction.
Here, in their new home, was where they were supposed to start climbing out of the boundless abyss where they were thrown by the whim of just one super-powerful being. Azazel had to do this, to personally control the army of Fallen Angels that was falling apart before his eyes.
This became the main weakness of the fallen – gathered into a single, immobile, group, the Fallen had become disastrously vulnerable to bombardment by the Angels.
In Azazel's defense, it should be said that he did not think such a problem would arise before him. He hoped to extend a hand of peace to Michael, to make contact with his merciful brother. Surely, his brother would not do to the Fallen as the Crimson Satan did?
But reality had shown otherwise – his Brother had chosen the path of extinction for the Fallen. Not out of the desire to conquer or to kill, but because of the Fallen's own action. Azazel's desire to respect the freedom that his brothers and sisters crave, had become their doom, as the Church could no longer bear the predation of the Fallen.
Rather than extending a friendly hand, Michael had sent a mailed fist instead.
Indeed – woe to the vanquished.
***
Azazel's brilliant mind composed a dozen plans in less than a moment – but the light spears were swifter. By the time Azazel rushed out of his office and up the basement stairs – a thousand, maybe two or even three thousand Fallen had already ceased to exist.
The attack was not singular and was not an attack by a single opponent – no, this was not the action of one angel, albeit an extremely powerful one. It was a bombardment, the action of an entire army that came with a single purpose to the base of the Fallen Angels.
With the purpose of forever eliminating the existence of the Fallen.
Such a bombardment from the Angels could not be compared with Lucifer's power, however. Killing Azazel or other Cadre in this way was extremely difficult, not impossible, but it would take time, and many successful strikes and many participants, while the Cadre themselves would need to remain still to take these hits. Unrealistic.
It was simply the fact of incompatible attacks – while Fallen, they still had the Light inside them, perhaps no longer Holy, but still the same Light. And the Cadres could be surviving many hits from this.
However, even if that was the case, just having a handful of Cadres surviving this attack did not constitute a faction. Influential units in magical politics and notable players still perhaps, but not a faction. A Faction was made up of people who were part of it, thousands and hundreds of thousands of his two-winged and four-winged brethren – barely noticeable against the general background of the faction's strength, but constituting its main mass.
And for them, even a couple of hits from [Spear of Light] were enough to kill them.
The Fallen Angels were not as immersed in dark power as demons, maintaining, albeit weak, but still a connection with their past angelic nature, but this did not mean that angelic light could not kill them. Especially the attacks that Azazel instantly recognized as the powers of the Seraphims.
Azazel's sense stretched around him in the moment of mortal danger, to survive as best he could. It had also told him that this bombardment, capable of putting – no, already putting an end to the Fallen, as their now twice devastated populace would not survive this, was only the opening strikes.
After several volleys, the main forces that Azazel could barely grasp on the edge of his senses would rush into battle. And Azazel did not need intelligence information or mind reading abilities to realize that the order of these forces was simple and terrible.
Destroy the Fallen.
Perhaps some of the Fallen will manage to escape – some will survive by ridiculous chance, and some will even be taken prisoner. But this was the end. The official end of the Fallen as a faction. After this attack, there will remain a few cadres and a couple dozen, maybe even a couple of hundred Fallen who will survive and be scattered across the world.
The Great War will come to an end now due to the demise of one of the sides – even if it flares up again in the future, the new war will be ordinary, the Devil against the Angels.
The Fallen, which had survived for centuries, accumulating its forces, which had barely managed to grasp with one hand the ledge before them when Lucifer had almost thrown them into the abyss, was thrown into the void along with the ledge.
The Fallen as a faction would finally be destroyed and, sooner or later, forgotten. Even if all the gods of this world come to their defense at this very second, after the initial bombardment alone and the loss of life that comes from it, the faction will disintegrate.
This understanding came to Azazel in an instant when the second volley of spears was only slowly making contact with the walls and ground around him. No matter how much Azazel tore his throat, wanting to cry out that this was not so, words could not turn the whole world upside down and rewrite reality. Denying everything that had happened, was happening, and was about to happen, was nothing more than a fool and a madman's errand.
Azazel could only accept the one single, unambiguous and absolute reality before his eyes – and make the only choice he could still make. The Fallen as a faction is destroyed – and Azazel was not planning to cling to the pathos that the Fallen were not destroyed as long as at least one Fallen was alive.
As a species, they could survive, but as a force, as a Faction, they were already dead. All that was left for them was not to save those who could still survive, but to flee for those who could still run.
Azazel did not raise panic, defend the fallen around him — his mind instantly understood that it was useless. There was no way to try to defend themselves.
Instead, Azazel rushed forward, instantly sending messages to the six-winged and stronger Fallen with a single order.
"Run."
