The path stretched endlessly beneath him, carved from black stone veined with molten crimson. Each step Dark took echoed across the dead valley like a judgment. The air grew denser the deeper he went—not heavier in temperature, but in pressure. Like something knew he was coming and dared not move until he arrived. Smoke rolled low across the scorched earth, refusing to rise, as if the sky above denied it the right to ascend.
Dark walked with no companions at his side. His shadows remained dormant. Silent. Awaiting his call. The last fortress had fallen, the last Watcher had bowed—or been broken. And now only this remained.
After what felt like hours—or perhaps minutes, time didn't seem to matter anymore—he stepped beyond a final ridge, and the landscape opened.
His eyes widened.
Before him stood an empire.
But not a city. Not a fortress. Not even a continent.
It was a kingdom that stretched so far in every direction, it drowned the horizon. Towering spires of obsidian and bone clawed at the skies. Mountains carved into citadels. Oceans of magma flowed between trenches wide enough to swallow nations whole. The scale of it eclipsed anything he'd seen in Hell thus far. If Earth had continents, this place had dominions, and this was the seat of one. It made Africa and Europe combined look like a village.
But it wasn't the size that made him pause.
It was the army.
They stood in formation—line after line, regiment after regiment, rank upon rank—tens of billions across the ridges, and valleys, and sky. Maybe even more. Dark's eyes sharpened, analyzing, measuring. And the number settled into his mind like a weight.
Roughly 132 billion.
That was the army's size.
But their numbers weren't the terrifying part.
Each one... was planetary level.
Some were larger than giants, armored in volcanic scales with fangs longer than most humans. Others were slender and twisted, cloaked in cursed cloth, levitating with staffs that bent reality around their tips. There were flying units—wings made of knives, fire, or thunder. Ground berserkers that trembled from their own suppressed rage. Mages in circles of twenty, summoning stars of blood. Beasts with no faces, only mouths. All disciplined. All focused. All prepared.
Dark exhaled, not in fear—but recognition.
Dark: (softly) I can't solo that.
He lifted his head. His crimson eyes pulsed once. And then he spoke.
Dark: Awaken.
It wasn't shouted. It wasn't screamed. It wasn't even loud.
But the command rippled through reality like a divine note striking the bones of existence.
The air behind him cracked—no, it unraveled. A wave of dark mist burst outward in a slow spiral. One by one, his shadows began to step through.
Not from summoning circles.
Not from the Veil.
But from him.
Igor was first—emerging with his head lowered, massive black armor now refined with crimson engravings pulsing like a second heartbeat. Then came Vel, sharp and calculating, dragging his blade behind him like a conductor awaiting the cue. Raz unfolded his wings as he appeared, the bones crackling, his feet never touching the ground. Malik walked forth surrounded by flickers of inner lava, heat distorting the air around him. Clum landed silently, cloak fluttering, frost rising at his steps. Cal stepped last—new form still regal, but eyes quieter now. No longer a Sentinel. Just a sword for Dark. Then One.
Then came the rest.
Hundreds more. Some tall, some serpentine, others abstract—shadows reborn from past battles, from kings defeated, from horrors bent into loyalty.
A total of 473 stood behind him.
Not random.
Not minions.
Warriors.
Dark's gaze didn't move.
Dark: Main unit... step forward.
Seven moved in unison.
Igor. Vel. Raz. Malik. Clum. Cal. One.
They stopped just ahead of the others, each radiating a different aura. But together, they formed something overwhelming. Dark studied them for half a second, then nodded to himself.
Dark: From this point forward, you six will carry a title. Not for pride. Not for drama. For structure.
He tilted his head slightly.
Dark: You are the Champions. If they can't say your name, they'll call you that.
The six didn't flinch. They accepted it.
Behind them, the rest of the shadows tightened their ranks. Weapons glinted in the haze. The wind changed direction.
Dark stepped back once, hands behind his back, watching the vast kingdom ahead.
Dark: Go.
He didn't need to say more.
The war began.
