In the heart of the Realm of Lust, where moans replaced prayers and pleasure was law, Azaroth sat on his throne of indulgence. Shadows coiled around him like living things, drawn to his presence as he languidly observed the debauchery unfolding before him.
Tonight, Alessa, the goddess of temptation, straddled his lap, her arms draped over his shoulders like a serpent claiming its prey. Her laughter was honeyed sin, her body trembling under his touch.
"You look hungry..." she purred, trailing her fingers down his chest.
Azaroth chuckled, his deep voice sending a shiver through her. "Always."
Their lips met in a slow, taunting kiss. Around them, figures entwined in heated embrace—souls, demons, beings both divine and damned, all surrendering to the endless feast of desire. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, silk, and sin.
Alessa arched against him, but Azaroth's attention wavered. A pulse rippled through the air—subtle, but undeniable.
Something was wrong.
His smirk faded. His fingers, which had been idly tracing the curves of Alessa's back, stilled. The disturbance was faint, almost insignificant, but Solmiel's words echoed in his mind:
"Watch for even the smallest change."
Azaroth leaned back, his eyes narrowing. His Enchanted Sight flickered to life, cutting through the veils of pleasure, searching for the source of the disturbance. The realization struck like a dagger of ice.
A breach.
A whisper of power where there should be none.
Someone had escaped the Mortifsphere.
Azaroth exhaled, an amused grin creeping onto his lips. "Well, now," he murmured. "That's new."
Alessa noticed his distraction and pouted. "Losing interest already?"
Azaroth slid his hand up her thigh, a teasing caress that made her shudder. "Patience, dear. A more... pressing matter has caught my attention."
He rose from his throne, his movements fluid, deliberate. The pleasure-drunk court froze, sensing the shift in the air. The Lord of Lust did not abandon his indulgences lightly.
With a lazy stretch, he let his power unfurl, the realm itself shivering in response. Dark tendrils of knowledge crept into his mind, whispering of the disturbance. Someone had cheated death, slipping through the cracks of the underworld.
And Azaroth intended to find out who.
As he turned, his grin sharpened.
"Whoever you are… you have my attention now."
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After finishing his meal, Malik sat in silence, the weight of the past pressing down on him. Ify had left to check on Bara, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His fingers absently traced the faint scars on his wrists—the remnants of something far worse than simple restraints.
His mind drifted back to the Mortifsphere.
A place where time twisted upon itself, where the dead lingered in endless cycles of regret and remembrance. He had been there, trapped within the torment of the 3000 Circles of Death, reliving agony beyond comprehension. And when the end of his suffering came, he met her.
Nyxara, Queen of the Dead.
She was waiting for him in her throne hall, a place where the air itself hummed with echoes of lost souls. Draped in flowing black and gold, her presence was both regal and melancholic, as if she bore the burdens of all who had passed through her realm.
Kairos stood before her, knowing that his time had come. He had endured. The cycle was ending.
"You knew this moment would arrive," he said, his voice steady.
Nyxara regarded him with her piercing silver eyes. "I did. Yet, knowing does not make it easier."
He smiled faintly. "Nothing ever does."
For a time, they spoke—of fate, of suffering, of what lay beyond. She had always watched him, through every cycle, every torment, every rebirth of pain. And though she would never admit it, she was drawn to him. Not just as a ruler to a subject, but something deeper. Something unspoken.
Then, the black coffin appeared.
It manifested in front of them, its surface engraved with the cursed runes of his torment. The chains of hell coiled around it, rattling as they unbound themselves. When it opened, he was there.
Wild.
Unchained yet still bound.
Lian—no, Malik—emerged, his body a battlefield of scars and power barely held together. The raw essence of death clung to him, his crimson eyes wild with an unrelenting storm of madness. He thrashed, and the hell chains wrapped around him once more, binding his limbs as he roared like a beast.
Nyxara's gaze softened, lingering on him with something beyond mere concern.
Kairos noticed. "You care for him." It wasn't a question.
She didn't answer, but the look she gave was enough.
With a quiet sigh, Kairos stepped forward and placed his hand on Malik's chest. "Enough."
A surge of energy pulsed between them, and slowly, the storm within Malik settled. The weight of time, the torment of endless deaths, Kairos absorbed it all, easing the burden just enough for Malik to reclaim himself.
Then, he whispered something into Malik's ear.
Even Nyxara couldn't hear it.
Malik's red eyes widened, something shifting within them. A new name. A new purpose.
Kairos stepped back, and with a wave of his hand, a portal tore open behind Malik, its swirling depths calling him to the land of the living.
But before it could take him, Nyxara moved.
In a single, swift motion, she closed the distance between them and kissed him.
Fiercely. Desperately. As if trying to anchor him to the Mortifsphere one last time.
When she pulled away, her expression remained unreadable.
And then, the portal took him.
Back to the world of the living. Back to a fate yet unwritten.
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Azaroth's Realm – The Palace of Indulgence
A dim, intoxicating glow bathed the chamber in hues of deep crimson and violet. The air was thick with the scent of exotic perfumes, mingling with the soft hum of pleasure that resonated through the halls. Silken drapes fluttered as figures moved in shadow and light, lost in the hedonistic embrace of Azaroth's domain.
But he was not indulging. Not this time.
Azaroth stood near the grand balcony of his palace, gazing down at the sprawling expanse of his realm. His golden eyes, normally filled with amusement, now burned with something sharper. Something colder. Between his fingers, a goblet of dark wine swirled lazily, untouched.
A flicker of divine energy crackled in the air.
Then, Solmiel appeared.
The Seraph's presence was like a spear of radiance piercing through the dim pleasures of the Lustful Realm. His silver hair shimmered with divine brilliance, his gaze unwavering as he regarded Azaroth.
"You summoned me," Solmiel stated.
Azaroth smirked. "I did. And look at that, you actually came. You must have known it was important."
Solmiel remained silent, waiting.
Azaroth chuckled softly, setting his goblet aside. Then, he turned fully to face the Seraph, his expression shifting into something far more serious.
"There's been a shift, Solmiel. A disturbance in the balance. I felt it the moment it happened."
Solmiel's gaze sharpened. "Elaborate."
Azaroth stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Someone… escaped the Mortifsphere."
A faint ripple of divine energy pulsed from Solmiel at those words, though his composure remained intact. "Impossible."
"Oh, I wish it were." Azaroth's smirk returned, but it lacked amusement. "The dead don't just leave the Queen's grasp, not unless she allows it. But this… this was different. It was unnatural."
Solmiel's wings twitched slightly, his mind racing through the implications. "Who?"
Azaroth exhaled, stepping back toward the balcony. "That's the part that gets interesting. You remember the cursed soul, the one bound to the 3000 Circles of Death?"
A heavy silence filled the air.
Lian.
Azaroth glanced at Solmiel, watching as the Seraph finally reacted.
"He has returned."