Kairo awoke to pain. Not the kind that made you scream. The kind that made you silent. Every part of him hurt. His skin, flayed by claws. His ribs, cracked from impact. His knee, twisted and swollen. His hand, broken and stiff. The light from before had faded, leaving only smoldering aches in its wake. His body wasn't healing. Not fast enough. Not at all.
The ground beneath him was hot. Not burning, but warm in a way that reminded him this place was alive. A constant thrum pulsed through the dirt, like a heartbeat. The river of molten rock behind him hissed and bubbled, glowing orange in the distance.
He was alone. No weapons. No shelter. No allies.
He pressed his forehead against the stone and whispered. "Why me..." The words were weak, pointless.
But something answered. "You breathe still. That is answer enough."
Kairo flinched. The voice wasn't in his ears. It was inside. Heavy and hollow. Familiar. The Will of Hell.
He tried to ignore it. He pushed himself up, every movement a struggle. He needed to move. Stay ahead. Hide.
Azareth was still out there. Or worse — others like him.
The Order was silent now. That surge of power had come and gone, like a dying gasp. He couldn't summon it again. Not without triggering whatever pain it brought. His chest ached just thinking about it.
A sound. Behind him. Stone shifting.
Kairo turned too fast, falling back onto his elbows. Breath caught in his throat.
But it wasn't a demon.
It was a corpse.
Half-buried in the soot. Charred bones wrapped in remnants of armor. It looked old. Melted into the earth. But clutched in its hand — a blade.
Kairo crawled forward and pried it free. Rusted, chipped, barely a weapon at all. But it was heavier than bone, and better than nothing. He gripped it with shaking fingers.
He wouldn't die without a fight.
Far above, in the Throne of Cinders, the Second Sovereign stirred.
Her name was Merevael, the Ashmother.
A being of molten grace and sorrowed wrath. Her domain, Stage Two, was a sea of volcanic wastelands and collapsing stone cities.
She watched the First Sovereign's scrying flames with narrowed eyes.
"So the boy still lives."
Her voice was smoke and silk.
A servant trembled before her.
"Shall I dispatch the Hounds?"
Merevael rose from her obsidian dais, trailing ash and fire in her wake.
"No. Let Azareth finish what he started. If he fails, then we act."
Her gaze lingered on the image of Kairo crawling through the wasteland, dragging the blade.
"I want to see what the spark inside him becomes."
Kairo limped.
Through dust and ruin. Past broken statues and ruined spires. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to keep moving.
Every time he stopped, the whispers grew louder.
The Will of Hell spoke in riddles. It laughed when he bled. It mourned when he fought.
But deep down, it feared him.
Not because he was powerful.
But because he wasn't supposed to be here.
Not human. Not divine. A glitch. An error.
A scar in the system.
Hours passed. Or days.
Time twisted here. Kairo's stomach twisted worse. Hunger clawed at his mind, more painful than the wounds now. He tore strips of dry moss from the rocks and chewed them, swallowing bitterness and dirt.
He needed rest.
But he didn't get it.
He heard footsteps.
Slow. Steady. Confident.
He ducked behind a boulder, blade raised, breath shallow.
From the smoke stepped a figure.
Another hunter.
But not like Azareth.
This one was taller. Bulkier. His armor was made of melted skulls and ribcages. His mouth was sealed shut with iron hooks, his breathing rasping through slits in his neck.
Kairo didn't stand a chance.
He swung first anyway.
The blade hit the demon's thigh.
It didn't even flinch.
The demon backhanded him into the wall. Stone cracked. So did Kairo's shoulder. He screamed, dropped the sword, tried to crawl.
The demon placed a boot on his back.
And pressed.
Kairo's scream turned to a whimper. The pressure was too much.
"I'M NOT AN ANGEL," he cried, voice breaking.
No response. The demon didn't care. Orders were orders.
Then something flashed in Kairo's vision.
A memory?
A moment?
A figure wrapped in shadow and flame. A being of silence standing before him when he first arrived in Hell. The one who whispered, "Let it out."
His body reacted before he could think.
The light came again.
But not clean. Not holy.
Purple. Twisted. Violent.
It didn't erupt — it screamed.
A burst of Order, cracking the stone beneath him, sending the demon flying back into a crumbling wall.
Kairo collapsed again, twitching. His vision swam. Blood leaked from his nose, his ears.
He didn't even have time to feel victorious.
Because from the smoke
A third figure walked in.
Black robe. Face veiled in chains. No footsteps. No sound.
But he knew.
Azareth had returned.
Behind him stood two more silhouettes — silent, monstrous, watching.
And this time, he wasn't alone.
Kairo looked up through blurred eyes. The Will of Hell whispered in his mind, not with malice
but with warning.
"Endure, Vessel. Or you will die here."
Kairo's broken fingers clawed at the ground.
He didn't want to die.
Not here.