Azazel understood that he could not give any more orders, and understood that this order was the most cowardly and disgusting that he could give at the moment, but that is all he could do. The best he could do, at this moment, was to dissuade Baraqiel from meaningless self-sacrifice in a doomed struggle.
Maybe he would reap many lives from the attacking angels and exorcists. A dozen, a hundred, or even a thousand – but in the end they would bring down even the old warrior.
The Fallen as a faction was already destroyed. The only thing Azazel could do in this case was to preserve the surviving cadres who could at least survive on their own after the collapse of the fallen faction.
"Run to the Khaos Brigade."
There was no point in talking about criminals and terrorists, or what would happen in the future after joining the Khaos Brigade, the survival of the Fallen was impossible if it stood alone. Joining the only organization that would not get rid of them as a matter of course as the Fallen were viewed as a poisoned apple, was the only way to leave any remnant of the Fallen culture to survive.
"Vali!"
The message to Azazel's adopted son remained unanswered. Vali would probably survive the Angels' strike, he was weakened, but he was not so weakened as to die without any chance of noticing or reacting to the attack. But Azazel had received no response or answer from Vali – and Azazel didn't count on it, to be honest.
What difference did it make whether he obeyed Azazel's orders or not. There were no more orders because there were no more commanders. Only survivors.
Azazel was left to hope that the angels would not pursue the fleeing… Or at least would not be able to kill all of them. But even that last hope seems to be dwindling.
Holy Magic is intertwined into a single network, a net – if Azazel had tried to save someone at that moment, he would surely have lost his chance. A Holy seal was thrown over the entire area, blocking teleportation inside it, Azazel felt it taking deeper root moment by moment.
However, before it had time to solidify in place, Azazel managed to throw himself into a barely stabilized portal, and Azazel managed to sense two more portals forming, so some of the cadres would still escape the angelic wrath…
However, all his senses failed him as Azazel fell out of the unstable portal. Now, it's simply another fight to keep all his limbs as the unstable portal destabilizes totally soon after, space itself turning into a shearing force.
He didn't have the presence of mind to create a viable landing strategy, so after being thrown out of the portal, he smashed down face-first into the ground in front of him.
Azazel fell flat on his face… How fitting for him.
Azazel was the first of the Fallen, and it was also he who bore witness to the death of the Fallen – the sole Governor-General of the Fallen host throughout its history.
And Azazel, a being of millennia-old history, a warrior who had survived the bloodiest wars in history, the strongest Fallen Angel, tasted total defeat. Not the defeat that marked the Fallen's exit from the war, but its extinction. A hot, bitter-salty defeat that rolled down his cheeks.
Azazel, the Fallen one, lay in the mud, unable to move as his body was wracked with mournful sobs at his entire species' downfall.
The end to all his dreams, plans, strategies, and the history of the fallen angels. It began with him – and with him, it was ending.
Azazel wanted to simply lie on the ground and calmly accept death, allowing it to put a sad and so unexpected period to the story of the Fallen Angels. He survived the attack of the angels, but it was more of a reflex than a conscious action. And now, when his thoughts caught up with his actions, Azazel just wanted to die. What was the point of continuing to fight? When there was nothing more to fight for?
But this moment of weakness receded after a few instants, and Azazel was able to pull himself together again.
If he was still alive, there must be a reason for it. If the Lord hates him so much that He continues to give him the right to life even after he should have died, forcibly separating him from oblivion time after time – then Azazel will live. Through force, as long as he can, cursing each of his days – Azazel will live.
Azazel lifted his face from the mud, then slowly, as if overcoming some invisible pressure, rose to his knees, then sat down, stretching out his legs, and strongly ran his hand over his face, shaking off the dirt from it.
The sound of footsteps attracted Azazel's attention, but the understanding of who had come for his life was not followed by fear, anger, or any reaction. Azazel just continued to almost mechanically dust off the dirt off of his face. Forgotten about familiar routine care procedures attempted, to fix the haggard, soiled with dirt, face of the entire faction of Fallen Angels.
The steps were quiet, calm, as if their owner had no need to hurry anywhere or fear anything in their surroundings. Although – that's exactly how it was.
Azazel's gaze slid over his surroundings to where his emergency portal had led him – a country road in some godforsaken rural area. Azazel didn't even know where exactly he had been thrown out of after his portal fully destabilized… But finding Azazel for someone like her was not difficult if she wanted to, he had crossed her domain after all – and it was someone that Azazel wanted to meet in the first place.
The light steps, not even raising dust as the figure approached, ended, but Azazel still didn't turn his head to the figure.
"You are strong," A quiet, high, and absolutely emotionless voice sounded, it was what one would think fitting if the universe itself had a voice to speak with. A voice devoid of any semblance of emotions or feelings, a voice created exclusively for conveying its own thoughts to other, far more pitiful and imperfect forms of existence than it, and nothing more.
