[Scene Transition]
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
"Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! ALL OF YOU BASTARDS!"
A towering demonic figure hurled punch after punch at the poor soul trapped beneath his molten fists. Each impact sent ripples of shock through the obsidian ground, fracturing the basalt tiles and sending debris flying in every direction. The scent of blood, sulfur, and fear hung in the air like a curtain.
The "poor soul" was no ordinary demon. He had wings—a commander-class harpykin—and once wore a rank insignia blessed by the House of Gluttony. Now his ribs jutted out like snapped spears, his face was a mess of caved-in bone, and his screams were reduced to wet gurgles.
"Commander Vrosh is down!" someone shouted from behind a crumbling barricade. "Fall back! He's going critical!"
But no one dared move.
No one dared breathe.
Because the one throwing the tantrum wasn't just any demon warlord. It was Wrath Incarnate. A berserker class known only as Barbaras the Red Claw, a war titan forged in the blood pits of the Fourth Hell Arena.
He stood nearly four meters tall—muscle, rage, and arcane muscle piled on top of one another in a terrifying blend of humanoid and beast. His claws dripped molten ichor, and his crimson fur was matted with blood—others' and possibly his own. A halo of jagged bone horns curled around his head like a brutal crown. His breath steamed in the cold, corrupted air as he finally let the battered corpse drop like trash.
"You dare bring me false reports? From the border realms? From the Mortal Veil? Do you think I'm stupid?" Barbaras roared, slamming his claws into the ground. It created a shockwave so violent the tower behind him cracked in half and crumbled into dust.
The remaining demons stood frozen, their skin prickling with a mixture of terror and submission. This wasn't a battle—it was a one-man massacre. And they were just lucky they weren't on the receiving end of it yet.
One brave fool—an imp scribe barely taller than a goblet—shuffled forward, parchment trembling in his claws. "M-My Lord, t-the ripples in Aether weren't fabrications. They've been confirmed b-by Ashira the Occult and at least three Veilwardens from the Astral Cradle. The Sanctuary of the Seven Vows has—has pinged."
Barbaras turned slowly. His crimson eyes narrowed to glowing slits.
The imp screamed preemptively.
But he wasn't struck. Not yet.
"The Seven Vows?" Barbaras hissed, the words like steam hissing through granite. "That cursed ruin still exists?"
"Yes! Yes, My Lord!" The imp nearly cried. "It was thought destroyed during the Last Purge, but the aetheric signature matches. There's—there's more, but I'm not authorized to know the details!"
Barbaras moved.
In a single blink, he was standing before the imp.
Too close.
Too silent.
Too deadly.
His claw pressed against the scribe's skull with disturbing calm. "Who. Awakened. It?"
"I-I d-don't know! The name was redacted from the summoning resonance! But—but the sigil, My Lord! The resonance included a sigil! The Lucifer Crest—!"
CRACK!
The imp's head popped like a blister.
Barbaras let the twitching body fall without a second thought.
"So the rumors… weren't rumors."
He muttered the words with a low growl, almost as if testing the taste of them on his tongue. Then, with an abrupt, primal snarl, he turned and punched a hole through the command tower behind him. Debris exploded outward as a flight of lesser demons scattered, squealing in terror.
"I was promised he was dead.""They said his bloodline was erased.""They said the Queen of Sin devoured her own child's power.""They LIED."
Barbaras stormed toward the edge of the cliff overseeing the volcanic trench that ringed Baelor's Spine. Below, lava boiled in unnatural rhythms. Pillars of black flame licked the skies.
His massive frame heaved with fury.
Until another voice reached him—one that didn't tremble, scream, or beg.
It was cool.
Male.
Mocking.
"Throwing another fit, Red Claw? You know, tantrums stopped being scary after the four-hundredth one."
Barbaras snarled and turned sharply.
Floating a few meters off the ground, cloaked in a shimmer of shadow and red-threaded robes, was a man of lithe build. Hornless, pale-skinned, and with a face that seemed too human for Hell's comfort. His black hair was swept back, and his eyes were veiled behind crimson lenses that glowed faintly like watching stars.
Lord Vexen of the Crimson Mirror—a known intelligence broker for multiple archdukes. Ambiguous allegiance. Arrogant bastard. Untouchable.
"Leave," Barbaras growled. "Or I'll rip your spine out through your teeth."
"Oh please," Vexen scoffed, casually tossing a floating scroll between his fingers. "You won't do shit. Not when you want the same thing I do."
Barbaras' claws twitched. "And what's that?"
Vexen's smile was wide. "Confirmation. That he's back."
A silence.
Vexen continued.
"Dominic Nocturne von Morningstar." The name rolled off his tongue like a curse wrapped in velvet. "The Black Sun. The Forsaken Prince. Hell's Forgotten Heir. Call him what you want. But the truth remains—he has returned. And I for one find that deliciously fascinating."
