Pain.
It was the first thing Riser felt. A searing, gnawing ache in every part of his body, as if even his bones protested their continued existence. A mocking voice followed.
"Good morning, princess."
The voice was familiar. Cruel. Self-satisfied. Riser's vision returned in swirls of red and darkness, and his eyes met the smirking face of Zarkaura Saeros.
"You're awake. Good. We've got a long walk ahead."
Riser tried to move, only to find his limbs limp—dead weight. His body did not respond, as though something in him had been caged.
"A seal," Zarkaura said, almost casually, as if reading Riser's thoughts. "Don't worry. You're too valuable to harm. For now."
Riser didn't show the panic crawling up his throat. Instead, he met Zarkaura's gaze and forced a sardonic grin.
"I didn't think you'd be the traitor, Lord Saeros. Too predictable, really."
Zarkaura chuckled. "Observant. But too slow. Now get up."
He released the seal with a snap of his fingers, and control returned to Riser's limbs like cold water rushing through empty pipes. Weakly, he stood. No point running, he wouldn't get far. Zarkaura was peak high-class, and Riser, for all his training, wasn't ready to match that yet.
Not yet.
They began ascending a narrow mountain path. Jagged rocks jutted from the sides like teeth, and the wind howled through the peaks like a lament. The sun was gone—hidden behind bruised clouds. Hell's atmosphere was worse than bleak: it was hateful.
"What do you want with me?" Riser asked.
Zarkaura smirked. "Me? Nothing. But… an old friend of mine is eager to meet you."
He said it like the punchline to an inside joke. Riser felt a chill crawl down his spine. Then, unexpectedly:
"Have you ever heard of the tale of Kelzior the cruel?"
"No."
Zarkaura's voice turned reverent. "Then you are more ignorant than I thought. That name should echo in the bones of every living devil. Kelzior the Cruel. Kelzior the Great. Founder of our House. My blood. My grandfather."
Zarkaura's eyes gleamed, and his voice dropped to a reverent hush, like a priest before a sacrificial altar. "He was born low, vermin to the noble houses. No bloodline, no wealth, no patron. But within him burned a will not of this world. Where others bent, he endured. Where others faltered, he slaughtered. During the Great War, he rose—through grit, through slaughter, through brilliance. Became High-Class by merit alone. And still, it wasn't enough. Because Kelzior didn't just want power. He bore the pride of the First Light, the pride of Lucifer himself. And just like his creator, he too wanted to overtake his creator. He sought transcendence. To be a Suzerian of creation."
Riser blinked once. Slowly. Great. I've been kidnapped by a mad fanatic with a martyr complex.
He glanced at the narrow passage they were walking through. Still bound. Still watched. Escape seemed unlikely. But maybe… maybe if he kept this zealot talking, something might slip. A plan. A weakness.
"And what happened to him then?" Riser asked, tone feigning curiosity.
"Surely someone so 'great' would be famous. Yet I've never heard his name whispered outside this dusty little bloodline."
Zarkaura stiffened, nostrils flaring but he didn't lash out. He wanted to tell the tale.
"The fools of history remember only victors. And Kelzior did not fall in battle—he was betrayed by time. During the civil war between the Old Faction and the New Satans, he chose neither. He instead declared himself Prince of Hell. Sovereign of devils. The One Above All. And for his vision, he was besieged by the traitor Sirzechs Gremory."
Riser's brow arched. "Not Sirzechs Lucifer?"
Zarkaura hissed.
"He is no true successor of Lucifer. He is a spineless coward who listens to the voices of the weak and the words of mortals. A peace-broker. A politician."
He spat the word like venom. "Sirzechs Gremory may be powerful, but he is no devil. He abandoned what we are."
Riser kept walking in silence for a moment, watching the torchlight flicker across Zarkaura's face—twisted with disgust and pride.
No true devil, he thought with a trace of amusement. How convenient. It never matters what they say when they lose. Only when they win.
Zarkaura could foam and rave about "true devils" all day. But Riser knew better.
Power defines truth in the underworld. And Sirzechs? Sirzechs Lucifer is monstrously powerful. The strongest devil that has ever lived. Maybe the strongest that ever will.
Zarkaura might have his delusions. But Riser wasn't in the business of ignoring reality.
He was in the business of surviving it. Riser's eyes narrowed.
"Besieged," he repeated silently. Not defeated. Not slain.
Zarkaura spoke with too much certainty. Too much present tense. It wasn't how one talked about a long-dead ancestor. It was how one spoke of a sleeping god—or a weapon still waiting to be drawn.
The air seemed colder now.
Riser kept his tone casual.
"You keep mentioning your grandfather like he's still alive."
Zarkaura grinned, teeth like daggers. "Who said he isn't?"
They climbed in silence until they reached a flat cliff face. Zarkaura performed several arcane gestures. The rock shimmered, then cracked open with a groan like a dying beast. A circular passage revealed itself, carved into the mountain like a wound.
"After you."
Riser entered.
What greeted him was not a hall, but a nightmare.
The Halls of Rebirth.
Despite the name, there was no life here. Only death, rot, and madness. The air was damp, stinking of blood and decay. The walls were lined with ancient, crumbling murals—grotesque images that seemed painted with human fat and blood.
One showed a devil wearing a coat stitched from baby faces, grinning with jagged teeth.
Another depicted a woman stretched on a rack made of children's limbs, her eyes gouged out and sewn into a cloak.
Yet another: shoes made of scalped human heads, their mouths frozen mid-scream.
The centerpiece of the chamber was a black river—thick, viscous, and crawling with things that should not exist. Rats the size of cats floated belly-up beside bloated snakes and eyeless, twisted things that might once have been infants.
"Welcome to the Halls of Rebirth," Zarkaura announced with pride, arms spread wide.
Riser stared in revulsion.
"You call this the hall of rebirth?"
"The weak see decay. The strong see potential. Kelzior saw beyond the veil. These halls are his legacy. His blood, his madness, his genius."
Riser stepped cautiously closer to the river. It whispered. He wasn't sure with what mouth, but it whispered. Words in a tongue that made his skin crawl.
"So what? You're going to throw me into this thing? Use me in some ritual to ascend?"
"Close." Zarkaura stepped beside him. "You're not the offering. You're the key. Kelzior left behind rituals. One of them requires something rare: a devil with both bloodline and potential. You, dear Riser Phenex, are the final piece. I was going to use your uncle but you arrived suddenly and were perfect as well as much easier."
Riser closed his eyes. "You're insane."
"No Riser," Zarkaura said calmly, almost lovingly. " I'm simply ahead of schedule."
He gestured toward a stone altar etched with runes older than most languages. Behind it loomed a statue, cracked and disfigured—a horned, eyeless devil with seven mouths, each one eternally screaming.
Zarkaura continued: "Sirzechs' ideology is poison. Equality? Mercy? The weak have deceived him. They would say the strong should nurture the gentle. These are the noble lies of Heaven. Devils were never meant to be kind. That is not our nature. The strong should rule, and the weak should burn."
"You really think this will bring down Lucifer himself?"
Zarkaura's eyes sparkled with manic fire. "I don't need to bring him down. I just need to show the world that truth is not dictated by votes or titles… but power."
Riser clenched his jaw. "And what if I don't cooperate?"
Zarkaura grinned like a wolf. "Then we go to Plan B. But don't worry. You'll cooperate. Because Kelzior… is waiting. And once you see him…"
The air grew heavier. The shadows shifted. Something was watching.
"…you'll understand."