"Lately, I've been getting more and more evidence that this is not the case at all," Azazel ran his hands over his face a few more times, but the limit of what he could do at the moment had been reached. He needed a shower, or better – a change of clothes.
"I assume you've come to recruit me, Ophis?"
Azazel finally turned his gaze to the approaching figure. The Ouroboros Dragon had come to meet him.
For the Dragon of Eternity, there was no single form. Maybe she had an original dragon form in those times when she was just aimlessly floating in the void between worlds – but Azazel knew without doubt that that 'original' form was also just another shape for Ophis. The embodied Infinity originally had no unambiguous form, so any form was the same for Ophis. Dragon, old man… Or as she appeared now.
The girl seemed at best to have just entered middle school – maybe as old as twelve years old if you looked closely, dressed in a black dress and with her hair fashioned like a doll, she seemed like a doll. A completely lifeless body that seemed not to breathe, but only moved with the perfectly calculated grace of a being that had studied all the possibilities of human movement, but had not managed to understand exactly how and why humans moved the way they do.
The way Ophis moved seemed straight out of a horror movie, all uncanny with no humanity in them.
Her small ears were pointed upwards, somewhat reminiscent of elven ears, and her eyes were of bottomless black color, with elongated pupils, similar to those of a snake. Despite the fact that Ophis seemed like a marionette, moving according to some alien will; these two features were the only things that distinguished her body from a truly human one in all respects… Except for the nature of the being itself, of course.
"If you come with me – I will make you stronger" Azazel didn't know if this was addressed to him, or if Ophis didn't even bother to pay attention to his words and said what she said to everyone else. However, Azazel knew that for him, there was only one possible answer to this question.
"Alright, I'll go with you," Azazel rose from the ground, then tried to dust himself off, and as expected was completely unsuccessful with that.
After which, he looked at Ophis, a wry grin on his face. It was a barren facsimile of his old smile, a thin and fragile thing.
"I just need a shower… And new clothes."
***
"So, they are not completely hopeless, yet such a result can't even be called a failure. Only a complete and absolute disaster." Demiurge listened to the report from Pandora's Actor, calmly, on the surface that is, underneath he was anything but.
Pandora's Actor had already left the church camp, leaving his cover intact for possible future operations, his last action, spurring on the actions of this woman, Griselda, played into Nazarick's hands.
Initially, Pandora's Actor took the form of a random church agent specializing in Fallen Angels, but thanks to Griselda's patronage, Pandora's Actor's cover identity could receive a boon in the form of a promotion. This would allow the identity to transition from a specialist operating only within the sphere of Fallen Angels to a specialist that can move and respond to all the paranormal beings in the world.
Demiurge and Pandora's Actor will ensure that the likely promotion of 'Agent Pandora' is directed precisely in this direction… Not to mention that specialists in Fallen Angels will become an endangered profession after today. It's not like there would be many of the Fallen Angels left for the specialists to observe the action of, after all.
However, what saddened Demiurge most was how reluctantly the Angels set about destroying their Fallen brethren. Their opponent was weak, and Demiurge himself had ensured that information about the Fallen reached the Angels by the shortest route possible… Yet they seemed unwilling to reap the lives of the cursed traitors!
Demiurge understood tactics and strategy, and therefore did not advocate for a mindless march against the traitors, although he did not rule out such a possibility and line of actions. After all, it is the most correct, and pleasurable thing to be able to root out traitors and heretics with straight actions.
However, Demiurge knew, in fact, he personally ensured that the Fallen were in the weakest and most vulnerable position in their whole cursed existence. Demiurge himself needed only a few thousand of Nazarick's own, even of the thirtieth level and below, or just a dozen of his direct subordinates like his Evil Lords, to destroy all the Fallen and their allies within a minute.
However, taking into account the fact that Demiurge was created by Divinity, he was ready to accept the fact that the Angels would not be able to demonstrate his equal in combat and command ability on the battlefield. But to refuse to destroy the enemy altogether? This was beyond Demiurge's understanding.
Demiurge could devise a hundred strategies for defeating the Fallen without the need of a direct use of an army. It was simple enough to spread a plague among the Fallen, poison their water resources, or simply destroy their mental state through subterfuge and backstabbing, letting them destroy themselves. It would not require particular finesse for the higher up of the Angels to make their subordinates crow for the total extinction of the Fallen. Only a dozen agitators from the Angels' side were needed, who simply had to repeat a simple fact several times.
The Fallen had already been crippled by the Lucifer, in a matter of a week or two, the Fallen faction would fall apart on its own, the Angels only needed to speed it along. So why didn't the Angels do this?!