Like a string snapped across the world, both armies launched forward. Hell's legions surged like a tsunami of wrath, their formations breaking into wings of flame, bones, lightning, and shadow. Magic lit the skies. Screams—real and arcane—echoed across the plains. Titans bellowed as they charged. Flying units dove with razors of wind, slicing through the ash.
Dark's shadows met them with elegance and violence.
The first wave collided.
It was a massacre.
Raz shot through the air with blinding speed, his wings cutting through the first sky-beast before it even noticed. Malik grabbed a molten berserker, slammed it into the earth, and detonated his fists into its skull. Igor tore through lines like a grim reaper, silent, graceful, devastating. Vel moved through commanders with pinpoint efficiency, his blade landing only once per target—but that was enough. Clum froze entire formations, their flesh cracking before they could scream. Cal danced in a spiral of brutal serenity, each movement designed to erase pride, ego, and bone.
And the others—
They fought like they were born in war.
Demons fell.
Devils screamed.
And the ground turned black with the blood of the fallen.
A shriek tore through the sky—no, not a scream. A soul tearing in half. One of the demonic warriors had tried to escape after Raz impaled its stomach with a jagged spear of marrow-forged bone, but Raz didn't give chase. He yanked his hand back, ripping the entire lower spine out through the gut. Flesh tore like wet paper. Organs hit the ground with a dull slap. The demon choked once—then collapsed into a twitching heap of meat, legs still spasming even after death.
Raz: (grinning) Stay down, shitbag.
To the right, Malik barreled through a battalion of horned brutes, his fists glowing with molten magma. One swung an axe the size of a house—but Malik caught it with one hand, snapped the metal in two, then drove his knee into the demon's jaw with a crunch that echoed across the battlefield. Teeth exploded from the creature's mouth like gravel from an engine. Its jaw shattered into six directions, bone cracking through its own face as Malik followed with a brutal elbow drop that crushed its skull into pudding.
Malik: (laughing) Come on! I thought Hell was full of killers!
Clum swept in next—soundless. One touch of his palm froze the air around him to absolute zero. He slid across the stone like a ghost, fingers dragging frost trails. A demon commander charged at him, swinging a flail laced with screaming souls. Clum ducked under it, touched the creature's ribcage, and whispered coldly.
Clum: Sleep.
The demon's entire upper body flash-froze and exploded into shards of frozen crimson. Limbs dropped with wet thuds, twitching briefly before going stiff. Clum stepped over the remains without looking back, eyes locked onto the next cluster.
Vel moved like a storm, his spear spinning in masterful arcs. His movements were ballet—but every pirouette ended in a decapitation. He slid forward, knees bent, and with one upward thrust of his spear, he pierced through three enemies stacked like meat. The bodies didn't even fall apart—they just slumped together like wet towels. Vel pulled the blade free and stabbed backward without looking, impaling a coward charging from behind.
Vel: (calmly) Pathetic.
Igor was the wall. The death that stood still. His sword cleaved in wide arcs, each swing splitting flesh and armor like fruit. Two devils charged him at once. He didn't dodge. He let them hit. One slashed across his chest—no effect. The other went for his neck—Igris caught the blade mid-air with one hand, crushed it into dust, and kicked the demon in the chest. Its entire torso folded inward with a sound like metal collapsing. The demon vomited its spine before exploding into a red mist.
Then came Cal.
He was different now. No longer regal. No longer bound. His sword, still wrapped in rusted chains, dragged behind him with a dreadful hiss. When he lifted it, the blade pulsed—not with magic, but memory. His first swing carved through five enemies. The second? It didn't even touch them—just the pressure of it severed their heads from their bodies. Cal walked forward with methodical slowness, the chain uncoiling with every step like a whisper of judgment.
And still, they were outnumbered.
Dark stood at the top of the cliff, arms crossed, watching it unfold. The sky above twisted, the clouds turning inside out from the sheer carnage below. The cries of the wounded and dying fused into one monstrous symphony—ripping, tearing, screaming, the sound of lungs filling with blood before collapsing.
Hundreds of thousands of Hell's soldiers were already dead.
And more kept coming.
