The Mongolian desert gave way to the foothills of the northern golden plains. Four days have passed since the event of Hoffmann’s awakening. Upon the dawn of the 5th, the Seraphic prince crested a hilltop to find himself before the Great Wall. Here it has stood for some centuries. A great barrier to kinfolk of the north, and now, a barrier to him.

Dejectedly kicking over a loose rock, Hoffmann winced as he removed his now threadbare coat and tied it around his waist. The pouches in his trousers were barely held together, and the undershirt he wore was stained dark brown with old blood, dirt and sweat. Exhaustion was gnawing his bones. Yet he could not identify the underlying sensation of a desperation, a clinging wanton flame that told him to simply continue in spite of all. There was little logical reason to continue to Japan. He knew who and what he was. The adjustment period was long over, and cold hard reality has settled like concrete. He is not a retired human on the run. He should, logically, seek answers. Take the next steps. Recover his memories. Find himself.

However, Hoffmann deduced that he would rather ‘find himself’ in a place of solitude and quiet, away from any angels and the prying eyes of the public. He cannot hope to achieve the top of the pyramid of fulfillment if the bottom stones have not been laid with the utmost care. Travel to a holy place is out of the question for now. He needs time, among the other basic needs. Japan it is, he thought. America is a stretch, and Europe...well. No sense in turning back.

With his mind concluded, a simple obstacle lay ahead; that damn wall. It served its purpose still, nearly three eons after it was built, and was swiftly accosted by the hands and hobnail boots of the Seraph who began to climb it.

As the sun crested over the horizon, sparkling the Eastern skies pink and yellow with the morning glow, Hoffmann took time to build a small fire and rest atop the wall’s gangway. The Sun slowly illuminated what lay before him in the distance; Beijing. Enjoying his breakfast of fried meat rations and noodles taken from the Chinese soldiers he had slain, Hoffmann found himself lamenting the loss of life, senselessly, in this concrete domain. The Cold War, as the humans called it, had turned spectacularly hot not 20 years after the cessation of the second world war. The third had seen nuclear proliferation, a conflict of ideas, a man with too much gusto and bravado defying his leader to do what he thought was right…

“Tch. Demon of the Pacific, my ass. Warmonger. Idiot…”

Was he to suffer the same fate? He is a man, a Seraph perhaps, but a man born and raised as a human. Loved, died, as a human. ‘A man defying the leader to do what he thought was right...would it repeat?’ he thought.

These thoughts led Hoffmann to grimace in disgust at the senseless loss of life and identity in the distance. Not one guard had accosted him, nor civilians taken notice or care, as he traveled the border and traversed the wall. Those who had the heart had perished in the wars, and those left were more keen to partake in scavenging for shelter and supplies amidst the backdrop of the cold, quiet city around him.

Hoffmann sighed heavily and got to business, consulting a regional map he had procured from the unguarded border checkpoint he had crossed days prior. Miyun District was his approximate location. He was close to his first goal. Reaching the bay will take another day at most.

Clambering down a tree, he found himself stepping gingerly down sloped, sharp rocks of a hillside. A rolling boom brought Hoffmann’s attention to the sky as...it began to simply rain. Sighing in relief, his relaxation quickly turned to dismay as a black oily liquid began to pitter-patter around him. Smog and pollution were ever-present problems in Beijing on a normal day before the war - afterwards, it was considerably moreso an issue.

The chemical laden rain forced the civilian populace of the shanty tents and rickety makeshift markets to flee indoors or above ground in the shells of buildings to retreat from the rain. Unbothered, unobstructed, Hoffmann walked into the midst of the central district. Not one person bothered him, and after a time, the noise of the rain and the stillness around him turned his calm to a distrust of the environment. It was uncanny.

He took notice of the fact that the civilians had run inside as a result of the same rain that was currently soaking into his clothing and skin. Improvisation will be key, he thought. Even in their squalor conditions of filth, these people are avoiding this rain like the plague. I need cover. Now.

Now at a full sprint, Hoffmann skid along the stones as he took a corner and ran down a vendor’s street. Something, anything, he thought. A smell overtook him and powerfully dragged him to a particular vendor, whom had on display the finest food that he could have scrounged in this environment. Seemingly random fish, fried rat skewers, ambiguous vegetables...and a wok, which sizzled and spat oil as the owner had quickly abandoned it by running inside as the others had. The only thing saving the wok, the frying food within it, and Hoffmann’s blood toxicity levels was the cover of the shop front over their heads blocking the water. Hoffmann contemplates the food, then lays eyes on the wok.

His loss, Hoffmann thought. I have shit to do.

Hoffmann removed the still sizzling wok from its place as the vendor yelled words you didn’t need to speak Chinese to understand. He contemplated the fact that he was now immune to fire and heat, and thus experimentally touched the bottommost part of the wok, which resulted in little more than water hissing off of his skin. The food inside was macabre by most standards - it appeared to be rat noodle soup? - but was sufficiently fragrant with chili oil, herbs and spices to justify Hoffmann taking a cautious sip, then an elated gulp as he began to simply chug the contents of the wok without stopping. He sighed heavily in relief and a moment of genuine happiness as the food settled, for he had not had a properly cooked meal in weeks, if not months. A light burp resulted in the residual oil igniting as it vaporized from his lips, and he covered his mouth, wondering what the fuck just happened. He needs to control his fire powers, lest he breathe fire at a highly inconvenient time.

