"Nothing left to lose, huh?" he whispered, the back of his right, human hand bleeding freely. Each drip of his blood echoed almost deafeningly in the basement, and he took a shuddering breath.
"This is for you, Neah," he said, eyes burning silver behind round glasses as he dropped, slamming his bloody hand on the edge of the inscribed ritual circle drawn in the stone with his own blood, accumulated from months of study.
His master always said he'd get mixed up with demons. He always thought the old man meant the Noah clan, purposely ignoring the tattered book laying in his bag, detailing the many dwellers of Perdition. He claimed them to be fairy tales, myths, when asked about his interest in them, but even so, his mind always strayed to them. He supposed that was the effect of a demon.
The floor pulsed under him like a shockwave, and he dug his nails into the stone, uncaring of the pain. His left arm, bandaged, gradually grew hotter and hotter, and he hissed. "Bear with it," he whispered. "Please."
The shockwaves grew more forceful, until he was finally thrown back, the sound of lightning striking and crackling hurting his ears. He wheezed from the impact of his back against the wall, and looked up.
"Good evening, little mortal."