With a glance at the sky, Isaac whispers silent prayers, his eyes, pools of golden light, scan the alleys and corners, ever-watchful for the subtlest hint of demonic manna.

“There— that building there’s three demons and it looks like there’s humans hostages too..”

A sigil, etched into his skin, pulses with a faint glow—a tattoo depicting a scythe, his divine weapon. With a whispered invocation, the sacred scythe materializes in his hand, emerging from the very essence of the tattoo.