Regarding the wok, Hoffmann shook his head and focused as he wrenched the handles at an angle, and bent the wok to shape with his own strength, creaking the metal as it formed a makeshift conical hat, to which Hoffmann tore strands of the strongest cloth he could find off of his threadbare coat and used this to tie the hat to his head.

Dink. Confused, Hoffmann touched his own head, only to find his own horns thought differently of his seemingly bizarre plan. Sighing in agitation and impatience, the Seraph simply ducked his head and SLAMMED his horns up and through the metal, gouging holes clean through to allot for his bony head adornments. Not the weirdest thing he’s done, Hoffmann thought.

With cautious steps, Hoffmann retreated from the vendor district and continued down the side streets, still regarding the stillness and the silence. The helmet performed its duty of guarding him from the toxic moisture.

CRACK!

What it could not guard against was a bullet. Hoffmann’s senses became cold and sharp as adrenaline coursed through his blood. A single gunshot from up high had torn the air, and left a sizable hole in the metal. Hoffmann was saved from grievous injury or death only by the makeshift helmet deflecting the bullet ajar.

Taking long thunderous and bounding steps, the Seraph blew down the side street, gulping down the cold damp air as he made for the shoreline. With perhaps a kilometer left to go, Hoffmann felt the pressure as the human sniper delivered another shot in his direction. This one fell squarely into the backplate of the shoulder, and thunder turned to a dull whine in Hoffmann’s ears as the shocking weakness ran his blood colder. He knows he’s just been shot, and all the Seraphic strength in him wasn’t doing anything to subside the very real, mortal pain.

Scrambling with one arm and the knees, Hoffmann put pressure on the sucking chest wound and resorted to utilizing his fire powers to sear the wound shut with the sheer heat. It was a crude burn, and certain movement would certainly tear the wound open again, but it would hold. He howled violently in anger and fear as he turned to face the vendor behind him, whom had ran into the shop to hide from the gunfire as well as the rain.

An ethically dubious decision came to his mind. Hoffmann scanned his surroundings. It was a narrow street with no end in sight, and moreover, no cover. He made an effort to grab the street vendor with a violent lurch, dragging the man out into the open and tugging him along for the ride as the human man screamed on in horror. Certainly he wouldn’t fire on them now, he thought, and I can simply let the man go when I am safe.

Fighting the pain, exhaustion, and blood loss, Hoffmann reached a wet dock and continued to drag the man by the arm, resorting to hoisting him up by the waist in order to make sure he didn't squirm away. Seeing as he has already committed theft and kidnapping, what more is stealing a boat

Onwards then did Hoffmann push to the proverbial finish line. He was almost free. It was right there! The grey ocean lay before him, and beyond that, the clean blue waters of the sunrise nation, he thought.

Tense, heart-pounding moments went by as Hoffmann leapt into a fishing vessel, nearly collapsing in his haste as the front bullet wound tore open. He hastily tore at the controls, ignoring the footsteps of the shooter as they moved towards the boat tied to the moor.

Hoffmann eventually felt the pressure in the air build till he could no longer ignore it. His senses urged him to whip around and face his assailant, and he complied, finding it to be an ordinary man leveling a wooden rifle at him. Giving a snarl, Hoffmann threw the boat into the correct gear and reached for the mooring rope.

The taste of iron in his mouth froze Hoffmann still as the sound he registered pierced his senses once again. A gunshot. He felt at his mouth with the aforementioned hand, wiping the blood and gore as the man he was holding slumped. Lifeless. The guard had shot his hostage in the chest, deliberately.

Thousands of neurons fired through Hoffmann’s mind as the bolt of the rifle came up. He did not mean for this to happen. He didn’t want to kill another civilian. Not one more life. It didn’t matter to him that this was a random person whom he had no investment in personally - fuck that notion. He was invested in doing the right thing, if not for others, then at least himself. It was entirely selfish of him to drag that man out, it was his fault he died! But the man before him has still slain one of his own!

And with that final roaring thought, Hoffmann pulled back his arm and thrust it outwards in a gutteral bellow, drawing upon the power of his flames to create a vortex of incineration that drew blood-curdling screams from its victim. The flames swallowed the man whole, burning the front half of his body cleanly to ash in mere moments and leaving behind a face-down smoldering heap that more accurately resembled a semi-burnt strip of bacon someone dragged through a gravel pit.

This imagery burnt into the synapses of our Seraphic ‘hero’, leaving him bottomed out with shock as he realized far too late that the fire had fallen to the vessel below. In spite of the wet environment and the rain, enough of the fire seeped down through the basin of the boat to touch off the gasoline. The dangerous mixture flash ignited and resulted in a powerful explosion that threw Hoffmann far clear of the dock and into the waters of the bay. Pain settled in, then, a sleepiness that his body could not ignore…