Blades clashed. Bone snapped. Eyes were torn out. Tongues ripped from screaming mouths. One demon begged on its knees for mercy, only to be sliced cleanly from jaw to groin by a passing Hollow Shadow. The creature's intestines spilled out like hot ropes, steaming on the cold stone, pulsing weakly before death finally came.
Another was impaled through the back—its own ribcage used to strangle it before being folded in on itself like meat being twisted in a grinder. Bodies were stacked like monuments of defeat, limbs draped over ruined weapons, entrails looped around broken horns.
Vel spun, kicking a demon so hard its head detached before its body realized it had died.
Raz rammed both arms into the stomach of a ten-foot devil and yanked outward—splitting the body like meat being torn at the seams. Blood showered across the battlefield. A hollow shadow walked into the spray like rain, unfazed, and continued slashing.
Malik screamed with rage and dropped from above, slamming both fists into the skull of a demon general. The entire body compressed in on itself like an aluminum can. Eyes shot out of the sockets. Brain matter splattered across a wall. Malik grabbed the limp corpse and threw it into the crowd like a bomb.
Clum froze a battalion mid-charge. They shattered like glass the moment they touched his aura.
Igor stood over a pile of twenty corpses, none of them breathing. His armor dripped with blood. He raised his sword and pointed toward the next wave.
Igor: Move.
Igor charged without another word, armor glinting like sharpened dusk as he tore through the fray. And then came the second blur—faster, more erratic, more vicious.
One.
He didn't walk in.
He descended.
Like gravity spat him out from some hidden fold in reality, his body twisted midair before slamming into the battlefield beside Igor with a crack that splintered the spine of the land. His arrival was so sudden that the ground cratered before the enemy could register the shift in presence. Blood sprayed from the first unlucky fool to look his way—split from shoulder to hip by a single, casual flick of One's jagged blade.
One: Let's make it entertaining this time.
He blurred forward again, ink trailing his movement like a signature. The first few demons lunged, confident, screaming in unity. One ducked beneath the first strike, slid across the slick earth, and twisted upward—his blade slicing through the throat of a creature twice his size. Black blood sprayed like high-pressure mist. He grabbed the arm of another, spun on the heel of his boot, and used the torn corpse like a flail to crush three more in a single, sickening swing.
Bones cracked.
Spines popped.
One laughed.
One: You guys scream just like your mothers.
Beside him, Igor swung with perfect calculation—cleaving down a horned giant with a vertical strike that split the beast from skull to pelvis. Each movement was a painting of death. Cold. Silent. Efficient. No wasted breath, no grand flourish. He moved like a guillotine with a soul.
One: (grinning) You still don't talk much, huh?
Igor didn't answer. He stepped through the next body like mist, stabbing a spear-wielding brute through the stomach, then twisting the blade sideways until the torso peeled apart. Steam hissed from the wound. The demon collapsed, clawing at its own disintegrating guts.
Igor: Focus.
One: (mocking) Aww, I missed you too.
A tide of enemies crashed around them—at least two hundred in every direction. But for every five that lunged, six dropped dead. One carved through heads and chests, licking the blood off his teeth like wine. Igor ruptured lungs and removed skulls with clean diagonal strikes, his armor soaked but unstained. The two didn't just fight.
They danced.
Together.
Like a war had raised them.
Like murder had loved them.
One leapt over Igor's shoulder, flipped midair, and landed with both boots on a demon's head. The crunch of bone under pressure was deafening. Blood jetted from the ruined eye sockets. One turned to Igor with a grin.
One: I'm feeling generous today. Wanna keep count?
Igor: No.
One: Too bad. I'm at twenty-three already.
Igor pivoted and bisected another opponent.
Igor: Twenty-four.
One: Bastard.
They laughed.
And the ground turned black with the blood of the fallen.
While the Champions tore through the ranks like wolves baptized in carnage, Dark walked alone. He stepped over severed limbs, past shattered spines and twitching corpses. Every breath he took was steady, every step calculated. His aura did not rage. It did not flicker. It simply existed—more absolute than flame or shadow.
The deeper he went, the more the battlefield seemed to warp.
Not because of destruction—but because of anticipation.
A pressure rolled through the air. One that didn't come from Igor. Or One. Or Raz. Or any of the armies dying behind him.
