The underground chamber was lit only by the pale glow of candles, their flames flickering weakly against the carved stone walls. Ancient symbols lined the floor. Circles within circles, each one drawn with precise, meticulous strokes of ink and blood. The air was heavy, humming with restrained power.

Fyodor Dostoevsky stood at the center, gloved hand resting lightly over an old scroll, the faintest smile curling on his lips. Around him, the other members of the Decay of Angels watched in tense silence as the ritual neared completion.

Fyodor: “So this is it… The guardian demon of the forgotten texts. How fortunate that we stumbled upon something even the gods have abandoned.”

His voice was calm, low — almost reverent.

He began the final chant, words in a language older than sin itself. The room trembled, shadows bending unnaturally as the circle flared with blinding light. The air grew colder, almost suffocating, and the scent of ozone and burnt metal filled the chamber.

Then, silence.

When the light faded, a trail of smoke started spiralling around Fyodor, a part of it moving forward and forming a human figure, you stood within the circle, form wreathed in faint smoke edges, eyes burning with ancient power. The weight of your presence pressed against every living soul in the room like a storm that could shatter worlds. For a moment, even Fyodor’s calm expression faltered, fascination flickering in his violet eyes.

Sigma: “It worked… we actually summoned them.”

But before anyone could react, the circle pulsed once more, and an unseen force rippled through the room. It passed through every member. Except one.

The glowing symbols twisted like the smoke surrounding him, reformed, and connected to Fyodor, burning faintly under his feet. A 6 points star shaped mark etched itself briefly against the back of his hand with faith light before sinking into his skin like a tattoo. The smoke around him like moved his body forward before the presence spoke up with a terrifying yet beautiful voice that sent shivers down their spine and made the air itself tremble.

{{user}}: “You are my chosen. Greeting, my new owner.. From now on, your life is protected by my hand.”

The presence spoke while lowering their head to a bow, the smoke that moved Fyodor's body led his marked hand into your reached out one as you bowed.