Baal had forgotten.
Forgotten the reason he came to Earth.
Forgotten the fire in his blood. Forgotten that he wasn't human—not even close. He wasn't just a demon. He was a top-tier being born of the Abyss, one meant to succeed its throne. A commander of flame and darkness. A being with subjects waiting for his return. But he had let Earth numb him. Let time blur his mission. And with Zaria's presence… he had almost convinced himself he was like them. She was carnal. Perishable. Soft. And she made him forget what he truly was.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the darkness returned.
The Abyther were stirring. Evil demons who took human form and fed on souls like wine—sipping, draining, growing stronger. Their presence corrupted the natural order, breaking the veil between realms. Each soul they devoured weakened the wall between Earth and Abyss. They were not just parasites—they were ruptures in the balance.
And it was 00:00. The hour the Abyther partied. The hour they devoured. The hour of reckoning.
Baal stood in silence, fully dressed in black. Pitch black. His coat clung to him like liquid shadow, so dark it seemed to devour the night around him. You could barely make out his figure in the shadows—only his pale skin and glowing molten eyes betrayed him. Lateef stood beside him, the same infernal aura cloaking him. Dressed in black from head to toe. Eyes like burning glass. No words passed between them. There was no need. They had done this too many times before.
They moved together, slipping through the silence of night toward Mortal Hill. The terrain was dry and cracked beneath their boots, whispering beneath their steps like it remembered blood. That was where the Black Gospel had pointed them. A message from the Abyss. No parchment. No scroll. No voice. Just a searing whisper burned into the back of Baal's skull—a divine, infernal order from the very pit he had once ruled. Tonight, there would be blood.
They arrived at the hill. And there—an Abyther. Wearing a human like a mask. Laughing beneath a stolen face. Feeding without shame. Its aura was a sickness Baal could feel under his skin—like a violation of the laws he once helped shape. Lateef didn't hesitate. With one swift motion, a clean arc of steel cut through the air. The blade found its mark, and the demon's host fell to the ground with a wet thud. Blood spread in a hot circle, steaming against the cold dirt. But the demon inside was still alive.
Lateef began the extraction. A chant under his breath—ancient words that burned as they were spoken. The air crackled. Space itself warped as the true form of the Abyther was ripped from the host body—a black, snarling mass of corrupted essence. It howled in rage. In fear. Lateef was faster. He sealed the demon inside a jar bound with cursed fire—a prison forged in the Abyss. As the lid shut with a final snap, the human body began to rot. Its skin curdled into a greenish-brown sludge, flesh melting like wax under heat. It dissolved into the ground, leaving only a slick stain of corruption behind. That was the fate of all who crossed the Abyss to steal its gifts.
And tonight, many more would follow.
Baal's eyes narrowed. Something tugged at his senses—a pull of rot and magic. Down the hill, shrouded behind a crumbling warehouse, was a structure pulsing with unholy energy. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. Lateef followed his gaze. They moved closer. The scent hit first. Sulfur. Burning meat. Blood. The Abyther were gathered. Dozens of them. Inside, the feast had begun. The building's walls throbbed with laughter, with screams. Shadows danced under flickering bulbs. Possessed bodies swayed to music only they could hear—torn between pleasure and madness. Humans were chained in corners, eyes vacant, souls half-drained. Some were still conscious. Others were already empty.
Lateef muttered, "A lot of missing family cases today. Some will get their people back. Some won't." His voice was calm, but his fists were tight.
what lateef said was true cause after killing the abyther who had taken the body of someone friend or family they would release the hostage which had been prisoned
Baal replied, eyes locked on the door, "Let's get this done."
They kicked the door open. The room froze. Every Abyther turned. The music died. The air went still. Then came the scent—smoke, brimstone, and absolute authority. The smell of the Abyss. The smell of their end.
"I-It's Baal," one of them stuttered, lips trembling, voice stolen from the man it wore. Its eyes widened in terror. It turned and ran. The others followed.
But there was nowhere to go.
Baal moved first. A blur. A storm. His blade slashed like wrath itself, cutting down Abyther as they fled. Bodies fell. Screams filled the space, echoing off walls slick with blood. Every swing painted red on the walls, on the floor, on his skin. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. His face, soaked with blood, remained unreadable. He didn't stop. Didn't slow.
Because this was what he was made for.
Because this was what he had forgotten.
And now remembered.
He was fire. Judgment. The sword of the Abyss. He was their king. Their executioner.
Lateef moved in behind him, careful and efficient. For every body Baal felled, Lateef summoned the true form—the soul of the demon—and sealed it inside flame-jars. The boxes filled quickly. Their energy thrummed with fury, with hate, with fear. Hostages were freed. Some sobbed. Some screamed. Some couldn't even speak. But Baal didn't look at them. He wasn't here for mercy. He was here for cleansing.
They walked out together, leaving behind only slime, broken bodies, and air thick with the stench of sin.
They returned home before sunrise. No words exchanged. None needed. Inside Baal's room, silence reigned. The curtains hung heavy. Shadows draped across every wall. It was a place untouched by time. Untouched by light. He stripped and stepped into the bathroom. The shower ran cold, washing crimson away in slow spirals. He stood there, eyes closed, for nearly an hour. He listened to the silence. To his heartbeat. To the voice in his mind that whispered of thrones and fire.
When he returned to the room, he dressed again. Bare chest. Loose pants. He sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving. Then it came.
The number.
Two thousand.
That was his count. Two thousand Abyther killed in seven hundred years. Two thousand sealed souls. A perfect record. A clean purge. But he didn't feel pride. Not anymore.
A weight pressed into his chest like a memory he couldn't shake.
Because the truth lingered, sharp as a blade:
Abyther weren't born. They were made. Each one had once been like him. Born of the Abyss. Shaped by fire. Created for power, for greatness.
And every one of those he killed tonight… had once bowed to him. Had once feared him. Had once called him my lord.
He was to be their king.
Now, he was their executioner.