Dark: (thinking) That presence... It's not part of this war.
His eyes narrowed.
In the distance, standing alone amidst a path cleared by death, was a figure. Humanoid, tall, slim in frame but coiled like a predator—dressed in segmented armor that looked carved from bone and stitched with lava. Its eyes glowed dim red, but not with rage. With awareness. And its aura...
Dark's brow furrowed.
Dark: (thinking) That power... that's not planetary. That's beyond even Igor's. What is he doing here?
He stopped several feet away.
The stranger didn't flinch. His voice was young. Controlled. Almost curious.
???: So you're the reason the sky cried today.
Dark: You're not from this legion. You're not even bound to this territory.
???: Correct.
Dark: Who are you?
The figure tilted his head slightly, hair brushing against the edge of his crimson-plated pauldrons.
???: I'm just another product of Hell's broken stomach. One of the few who didn't get digested. They call me Syvrek, the Riftborn. I've never had a kingdom. Never led a war. But the moment I saw you... I came here to see if the rumors were true.
Dark: What rumors?
Syvrek: That you're not rising. You're returning.
For a split second, something passed between them.
Not hatred.
Recognition.
Like two swords realizing they were made from the same ore.
Dark didn't raise his weapon.
Neither did Syvrek.
They didn't need to—not yet.
Dark: You're not just here to spectate.
Syvrek smiled faintly. Not evil. Not crazed. Just... honest.
Syvrek: No. I'm here to measure.
Dark: Then measure. But you won't like the answer.
Their auras expanded slowly, not colliding, but spiraling around one another. Two storms orbiting the same wound in reality.
And somewhere behind them—Igor ripped out the spine of another enemy.
And somewhere behind them—Igor ripped out the spine of another enemy.
The wet snap echoed across the shattered field, bone and blood flailing in the air like confetti tossed by a sick god. Yet neither of the two at the center flinched. Not Dark. Not Syvrek.
Syvrek's fingers flexed slightly, trailing that eerie, slow-burning heat through the ash-thick air. His crimson armor shimmered with residual blood that didn't belong to him.
Syvrek: You're not like them.
Dark's eyes didn't blink.
Dark: No. I'm worse.
Syvrek: That's what I wanted to hear.
He stepped forward—not fast, not threatening. Just enough to close the gap between curiosity and clarity. The glow of molten runes traced lines along his chestplate now, throbbing like a heartbeat made from embers.
Syvrek: I've seen what Hell makes. I've crawled through its veins, climbed its lungs, slept inside its broken bones. It makes monsters. Devils. Freaks.
Syvrek: But it doesn't make you.
Dark: I'm not made.
Dark: I chose to be this.
Syvrek: And that's what unsettles me most.
He paused, gaze drifting down toward the trail of bodies Dark had walked through to reach him. The corpses hadn't stopped bleeding yet. Their eyes were still open. Their faces still screaming. It was a path carved in pure inevitability.
Syvrek: I thought you were just another anomaly. A rogue mutation. But that look in your eyes...
He finally looked up, expression tightening.
Syvrek: That's not rage. That's clarity.
Dark said nothing. His coat flickered behind him in the soot-filled wind, Kyuketsu hovering low at his side like it was holding its breath.
Dark: You want a fight?
Syvrek's jaw flexed. Not in arrogance. In control. Like someone bracing their instincts.
Syvrek: Eventually. But not yet.
Dark's eyes narrowed.
Dark: Then why stand in front of me?
Syvrek: Because I had to see it for myself. The man Hell is already afraid of. The one they whisper about through burned mouths and broken teeth.
Syvrek: They say you're the thing that comes after demons forget how to scream.
Dark: They're late to the truth.
Syvrek looked over Dark's shoulder at the battlefield—still churning, still slaughtering itself to pieces.
Syvrek: I could gut this entire field if I wanted to. I've killed Highlords and Crowned Fiends. I've fed Kings to their children. But you...?
He took another step forward.
Syvrek: You're a rift in what's supposed to be. You don't belong in any realm, and that makes you the most dangerous thing here.
Dark didn't blink. His voice was lower now.
Dark: You done measuring?