Demiurge thought long and hard about this conundrum, approached it from all sides, created various models, one after another, before coming to the strangest, inexplicable and, frankly speaking, most unnatural conclusion that Demiurge could imagine.
The angels, or at least Michael, the leader of the Angels… Felt sorry for the Fallen.
A thought surprisingly strange and absurd in Demiurge's perception.
Of course, Demiurge understood the concept of feelings, including compassion and pity – how could he be a worthy master of torture if he did not understand them? He even felt the same sentiments for his fellow servants of Nazarick. Moreover, he understood the concept of such feelings towards outsiders not blessed by the grace of Supreme Beings, such as, for example, how Sebas felt towards lower creatures.
And Demiurge understood such an emotion, even if he considered it unnatural. That is simply the way the Supreme Beings had designed Sebas after all.
But to feel regret for the traitors to the will of the Supreme Being!? Inconceivable!
Stupidity has limits, mistakes have names, and audacity has boundaries. Demiurge even accepted the fact that Eclair Eklair Eklare, the assistant butler created by the Supreme Beings, did not hide his goal regarding the seizure of the throne of the Great Tomb of Nazarick, although Demiurge considered such an event happening an interesting incident. However, such inaction, such sympathy from the angels, Demiurge considered…
Blasphemous.
How can one be so shamelessly forgiving in indulging betrayal of God? How can one silently watch as a traitor survives in luxury after betraying God?
After this realization, Demiurge hated the angels only slightly less than the Fallen. The betrayal of the Fallen was physical, the betrayal of the Angels was in thought – but both were traitors.
In Demiurge's mind, there was no way to forgive the Angels for their inaction, except, of course, by direct decision of the Supreme Being Momonga, in which case Demiurge would instantly be filled with true love for his newly found brothers. However, apart from this possibility, remaining so thanks only to the fact that the Supreme Beings were outside any possible descriptive framework – Demiurge saw no kinship in the Angels.
Demons, Fallen, Angels – all the noble races of Nazarick were tarnished by association with the beings of this world, even himself, being a Demon. The name of their race alone could become the greatest insult within the Great Tomb.
However, despite the hatred boiling in Demiurge's mind and soul, he could by no means be called stupid, and therefore he turned the mercy of the Angels, which was repugnant to him, to his advantage.
The future fate of the Angels will remain in question for the time being. At least they had fought under the authority of Lord Momonga in the past, and therefore it was entrusted to Lord Momonga to bring them worthy punishment.
However, the étude properly played by Demiurge had achieved the necessary goal.
As expected, the Angels had not used the most effective tactics in destroying the Fallen, and therefore several targets of interest managed to escape from under their fire. Three Cadres and one hybrid, the owner of a [World Class Item], had successfully managed to escape.
And if the hybrid was interesting from the point of view of observing him in a free habitat, before taking, or destroying, his artifact to compile the necessary dossier on the actions of the artifact itself. Then Demiurge had his own plans for the surviving Fallen.
Cocytus has already conquered about three dozen forgotten religions – a small number relative to the number of all possible forgotten pantheons, but more than enough to organize a new 'faction' in the Khaos Brigade. Control of which was taken by Aura and Mare, acting under the names of the forgotten Finnish deities Mielikki and Tapio.
Thanks to them, Nazarick received a seat on the table in the Khaos Brigade.
Moreover, the strongest and most influential seat, due to the simple fact that there would not be any internal sabotage or power plays that the other faction within Khaos Brigade seems to be doing on a daily basis. It was almost laughably easy for agents of Nazarick to gain influence and watchers over the other factions thanks to their internal turmoil. Nazarick has no dearth of creatures that specializes in infiltration after all. So much so that the other 'Factions' couldn't even fathom the idea of using such powerful creatures as mere 'spies'.
And if all else fails, and the Old God faction, to follow the naming parlance of the Khaos Brigade, was destroyed? Well, nothing lost there, as the 'faction' was mostly deniable asset anyway, and Aura and Mare were capable of defeating all the others except for Ophis.
Ophis herself due to her incredible strength, except for Lord Momonga, no hundredth-level creature could defeat her in direct combat.
Even Demiurge was not sure of his chances, even when considering all possible ways he could prepare.
However, Ophis was vulnerable in one specific way – she was fully incapable in the matter of lies and intrigue, and therefore was easily directed to gather the surviving Fallen Angels. Primarily Azazel himself, who had become part of the Khaos Brigade. An organization where Nazarick already ruled absolutely.
Azazel will be provided with the best materials, the best instruments, the best place and the best students to serve Nazarick's interests.
And undoubtedly, Azazel will die in the most hellish of all possible torments – Demiurge will take care of this personally.
However, before death, Azazel will transfer every bit of his knowledge and his mind for the benefit of Nazarick.