Five weeks had passed since I found Ray in the demon-infested forest. In that time, the boy had changed—not only physically, but in will and strength. To help him survive, I began training him in the ways of the demonic sect, an unorthodox path that harnesses demonic energy instead of pure qi. I taught him techniques that most martial sects would consider forbidden, techniques I once learned from the Blood Demon himself. The [Blood Moon Sword Style], a brutal sword art that carves through flesh like moonlight on water, had become the cornerstone of Ray's training.
"You can rest for now, Ray," I said, noticing his labored breaths and trembling arms.
"No… I can still do a few more swings," he panted, sweat rolling down his dirt-smeared cheeks as he gripped the wooden sword with stubborn determination.
Stubborn kid. He was exhausted, and his body was close to collapse, yet he still wanted to continue. He wasn't training for glory—he was training to save his friends. He told me they might still be trapped in the demon cult's church, victims of the same twisted ritual he had barely escaped. I had sensed it too—ten distinct presences lurking nearby, each one radiating a demonic aura similar to Ray's. Clearly, the cult hadn't given up. They were hunting him. I couldn't leave him unprotected.
Fine, then. If they wanted to play with fire, I'd let them feel the flames of hell.
I raised my hand and chanted the name of one of my most loyal subordinates. "Ghost Amaterasu!"
A burning ring appeared on the ground, flames spiraling skyward like a volcanic eruption. From the core of the inferno emerged a skeletal figure, cloaked in netherstone armor, clutching a whip forged in the underworld's deepest pits. He was a being made entirely of bone, devoid of flesh or skin, yet pulsing with a deadly aura—a general of hell, and one of Yama's personal lieutenants. My most devout follower.
"I have been summoned, my lord… Angel," he said, bowing on one knee.
Ray trembled at his presence, instinctively stepping behind me. Ghost Amaterasu radiated an oppressive mixture of death and demonic qi—so dense, even seasoned warriors would falter.
The cultists felt it too.
They appeared from the shadows, drawn by the flare of demonic energy. But as they neared, the overwhelming pressure forced them to their knees. Their bodies trembled. Sweat beaded on their foreheads. They recognized power far beyond their reach.
"We greet the King of Hell!" they shouted in unison, their voices laced with awe and terror.
Ghost turned his skull-like head toward me. "My lord, may I ask—who are these people?"
"They are insects who dared offend me," I replied coldly. "You know what to do."
"Understood. I shall cast them into the deepest depths of hell for daring to offend my lord."
"Leave one alive. I need answers."
"Understood."
As I spoke, the cultists realized what was about to happen and began chanting a ritual. Too late.
With a flick of his wrist, Ghost cracked his whip. The black flames of hell ignited upon contact, devouring nine of them where they stood. Screams filled the air—short, agonized, and then gone.
The last survivor cowered on the ground, paralyzed in fear.
"Read his memories," I ordered.
Ghost placed a bony hand on the cultist's head. Within seconds, he pulled out the truth—the location of their church, the layout of their hideout, and the details of the dark ritual that had turned Ray into a vessel.
"Burn it to the ground," I commanded.
Without a word, Ghost vanished in a pillar of flame and reappeared before the gates of the demon cult's church.
Inside, cultists gathered for their nightly baptism—a grotesque ritual where children were soaked in blood to become vessels for dark entities. The priest stood at the center, chanting praise to their so-called demon god.
Then the doors were blown open.
"Who are you!? Who let this bone vermin into the Church of the Demon King!?" the priest bellowed.
Ghost stepped forward, his eyes glowing with green hellfire. "No need to ask. All of you will die here tonight. No mercy to those who offend the lord."
The cultists drew their pendants—symbols embedded with demonic energy. In desperation, they opened a hellgate beneath the altar, summoning a high-ranking demon to protect them.
The air shattered.
From the depths of this world's hell emerged Barmoth, an Earl-Class Demon. Standing nearly three meters tall with four arms and blazing crimson skin, he radiated power.
The priest smirked. "We're saved! O great demon earl Barmoth, protect us!"
Barmoth chuckled, drawing a jagged blade. "A skeleton dares challenge me? I'll reduce you to ash!"
But then, Ghost raised a single hand.
"Kneel."
Barmoth's knees hit the ground with a thunderous crash. Confused, he stood again, trying to resist.
"Kneel."
Again, he fell.
This wasn't a spell. This was [Hell's Commander]—an authority bestowed by Yama himself. As long as Barmoth wasn't a fellow general or the Demon King, he had no choice but to obey.
"Kill the cultists. Spare the priest."
Barmoth's eyes turned pitch-black and blood-red, a sign of submission. He tore through the cultists, their blood spraying across the stained-glass windows. The priest shrieked in horror, watching his congregation fall. When the massacre was complete, Barmoth brought down the very pillars of the church. Flames engulfed the structure, reducing it to cinders.
Then, Barmoth returned to hell. Ghost returned to me—dragging the trembling priest behind him.
"My lord, I have returned with the priest," Ghost said, bowing again.
The priest fell to his knees, terrified by the skeletal general who now bent the knee to me. Ray clung to my sleeve, terror written all over his young face.
"So this is the man who gave you that pain," I said, rage boiling in my chest.
"P-please! Spare me! I'll do anything! Don't kill me!" the priest pleaded.
I knelt beside Ray and spoke gently. "Why are you afraid? You're safe now. I'm here. Ghost is here. That priest… he can't hurt you anymore."
Ray trembled, but then slowly nodded. Strength returned to his small body. His voice rose, firm and unwavering.
"Tell me—where are my friends?"