Syvrek stared back at him, lips twitching faintly.
Syvrek: Just one more question.
Dark: Ask.
Syvrek: What are you building?
Dark stared at him. Hard.
Dark: Not building.
Dark: Replacing.
There was no response.
Only the sound of thunder cracking behind them.
A massive demon lord—one of the few remaining Hell Commanders—was charging toward them, weapon raised, screaming some ancient war prayer as his mouth boiled with acidic fire.
Neither Dark nor Syvrek looked at him.
A flash of shadow cleaved through the air from behind—One's laughter barely audible over the gurgled explosion of meat and bone as the commander was torn into six uneven pieces.
The blood splattered onto the ground before Dark's boots.
Syvrek looked at it.
Then back at him.
One appeared without a sound.
The shadows peeled back behind Dark like smoke parting for something older, something hungrier—and there he was, calm, quiet, blade loosely resting on his shoulder, that familiar grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.
One: This the guy?
His voice carried like a cough of venom. He didn't even look at Syvrek yet. He just stared at the trail of corpses leading up to him, amused.
One: He's not bad. Kind of reminds me of the Emperors. Before they broke.
Dark didn't respond.
Syvrek turned slowly, his shoulders rising. The molten glyphs along his back lit brighter, like they were reacting to One's presence instinctively. But he said nothing either. No taunt. No comment. Just watched.
One's smirk sharpened.
One: So... can I kill him?
Dark: No.
One turned, one brow raised, blinking like he hadn't heard correctly.
One: No?
Dark: You'll be killed.
The silence hit like a blade slamming into steel.
One's grin didn't falter, but his jaw twitched. He glanced back at Syvrek again, this time sizing him properly. His eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to betray the faint tinge of disappointment.
One: He's that strong, huh.
Dark: Strong enough to make even me take it seriously.
Syvrek finally spoke.
Syvrek: You could've let him try. Would've made this easier.
Dark stepped forward once, placing himself ahead of One. The ash curled up around his boots, cracking with every step like the ground itself was backing away.
Dark: He's a Champion. He doesn't waste his life unless I say so.
Syvrek rolled his shoulders, the runes on his armor shifting again, spreading across his torso like veins of fire preparing for eruption.
Syvrek: Cute title. But it won't save you.
Dark's eyes gleamed crimson.
Dark: It's not supposed to.
The space between them shattered.
And then—fists.
No more blades. No more spells. Just knuckles, muscle, momentum, and intent. The kind of combat that ignored technique and bypassed magic entirely. A fight not for show, but for message. One that screamed through every strike: I'm still standing. You won't be.
Dark's fist slammed into Syvrek's jaw, a brutal left hook that twisted the warrior's neck mid-swing. But Syvrek took it. His head jerked back—but his body didn't move. Instead, his own punch shot forward, crashing into Dark's ribs with enough force to collapse a skyscraper.
The sound was like a thunderclap wrapped in bone.
Dark's feet skidded—just barely. He caught himself, pivoted, then returned a gut punch so violent it made Syvrek's spine ring like a war drum. The warrior's breath caught in his throat, but he retaliated instantly, catching Dark in the temple with a spinning elbow. Blood sprayed. Dark didn't flinch.
They kept moving.
Each punch thrown with purpose, no wasted motion. Each impact dented the earth. Footsteps turned into craters. The wind was gone—shattered by the sonic booms exploding from every impact. They weren't just fighting—they were collapsing space with their bodies.
Dark ducked low and drove a knee into Syvrek's side. Ribs cracked. The warrior grunted and returned the favor, slamming both fists down on Dark's back like hammers of judgment. The ground beneath them cratered so deep it split into a canyon of scorched stone.
Syvrek: You're not human.
Dark: And you're not a god.
Syvrek roared and charged, his fists glowing with raw heat, dragging streaks of melted air behind them. He swung again and again—jabs, hooks, devastating straights—each one designed to break not just bone but will.
Dark weaved through them like water, fists snapping out between gaps, landing knuckles in the throat, palms in the chest, uppercuts beneath the chin. It wasn't elegant. It was relentless.
Blood ran down both their faces.