"You believe in ghosts now?" Barbaras grunted.
"I believe in survival," Vexen said, voice suddenly cold. "And I believe that anyone who ignores what just happened across three realms is either a fool… or suicidal."
He dropped the scroll.
It unfurled midair, revealing multiple overlapping aether maps—one from Hell, one from the Mortal Veil, one from the Astral Cradle.
At the center of each?
A pulsing, converging flare in the exact shape of the Lucifer Sigil, formed of seven bound rings.
Dominic's true crest.
The impossible had become unavoidable.
Vexen's tone turned serious. "I've seen every known royal resurgence in the past thousand years. Not a single one caused an Aetheric Shift across all planes. Not even the Rise of the Gluttonous Matriarch came close."
Barbaras didn't speak.
Because he knew.
Deep down, he'd known ever since the first ripple.
Ever since the air screamed for a moment, like the layers of reality had been peeled back and stitched together by something older than magic.
"It doesn't matter," he said eventually, grinding a clawed fist into his palm. "He's just a shell. Stripped of everything. Drained. Cursed. He's nothing."
"No," Vexen said quietly. "He was nothing. Now? Something is changing."
He floated closer, his tone almost reverent.
"If he truly survived—if Grayfia Lucifuge kept him hidden for a millennium—then we have a problem. Because that woman does not waste time. She does not weep. She prepares."
Barbaras turned away. His rage hadn't faded—but now it was shaped. Sharpened. It was no longer blind.
It was pointed.
"Then we find him," he said darkly. "We find out what he remembers. And if there's even a chance he plans to reclaim the old blood…"
He turned back to Vexen, red eyes glowing with purpose.
"…We end him before the Satans even hear his name again."
Vexen only smirked.
"Good luck with that. Because the Queen of Annihilation might be a little itchy after your bold claim of defeating her," he said, his voice dripping sarcasm, "—you know, the one who deterred the Seven Satans by presence alone... and bought your sorry kind two years of breathing room."
Barbaras didn't respond.
Not at first.
The molten trenches of Baelor's Spine cracked below as one of his claws clenched reflexively. It wasn't fear that stiffened his massive frame.
It was memory.
Painful, humiliating memory.
He had fought Grayfia once.
It lasted seven seconds.
Six of those were him trying to stand after the first strike.
"She was stronger then," Barbaras finally growled. "Now she's old. Hollow. Guarding a ruin."
"She was preparing," Vexen corrected. "You don't think it strange that she vanished from court politics entirely? That she gave up her claim as High Executioner to every circle of Hell? Do you think she just wanted a vacation?"
The warlord said nothing.
Vexen's tone dipped lower, dangerous now. "You really think she vanished to mourn?"
He floated a little closer. "You know her. Grayfia Lucifuge doesn't mourn. She waits. She watches. She stockpiles murder like a dragon hoards gold."
Barbaras looked off toward the horizon, where black storms raged over the Citadel Ruins of the Third Hell. The old battlefields. The broken towers. The monuments to wars won by betrayal, not strength.
"She gave up her throne," he muttered.
"No," Vexen whispered, his red-tinted lenses glinting with reflected flame. "She built one. In secret. Around him."
He finished, "I honestly think you should serve Satan of Wrath with all these rageful fits you throw around, might even get along with—"
Barbaras turned slowly, his immense shoulders rolling like tectonic plates. His glowing red eyes narrowed further, flaring with violent tension—like a storm deciding whether or not to break.
"I do not serve," he said, voice low and razor-edged. "I conquer. I break. I lead."
Vexen chuckled, folding his arms as the ember-lit scroll vanished into shadow. "Right, right. The mighty Barbaras. Slayer of a thousand. Champion of Wrath. Breaker of glass tables and screaming subordinates alike." He hovered lazily, unbothered by the molten fissures snaking across the battlefield. "And yet… here you are. Shaking. Over a name."
Barbaras lunged—no wind-up, no roar, just speed.
But Vexen vanished before the blow landed, the air where he'd floated rupturing into shards of burning sigils.
A second later, his voice echoed from the shadows behind the titan.
"I get it, you know," he said, reappearing with hands clasped behind his back like a lecturer. "You were there when the Morningstar heir fell. You saw what it took to cage him. Saw what price Hell paid just to bury a single prince."
Barbaras snarled, claws twitching with suppressed instinct. "That thing… wasn't a prince."
"Oh? Then what was he?" Vexen tilted his head, eyes gleaming behind his crimson lenses. "A weapon? A mistake? Or something worse?"
Barbaras didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to.
But because the answer tasted like fear.
And fear—real fear—was something even monsters like him didn't admit to.
Not out loud.