Marcus sat at the small wooden desk in his new abode—an apartment, as he had heard it called—within the Grigori's headquarters. His eyes flickered across the pages of the book in front of him, a tome on spatial magic, a subject he found endlessly fascinating. He couldn't help but wonder how much easier his journey would have been if teleportation magic had existed in his world. The countless ferrystones he had spent gold on and the endless hours traveling on foot seemed almost laughable now. Shaking his head, Marcus snorted at the irony. Now that he could transport himself with ease, there was little need for it.

In this new world, Marcus had quickly learned that magic worked differently. The kind of magic he had known in his old world involved imposing one's will onto the fabric of reality. It required immense power and clarity of will. As both are often lacking in the average person, mages and sorcerers of his world had devised shortcuts to ease the process—recreating events from the past, for example, to make casting easier. The more natural and likely to occur the effect of a spell was, the less energy it required to replicate. Summoning a bolt of lightning? Simple. Calling down meteors? A massive headache.

Here, however, magic was treated like the natural sciences. Mathematical equations and formulas were used to directly predict and manipulate the flow of magic, altering reality with precision rather than force of will. Elegant, Marcus thought, his fingers tracing the glyphs on the page, studying the elaborate magical circle inscribed therein.

A knock at the door pulled Marcus out of his thoughts.

"Come in," Marcus called, his tone casual, his focus still half on the book in front of him.

The door swung open, revealing Cyran, the eight-winged fallen angel who had helped him through his recovery in this strange new world. He entered the room, his face bright with his usual curiosity, though there was a faint air of disappointment as his gaze landed on the book Marcus had been studying.

"Still burying yourself in books, I see," Cyran remarked, his Vermudian flawless. Much to Marcus' annoyance, Cyran had learned Marcus' language far faster than Marcus had learned his.

Marcus looked up with slight exasperation. "There's not much else for me to do, and the magic of your world is... well, fascinating."

Cyran nodded, leaning in to glance at the text with mild interest. "Spatial magic again? You've been at that for a while. But tell me, how's the other work coming along?" His emphasis on "other" made it clear he wasn't referring to anything arcane.

Marcus sighed, switching to halting but understandable English. "I've finished the weekly assignments you gave me." He waved dismissively; while the lessons on mundane topics—languages, economics, and history—were interesting and useful, they paled in comparison to the trove of magical knowledge he now had at his disposal.

Cyran chuckled. "You never cease to amaze me. Most people are intimidated by spatial magic—just learning enough to teleport—and here you are, treating it like a puzzle." His expression grew more serious. "By the way, Azazel wants to see you in his lab in half an hour."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "What for?"

Cyran shrugged. "He didn't say exactly, but knowing him, he probably wants to run some more tests. You're a bit of an anomaly, after all."

Marcus grimaced. He vividly remembered the battery of bizarre experiments Azazel had subjected him to upon his arrival—blood tests, strange devices they had strapped to him while he ran on a rotating track, even the uncomfortable prodding of his 'heart.'

"Fantastic," Marcus muttered sarcastically.

Cyran smiled. "It could be worse. He's been more curious than invasive. Besides, you might pick up some valuable knowledge about magic."

"Lucky me."

As Cyran turned to leave, he paused at the doorway, his usual curiosity surfacing again. "By the way, if you're free this evening after Azazel's... whatever it is, I'd love to talk more about your world's languages. Elvish, in particular—it's fascinating, the structure of it."

Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. "You never give up, do you?"

"Nope," Cyran replied, a wide grin on his face. "I'm a scholar of culture, Marcus. I live for this kind of thing."

As the door clicked shut, Marcus leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. His feelings were conflicted. A younger version of himself—the one who had only dreamt of being a mage—would have been envious of the sheer amount of magical knowledge at his disposal now. Yet, as an Arisen and slayer of the Pathfinder, Marcus couldn't shake the restlessness creeping in.

Marcus made his way through the labyrinthine halls of the Grigori's headquarters, letting out a sigh as he knocked on the door to Azazel's lab. He braced himself for yet another round of strange tests and even stranger questions.

The door slid open, revealing Azazel, the ever-inquisitive Fallen Angel, lounging in a chair with his feet casually propped on a sleek desk. His twelve wings stretched lazily behind him, casting long, flickering shadows on the walls. The lab itself was a maze of softly glowing tubes, humming machinery, and floating screens—more like something out of a dream than reality.

