The atmosphere grew heavy, the air was warmer, and King began to sweat. The figure slowly emerged from the absolute darkness of the lower hall, light and silent steps on the cold stone.
It was a tall, slender man, dressed in an impeccable black robe. Dark hair fell in perfect waves over his shoulders, pale skin, aristocratic features, and a lazy smile that didn't quite warm his scarlet eyes—eyes that shone a little too brightly, as if they held their own light.
He stopped a few meters away from Ignis and King, hands in his pockets, the relaxed posture of someone just strolling.
Man: (soft voice, with an amused tone) Good evening. Or is it good morning...? It's hard to tell when you're this deep in. Are you next in line to clean up this mess?
Ignis frowned; the smell of sulfur was almost imperceptible, but to an ancient draconic nose it was like a distant bell. Something was wrong...
Ignis: (firm, yet curious voice) Who are you? How did you get down here alone?
The man tilts his head, his smile widening.
Man: Just a curious traveler who heard about the local problem. I arrived last night, took a look... and, well, it seems the problem solved itself.
King grips his axe, his tattoos beginning to throb.
King: Solved itself? The entire dungeon was overrun by undead until yesterday. Hundreds of adventurers disappeared. And you want us to believe it just... ended?
The man shrugs, an elegant and nonchalant gesture.
Man: Believe it or not, it's your choice. Look around. Not a single skeleton moving. Not a single zombie groaning. Even the air is lighter. (He casually points to the young adventurer's body in the center of the hall) That boy over there was the center of it all. He died of exhaustion, poor thing. The thing that possessed him... vanished. Evaporated. Mortals do strange things when they meddle with forces they don't understand.
The word "Mortals" comes out of his mouth with a particular intonation—a slight, amused disdain, like someone talking about children playing with fire. It's not a direct insult, but it carries an ancient distance, a casual superiority that only non-mortals would use. Ignis freezes.
His red eyes widen for a fraction of a second. His scaly tail makes a dry crack against the stone floor. The heat around it suddenly increases, making the air tremble.
All the pieces fall into place at once: the residual smell of sulfur on the boy's body, the perfect cleanliness of the planar possession, the total absence of magical traces, and now that word—spoken with the naturalness of someone placing themselves outside the category.
Ignis: (low voice, almost a draconic whisper) You...
She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to. The recognition is immediate and absolute. Dragons have lived for millennia; some names echo through the ages, laden with respect, fear, or hatred. And that tone, that way of speaking of "mortals" as something separate...
The man notices the change in her. Her smile becomes a little sharper, almost sympathetic.
Man: (answering in the same ancient, fluent, and perfect Draconic voice) In flesh—or in the form I preferred today. You were always quick, Ignis Coppervein. Copper dragons never miss a detail. That's right, I'm not a mortal being like you. I am Samael Morningstar, the Soul Hunter of Hell.
King looks from one to the other, lost. Ignis says nothing. Her body is tense, the metallic heat rising subtly around her. While she knows she can't let him go, her instincts scream to flee.
Ignis: You solved the problem. Alone... In one night. And you left your mark on the boy like someone signing a job...
Samael: (shrugs) Because it really is my job. This soul must go to where it belongs and pay for its deeds.
King: (impatient) Can someone explain this to me?!
Ignis: (without taking her eyes off Samael) He's not human, King. It's Samael, a Kyton, a race of Torturers from Hell. He's not the Demon of Darkness…
Samael laughs softly, a sound that makes the air vibrate slightly. The laugh is sadistic, prolonged, as if he were savoring their discomfort.
Samael: Good memory, copper elder. Yes, the old Demon of Darkness and I… we're like brothers. Or perhaps rivals. Or both. I've known him since before his sealing—that planar prison that fools think will last forever.
He takes a step closer, his golden eyes shining brighter, his smile turning into a malicious grimace.
Samael: Ah, and speaking of sealing… you know about that prophecy, don't you, Ignis? (pause, tilting his head as if telling a joke) I feel the cracks, you know? Like a distant tremor. He's stirring. Coming back. And when he wakes up… oh, what fun it will be to see the mortals running. Even I… (his smile falters for a millisecond, an almost imperceptible flash of something real: genuine fear, quickly masked by more sadism) …even I wonder if the world is ready for this.
King: (growling, his eyes blazing with fury) You speak as if it were a joke, but I know the prophecy. I saw it in the Water Temple. If he returns, the world ends. And you… you're here joking about this?
Samael turns to King, his golden eyes narrowing with sadistic delight.
Samael: Ah, the barbarian knows too? How lovely. Yes, it's a joke. Everything is, in the end. But if you think you can do something about it…
King can't take it anymore. The fury explodes—tattoos glowing blood-red, muscles swelling. He lunges forward with a primal roar, his axe raised for a devastating blow.
King: Shut up!
Samael doesn't even move. At the moment of the attack, four kyton chains erupt from the air behind him, black and spiky, pulsing with an infernal red glow. They shoot out like serpents, coiling around King's wrists, ankles, and neck mid-leap. The barbarian is suspended in the air, his axe falling harmlessly to the ground with a clang.
King struggles, muscles tensing to the maximum, veins bulging, but the chains tighten, thorns digging into his gray skin without piercing, just pressing hard enough to immobilize him.
Samael: (smiling broadly, voice low and venomous) So predictable. (Approaches King) Look here, big guy... I may seem calm, but don't think I'm peaceful.
Then, Samael uses his power. He grabs King's face, and a dark energy flows directly into King's mind. It's not physical pain. It's worse... much worse than even the tests he had undergone in the Water Kingdom.
King is forced to relive, thousands of times in seconds, all the darkest and most painful moments of his life: the night he killed his own father. Thousands of times. Every detail amplified: the smell of blood, the sound of the impact, the weight of the guilt he has carried ever since, even knowing he had no choice. The guilt he never admitted aloud, which corrodes him from within.
King screams—a guttural, broken scream, full of pain that isn't physical. His eyes roll back, foam pours from his mouth, his body convulsing in the air as if being electrocuted by his own memory.
Samael: (laughing sadistically, leaning close to King's face) This is just an appetizer, big guy. Imagine when he returns... he will come and turn everything to darkness.
Ignis: Enough, Samael! Release him now!
Samael: (Raising an eyebrow) You dare give me orders!?
Samael releases King's face, the chains retract, disappearing into thin air. King falls to his knees, panting, sweating profusely, his mind still echoing with the remnants of that relentless torture.
Samael: (Straightening up, his smile returning) You have a strong mind, big guy, it's almost as if you've felt this before...
He turns his back, starting to walk towards the staircase with that feigned laziness.
Samael: (Without turning around) Ah, don't think wrong of me... I'm not an ally of that... calamity. Well... if you ever need help facing it, count on me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go, we'll see each other again someday.
He touches the boy's body and claims his soul. He climbs the steps slowly, humming an ancient, dissonant melody that seems to echo from abysses far deeper than the Crypts of Eldor.
Ignis helps King to his feet, the barbarian still trembling, but with eyes full of newfound determination, despite the renewed pain.
King: (hoarse, broken voice) That... prophecy. It's real.
Ignis: (exhaling slowly) Yes. And he fears as much as he plays. Let's go, King. We have to prepare.
The two begin to climb towards the daylight, the weight of that encounter—and the shadow of the prophecy—forever etched in the millennia-old memory of Ignis Coppervein, the Ancient Copper Dragon who, for a brief moment, stood face to face with the Kyton of Chains… and saw the fear behind the sadism.