The village of Downwarren was no longer a collection of victims; it was becoming a forge.
Thomas stood in the center of the muddy square, his human eyes reflecting the violet glow of the barrier he had erected. Using Lucifer's sovereign essence, he had woven a shimmering dome of celestial-infernal light around the perimeter. It pulsed with a rhythmic hum that drove back the swamp fog, acting as an unbreakable shield that the Crones' diluted magic could not pierce.
"The time for fear is over," Thomas announced, his voice carrying the weight of Beelzebub's authority. "The ritual begins now."
The villagers gathered, their faces pale and etched with exhaustion. They were terrified of the entity before them, but the memory of the Crones' bloated, parasitic true forms—revealed in the shared dream—burned hotter than their fear of the unknown.
Thomas stepped into the center of the ritual circle and let his human skin fall away. Iblis emerged, his six wings unfurling like banners of shadow and flame. The villagers recoiled, some falling to their knees, but they did not run.
"I offer you the Source," Iblis rumbled. "Choose your path."
He reached into the air, manifesting two distinct streams of Infernal Energy:
The Leviathan Pact: A swirling vortex of cold, amethyst light. Those who stepped forward felt their minds expand, their veins filling with the "High Definition" magic that made the Continent's Chaos look like flickering candlelight. They became Infernal Sorcerers, capable of tearing reality apart.
The Beelzebub Pact: A surging, crimson aura of raw physical dominance. Those who accepted this felt their muscles harden like iron and their senses sharpen to a predatory edge. They became Infernal Warriors, titans of the frontline.
A dozen villagers stepped into the light. Their screams were not of pain, but of a sudden, violent evolution. The rest watched from the sidelines, awestruck, ready to provide the labor and support for the new vanguard.
Iblis turned his attention to the materials the villagers had gathered: piles of silver coins, rusted iron plows, owl bones, and crude spears. To a mortal smith, this was junk. To the Demon Lord, it was raw matter waiting for a soul.
Using the combined heat of Lucifer's fire and Baal's transformative rot, he melted the metals into a swirling liquid of mercury and starlight. With precise, telekinetic strikes, he hammered the energy into shape:
The Blade of Nivlatth: A heavy, obsidian greatsword that hummed with a hunger for monster flesh.
The Lance of Nivlatth: A jagged spear tipped with enchanted silver, capable of piercing a Fiend's hide from a hundred paces.
The Occult Staff of Bisith: Carved from fossilized wood and owl bone, it acted as a lightning rod for the Leviathan sorcerers to channel pure infernal blasts.
The Daggers of Nivlatth: Small, humming blades forged in bulk.
Iblis handed the daggers to the elderly and the non-combatants. "For your defense," he said. "If the shadows crawl over the walls, these will bite deeper than any steel."
He then distributed the heavy weaponry to his newly transformed acolytes. A farmer, now a towering warrior under the Beelzebub Pact, gripped the Blade of Nivlatth. The weapon didn't just feel light; it felt like an extension of his own rage.
"You are no longer peasants," Iblis declared, his violet eyes sweeping over his small, terrifying army. "You are the first of the Sovereign's Cult. Tomorrow, we do not defend. Tomorrow, we hunt."
The villagers were still trembling, their new powers buzzing under their skin like a swarm of hornets, but for the first time in the history of Velen, they felt the intoxicating warmth of hope.
The sky over Downwarren turned the color of a bruised lung as the swamp itself rose to reclaim the heresy. The Crones had felt the severing of their "Trail of Treats," and their response was a tide of grey, wet flesh.
Dozens of Drowners and Rotfiends surged from the mist, led by two towering Fiends whose hypnotic third eyes pulsed with a sickly green light. The villagers stood behind the violet barrier, their knuckles white as they gripped the weapons of Nivlatth. Fear was a cold stone in their bellies—until the first Fiend slammed its massive antlers against the barrier, only for the wood to shatter against the infernal energy.
"Now!" Iblis commanded.
The Beelzebub Warriors stepped through the light. A former blacksmith, his veins bulging with crimson smoke, swung the Blade of Nivlatth at a lunging Drowner. He expected the rubbery, resistant hide of the monster to catch his steel. Instead, the blade passed through the creature like a hot wire through wax.
The warrior gasped in audible shock as the monster didn't just die—it was erased. The physical impact was so absolute that the creature's "diluted" biology simply disintegrated. The warrior looked at his hands, feeling a surge of predatory joy. His strikes were not just effective; they were overwhelmingly powerful.
Beside them, the Leviathan Sorcerers raised the Occult Staves of Bisith. They didn't struggle with complex incantations or the dangerous "draw" of local Chaos. They simply tapped into the well of pure Infernal Energy Iblis had placed within them.
A grandmother, who had spent her life fearing the Crones' petty curses, flicked her staff. A pillar of violet fire erupted, vaporizing a pack of Foglets instantly. The villagers stared, stunned. Compared to this, the "magic" they had seen before—the flickering candles of village healers or the screeching illusions of the hags—looked like a pathetic joke. It was the difference between a guttering match and a forest fire.
"The hags are weakened. We finish this now," Iblis declared.
He led his small, grim army into the heart of Crookback Bog. As they reached the clearing of the Orphans' Village, the air grew heavy with the stench of ancient rot.
"The Crones are ancient, and you have only just tasted the Source," Iblis warned. "The battle to come will be tough for you, for you have the power but not yet the mastery. Activate your demon forms."
The villagers obeyed. Those with the Beelzebub Pact let out guttural roars as their bodies swelled into hulking, armored juggernauts of rage, their skin turning a deep, volcanic red. Those with the Leviathan Pact became ethereal and cold, their eyes turning into voids of violet starlight as wings of shimmering energy unfurled from their backs.
The battle was a collision of eras. The Crones emerged in their "fair" guises—three beautiful women draped in silk—screeching commands to the earth. But the Beelzebub warriors simply tore the sentient trees out of the mud by their roots, and the Leviathan sorcerers drowned the Crones' curses in waves of superior energy.
Under the relentless pressure of the Infernal Energy, the Crones' illusions finally shredded. With a chorus of wet, tearing sounds, they were forced back into their real forms.
The villagers recoiled, confirmed in their horror. There they were: three mountain-sized piles of putrid, sagging flesh, stitched together with human hair and malice. Brewess, Weavess, and Whispess stood revealed—exactly the bloated, necrophagous hags Iblis had shown them in the dream.
They were not dead yet, but they were broken. Wounded and leaking black ichor, they hissed in pain as the villagers circled them.