Dark: (breathing heavy) No powers. No tricks. Just this.
Syvrek smirked, blood in his teeth.
Syvrek: Then die on your feet.
He stepped forward and unleashed a flurry. Thirteen punches in two seconds. Each one aimed for a kill spot—temple, heart, liver, throat. But Dark absorbed them all, arms up, guard tight, until he caught the fourteenth with both hands—then headbutted Syvrek with enough force to make his nose explode.
Syvrek staggered.
Dark didn't.
Dark stepped in, hooked his arm around Syvrek's head, and drove his forehead into the warrior's skull again. And again. And again.
Each hit louder than the last.
Syvrek broke free, stumbling, swinging wide. Dark ducked under it, spun, and planted his fist into Syvrek's side so hard that it lifted the warrior clean off the ground and launched him across the battlefield.
Syvrek slammed into a monolith of black stone. The whole structure collapsed.
But he got up.
Chest heaving. Eye bruised. One arm dislocated. But he got up.
Syvrek: You don't stop.
Dark cracked his neck.
Dark: You noticed.
Syvrek: That's what this is, huh? You're not trying to prove you're stronger.
Dark: I'm proving I won't break.
They charged again.
Two forces of nature colliding, fists meeting fists mid-air, shockwaves shattering the terrain with every touch. Bones splintered, but neither yielded. Flesh tore. Bruises layered. Still—they didn't stop.
Syvrek spat to the side, blood laced with ash painting the dirt black. His knuckles were swollen, his ribs cracked, and his shoulder twitched from being dislocated—yet there was nothing but madness in his grin. He leaned back slightly, eyes wild, the heat of battle still thrumming in his breath.
Syvrek: Hah... stubborn bastard, aren't you?
He cracked his neck, then slowly reached behind his back. Fingers wrapped around a worn hilt, one that pulsed like a caged beast trying to bite. With a single motion, he drew it.
The sword that emerged was jagged, raw, forged in violence. Its core was blackened steel, curved and uneven, wrapped in barbed ridges and scorched inscriptions that pulsed with hellish energy. Flames licked the edge with no fuel to burn, and the blade groaned—like it remembered war.
Syvrek twirled it once, rested it lazily against his shoulder.
Syvrek: Don't take it personally. Just spicing things up.
Dark didn't move. His coat shifted slightly in the breeze, and for a moment, it looked like he wasn't going to respond.
Then his left hand extended to the side—toward nothing.
The air twisted.
And with the simple curl of his fingers into a fist, the space obeyed.
Kyuketsu appeared—not summoned, but acknowledged. It materialized in silence, not fanfare. Not in its usual form—but something new. A longsword now, heavy and regal, shaped like the weapon of an executioner-king. The blade stretched nearly as long as Dark's own height, its obsidian edge faintly curved and layered with thin crimson veins pulsing just beneath the surface. The guard was shaped like two inverted wings, sharp enough to gut anyone on contact. The grip was leather-wrapped and stained darker than midnight, the pommel shaped like a pointed fang.
Dark rested the weapon across his shoulder, gaze leveled.
Dark: What's wrong? Your fists give up already?
Syvrek laughed, a dry, wheezing bark that echoed into the ruined valley.
Understood. Here's the continuation, taking your instructions and fully rewriting them into vivid, emotional, and cinematic narrative:
⸻
Syvrek: Please. My fists are fine. This is just where the fun begins.
He lunged first—sword in hand, laughter rising as his feet cracked the ground beneath him with each step. His blade tore through the air with vicious arcs, the jagged edge singing a discordant hymn. But Dark met it without hesitation, his own weapon slicing upward, intercepting with precision honed through fire, war, and silence.
Their blades collided mid-swing, and the ground exploded. Not cracked—exploded. A crater bloomed beneath their clash, rock and flame launching skyward like volcanic shrapnel. Kyuketsu slid across Syvrek's demonic sword, scraping metal on metal, sparks streaking between them. Syvrek pivoted, kicked, twisted—his speed demonic, his strength otherworldly.
But Dark kept up.
