After the grueling ordeal of his transformation, Johnny had reappeared, transfigured. Now a man of lethal charm and quiet elegance, he wielded the powers of Plutus with a terrifying, effortless grace. Yet, a single obsession haunted his mind: he had to find Roxane. He needed to make her see reason, to tear her away from Mammon's dark influence before it was too late. But with her location shrouded in mystery, Johnny drifted into a restless, brooding silence.
Meanwhile, Plutus sought out Esu to witness DJ's progress. The training between the god and his avatar was a sight of strange, silent intensity. For hours, they remained frozen at the heart of a massive, roaring circle of fire. While Esu drifted weightlessly in the air, DJ sat rooted to the scorched earth in a perfect yogic trance, a glowing mystical seal etched upon his brow. Suddenly, the flames surged upward, weaving together to form a blinding sphere of fire that swallowed them both.
"Well now! They aren't playing around," Plutus whispered, a smirk playing on his lips. "Classic Shango—always a flair for the dramatic."
In truth, Esu had dragged DJ's soul into a brutal spiritual realm. Deep within a nightmare forest, DJ was hunted. To force the young man to awaken his true avatar form, Esu unleashed a pack of flaming, monstrous beasts. It was a simple choice: evolve or be consumed.
On the other side of the world, Mammon's ambition reached a fever pitch.
"If the gods refuse to stand by me, I shall forge my own destiny with allies I can bend to my every whim!"
Roxane, startled by his intensity, asked if he still planned to seek out the goddess.
"Of course," Mammon replied, his voice dropping to a low growl. "But first, we summon my Inner Guard—an elite force of shadows that has served me for centuries. You have seen them before, Roxane, though you never knew their true, terrifying faces."
He turned to her, his eyes cold and commanding.
"Prepare yourself. The time for games is over; the era of blood begins. You will be granted strength beyond mortal limits, but you must survive the training of my elite first. And believe me, it will be a descent into hell. To the airport!"
"But what about Faro?" she stammered.
"She is already among us," he snapped. "Move, Tanit, my beloved. The world won't conquer itself."
Faro, veiled in a cloak of invisibility, watched them with unblinking eyes. High above the clouds, the Prince of Avarice brooded. He was outnumbered, and time was a luxury he no longer possessed. He reached for the only option left: the brothers he had betrayed eons ago.
"First, Libya," he mused, "then... we shall see if my brothers still remember the taste of war."
Since the dawn of the Fall, the Seven Deadly Sins had carved their thrones into the bedrock of Hell. Under the iron rule of Pride, the legions obeyed the Princes: Beelzebub, Mammon, Asmodeus, Belphegor, Leviathan, and Belial. Now, with his back against the wall, Mammon prepared to return to the pit.
In the cramped airplane restroom, he cast a gold coin into the water and hissed the ancient rite:
"Aperi te! Pare domino tuo, principi inferni, aperi te! Sum Mammon!"
When his eyes snapped open, they were twin pits of hellfire. The water transformed into a swirling vortex of molten lava, dragging him down into the depths. He emerged in the heart of the Abyss, rising from a lake of liquid fire, crowned in shimmering gold.
"The scent of scorched souls... how I've missed it," Mammon exhaled. But his joy was short-lived. He could only feel the presence of three brothers: Beelzebub, Belial, and the mountain of sloth, Belphegor.
"I don't believe my eyes," a booming, sluggish voice echoed through the sulfurous air. "The Great Prince of Greed, crawling back? Just watching you move exhausts me, brother."
A colossal, bloated shadow loomed over him.
"Belphegor," Mammon spat. "Still too lazy to even stand properly? I see you've kept your hideous form."
"I take the shape that suits my boredom," Belphegor drawled. "But be warned: Beelzebub calls you a traitor. An outcast."
"And what do you call me, brother-in-arms?"
"I don't call you anything. I'm too tired to pick a side until the winning one is obvious. Goodbye, Mammon."
The reunion was a cold omen. But the true test lay ahead. To win this war, Mammon would have to face Belial—the Prince of Wrath, whose rage knew no bounds.
The gates of Hell have opened, but for Mammon, the real nightmare is only just beginning.