"Ah, Marcus!" Azazel grinned as he stood up. "Perfect timing. Come on in, we need to run a few more tests."

Marcus crossed his arms, his expression wary. "More tests? Haven't you poked and prodded enough?"

Azazel waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. It's all in the name of science. You're a fascinating subject—I've never come across anyone quite like you." He gestured toward a sleek, glass-like table in the center of the room. "Just lie down for a quick scan."

Marcus eyed the table suspiciously. "You said something similar last time, right before dunking me in that tank."

Azazel chuckled. "No water this time, I promise. Just need some more accurate readings to figure out what race you actually are."

Marcus blinked, confused. "What race? I'm human."

Azazel raised an eyebrow. "Human? If humans in your world don't have physical hearts, run at a constant 150 degrees Fahrenheit, and get by on just four hours of sleep every couple of days, then sure, you're human. But by our standards, you're... something else."

Marcus frowned. "That's… what?"

Azazel's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Yeah, that whole no-heart situation? And your steaming hot body," he added with a grin, waggling his eyebrows before pausing at Marcus' unamused glare, "was a shocker when you arrived. Our doctors freaked out when they realized you didn't have a pulse. Then we noticed your unusual sleep pattern in the following days."

Marcus furrowed his brow, his confusion deepening. "I've... never really thought about it," he admitted slowly. "After I lost my heart, life got too chaotic to dwell on the physical changes."

Azazel gestured toward the table again. "Let me scan you, and we might get closer to understanding what exactly is going on. Deal?"

Marcus hesitated, then nodded. "Fine, but I want something in return. A proper magic instructor—not these scrolls or lectures. Someone who can teach me face-to-face."

Azazel smiled, nodding eagerly. "Done. Now, get comfortable."

Marcus lay on the examination table, his arms resting at his sides as Azazel began prepping the scanning devices. Soft whirring sounds filled the room, followed by a series of beeps as glowing screens flickered to life. Azazel moved about, making adjustments, occasionally muttering to himself.

Minutes passed in silence, and Marcus grew impatient. "Azazel, is something wrong?"

Azazel's brow furrowed. "Not wrong, exactly, but unexpected." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The simplest way to explain it is you're part dragon, part god, part human. But even that's not quite right."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

Azazel's voice brimmed with excitement. "Your draconic and divine aspects are the most prominent and are in flux, constantly shifting, yet stable. It's a paradox. Your human side is interesting too, different but still unmistakably human. I wonder if someone like you could have a Sacred Gear."

Marcus sat up slightly, intrigued. "And what does that mean for me?"

Azazel shrugged with a grin. "I have no idea, I haven't had the chance to seriously study gods. But if you haven't exploded yet, I think you'll be fine."

Marcus groaned, rubbing his temples. "Great."

Azazel laughed, his wings stretching behind him as he jotted down notes. "But think of the possibilities, Marcus. The ranks of the most powerful are filled with dragons and divinites. Hell, the two most powerful beings in this existence are the Dragon Gods."

Marcus sat back in his chair after meeting with Cyran again, his mind still buzzing from their conversation about his world and its cultures. He closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting on how much had changed since he arrived here.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a loud crash, jolting Marcus out of his thoughts. Instinctively, he shot up, summoning Grianmhar, his Magickal Bow, to his hand. In a flash, he drew the bowstring to full draw, Seeker bolts forming in its center, ready to strike.

But just as quickly as the tension built, it faded. Marcus let the bow dissipate into sparks when he saw who it was—Azazel, grinning like a madman.

Marcus groaned, lowering his guard. "What are you doing here?"

Azazel's enthusiasm was palpable as he beamed pointing at Marcus. "You, Marcus, are my new research assistant! And I, Azazel, am your new magical instructor."

Marcus blinked, incredulous. "Wait, what? You?"

Azazel's grin only widened. "Yes, me! Starting tomorrow. So, get some rest tonight because tomorrow we're diving into serious training."

Marcus rubbed his temples. "Training in magic?"

Azazel winked. "That too."

And with that, Azazel left, leaving Marcus alone with the realization that his foreseeable future promised to be much anything but calm.