Kyuketsu moved like a phantom limb—one with no wasted movement, no hesitation. Each parry was a sentence. Each counter, a verdict. Their swords blurred as they carved the space around them into a spiral of chaos, shattering every inch of stability the battlefield had left.
And then—
The camera pulled back.
The sound dulled.
The battlefield blurred, becoming smaller and smaller—until it became a rectangle. A screen. A live feed.
A television.
The voice of a horrified news anchor echoed in a language too stunned to translate:
Anchor: (breathless) —the camera crew stationed near the Rift Zone has confirmed this is real footage. This is not staged. The battle... is happening in the deepest levels of Hell. And that... that is Dark.
Across continents, nations, islands—across war rooms, dens, living rooms, abandoned shelters and neon-lit lounges—the world watched.
In a quiet student lounge at the academy Dark once attended, the silence was bone-deep. Screens floated across the walls, each one locked onto the same feed. Students crowded together, frozen in place. Some still wore their robes, others held books they no longer remembered holding.
Cron was the first to speak, slowly rising to his feet.
Cron: That's him...
Tier stared at the screen, face pale.
Tier: He's fighting that thing... alone?
Leona didn't say a word. Her eyes were locked. Her knuckles were white from clenching the edge of the table.
Gilmuar stood nearby, the flames of his fingertips flickering without control.
Gilmuar: That's not just any fight. That's war. That's...
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Cron: (quietly) That's 15%. He's only using fifteen percent of himself.
The others turned to him, disbelief in their faces—but Cron didn't blink. He wasn't guessing. He knew.
Tier: But why? Why only use so little?
Cron: Because even that might break the world.
Leona: But he's getting hurt...
Gilmuar: And that other guy isn't. He's toying with him.
Tier: (whispers) If Dark dies down there...
Leona didn't finish. She couldn't.
The camera cut again.
A palace.
No, not a palace—a kingdom draped in opulence, gold and obsidian carved into ancient walls. Silk curtains danced gently against the open windows as soft violin music echoed through the grand hall. In the center of it all, Kaelion Draegor stood.
The Pirate King. The Storm Emperor. A man who had once ruled the seas and made nations kneel.
He stood still now, jaw tight, eyes sharp, watching the television in silence.
His wife—Arisa—stood beside him, her arms gently wrapped around his.
Arisa: Kaelion... don't. Please. He's just a boy. He shouldn't even be there.
Kaelion didn't speak right away. His gaze was locked to the screen, where the image of Dark, blood dripping from his jawline, flickered violently beneath flames.
Arisa: You said yourself... you'd stay. After everything. After the wedding, after the peace... we'd rest.
Kaelion finally exhaled. His voice wasn't sharp or cruel. It was calm. Worn. Certain.
Kaelion: I did. And I meant it. But that man down there? That's not just a boy.
Arisa: Kaelion—
Kaelion: That man has more weight on his shoulders than any crown ever made. He walks without support. He fights for people who will never even know his name. And he does it without asking for anything back.
He turned toward her now, the fire in his gaze softened by the ache in his heart.
Kaelion: I wanted to speak with him before. Before all of this. But I kept putting it off. The wedding. The politics. The luxury.
He clenched his fists.
Kaelion: That was my mistake.
Arisa stepped back, her brows furrowed. Pain warred with pride behind her eyes.
Arisa: You really think he's... worth it?
Kaelion smiled—not the smirk of a king, or the grin of a pirate. It was small. Quiet.
Kaelion: He wants a world where no one's born above another. Where bloodlines don't rule people. Where war doesn't build nations. He dreams of peace—not as an idea, but as a real place. A world without kings. Without gods. Just... people.
His voice faltered for a breath.
Kaelion: That kind of dream shouldn't die alone in Hell.
Arisa stepped forward, pressing her palm to his chest.
Arisa: You'll die down there if you go. You know that, right?
Kaelion leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers.
Kaelion: Then at least I'll die beside someone who never stopped walking forward.
The music in the palace faded behind them as Kaelion turned to the open window, the sky beyond already darkening with ominous clouds—the world itself watching.
And somewhere far below that sky, in the deepest pits of Hell, two blades collided once again—
To be continued.....
End Of Arc 5 Chapter 19.