The sky fractured. Up above the battlefield—far above the spiraling bloodstorms and shattered mountains, above the corpses and war cries, even above the clash between Syvrek and Kaelion—reality opened like the lid of a forgotten tomb.
And then...
A being fell.
No scream. No roar. Just descent. A blur of black and red armor dropped from the heavens like a forgotten god reclaiming his throne.
The moment he landed, the world caved in.
The impact wasn't just physical. It was metaphysical. All of Hell—the entire territory—quaked like it remembered its maker. The ground ruptured in veins of glowing magma. The air turned to pressure. The horizon itself bent. Soldiers from both sides were flung into the sky, craters opening beneath them. Weak demons crumbled into heaps of bone and meat on contact with the shockwave. Those strong enough to survive simply collapsed, forced into kneeling positions from the sheer gravity of his will.
Astaroth stood in the center of it all.
He didn't pose. He didn't speak yet. He just... breathed.
Seven long weapons hung from his body—some on his back, others at his waist, shoulders, even embedded like cursed trophies into the plates of his hellforged armor. The blade across his back, longer than most men, pulsed with the heat of a dying star, runes glowing along its length like scripture carved in hatred. His crimson and ash-colored armor, cracked and seared in places, bore the weight of a thousand forgotten wars. His horns curved slightly backward like jagged crowns, and his eyes—molten gold swirling with decay—scanned the field slowly, as if trying to remember where he was.
He was tall. Towering. But not monstrous. No taller than 2.7 meters, and yet his presence dwarfed giants.
And then he spoke.
Astaroth: Mmm... I smell weaklings.
His voice wasn't deep. It wasn't loud. But it was ancient. It echoed with tones not meant for mortal tongues. It was the kind of voice that made bones ache.
Astaroth: Where... am I? This realm reeks of... interruption.
He looked down at the writhing field of demons, shadows, broken buildings, and scorched ruin. His gaze settled on Kaelion, standing in the epicenter of it all, blade still drawn, wind caught in his long coat, face calm.
Astaroth: Art thou the cause of this... promotion of chaos and loud?
Kaelion didn't flinch.
Kaelion: Astaroth, Crown of Ashes. Emperor of All Hells.
Kaelion: You've been asleep for millions of years. And now, you've returned. I'd hoped to give you a proper—
Before he could finish, Astaroth moved.
It wasn't a blur. It wasn't fast.
It was instant.
His fist moved from resting at his side to aimed at Kaelion's head in less than a blink.
But—
The punch never landed.
The camera turns around.
Astaroth's body, half-lunged forward. His face unreadable. Arm stretched out.
Kaelion, unmoved.
His palm up.
And in that palm—
Astaroth's entire fist.
Caught.
Cracked slightly in the grip.
Kaelion: You don't just throw a punch after millions of years of sleep.
His voice was calm.
Kaelion: You say hello.
The dust around them hadn't even settled yet. The pressure of Astaroth's spiritual presence still had thousands crushed into the dirt. But now, that pressure shifted, focusing—tightening. Astaroth's hand trembled slightly in Kaelion's grip. Not from weakness.
But from memory.
Kaelion: I'll explain everything. But not until you remember who you are.
Astaroth's eyes narrowed. His aura darkened. A wave of forgotten flame rolled across the ground—an infernal tide ancient enough to burn laws of nature.
Astaroth: Dost thou... presume to teach me?
Kaelion let go of the hand.
Kaelion: No.
Kaelion: I'm here to remind you that hell has been doing unpleasant things. In your absence.
The flames behind Astaroth coiled like serpents waiting for command. They didn't rise; they slithered low across the ruined stone, burning the corpses they touched without sound. The air itself seemed to sink, thickening into a syrup of pressure and heat. For a moment, even time hesitated. Kaelion stood still, his palm now lowered, the imprint of Astaroth's knuckles faintly glowing red against his skin. Yet his eyes hadn't shifted—still locked, still calm.
Astaroth took a step back, slowly straightening his posture. His armor groaned softly, not from strain, but from age. Age so long that even the atoms in his pauldrons had forgotten what war felt like. His gaze wandered—not out of distraction, but calculation. The shadows. The demons. The blood-soaked arena. Something about it all tugged at his mind like a memory refusing to form.
Astaroth: (low) The cries of the damned... I recall not why they scream.
He glanced down at his own hands, slowly opening and closing the fingers as if testing their reality.
Astaroth: Mine slumber hath endured longer than I intended... or desired.
Kaelion didn't interrupt. He gave Astaroth that moment. Because he knew exactly what this was. Not just a return—but a resurrection of will. A being that powerful didn't simply wake up. He remembered his reason for existing. And if he didn't... the world wouldn't survive the consequences.
Kaelion: You fell asleep as a guardian of balance. A sword that crushed evil wherever it grew. But that was eons ago. The realms have shifted in your absence, Astaroth. Hell has grown diseased. Corrupted by greed. Your Empire fell into stagnation.
The words hung in the air, heavy.
Astaroth tilted his head, as if sniffing the lies in the wind—but none came. His molten-gold gaze flickered, narrowing slightly as he turned, looking toward the battlefield behind Kaelion. He saw the broken pieces of his empire scattered across the corpses. Saw the shriveled husks of his former highlords. The blood of devils staining the obsidian stones. And in that moment, his silence became thunderous.
Then—he spoke again.
Astaroth: I see now.
His voice was deeper this time, not louder—but heavier, like mountains shifting.
Astaroth: This... infestation. This unworthy plague of false kings and barking dogs... this is what hath grown in my shadow?
He turned back toward Kaelion, a flicker of purpose returning to his brow.
Astaroth: Tell me, Kaelion Draegor... dost thou still carry the weight of honor? Or has time worn thy spirit hollow?
Kaelion's lips curved—not into a smile, but something firmer. Assurance.
Kaelion: My sword is still sharp. My will even sharper.
Astaroth let out a low sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a breath. He began to walk slowly, the molten dust beneath his boots glowing brighter with each step, like the ground itself remembered who walked upon it. Every demon, every shadow, even Syvrek himself paused. Not out of fear—but reverence.
This wasn't a presence that demanded attention.
It was one that took it—simply by existing.
Astaroth: And this other presence I sense... this human one. It roars not with power... but with resolve. Steel not in flesh, but in spirit.
Kaelion: You feel him, then.
Astaroth turned his head slightly, the runes on his armor flaring brighter as if answering the name that hadn't yet been spoken.
Kaelion: His name is Dark.
Astaroth paused again. The name rippled like an echo through the molten winds.
Astaroth: The one who scorched the gates of my empire... with but seven Champions?
Kaelion: That's the one.
Astaroth didn't look angry. He didn't look impressed. He looked... intrigued.
Astaroth: Mmm. I would see this Dark. With mine own eyes.
Kaelion stepped to the side, motioning toward the far ridge—where, even now, Dark stood silent with Igor at his flank, watching the field through a crimson glare.
Kaelion: Then you're in luck.
But just as Astaroth began to turn—
A voice rang out from behind them.
Syvrek: Don't get distracted.
The sound of steel raking stone followed, and in the same second, Syvrek reappeared with a sonic burst, his demonic blade crashing down toward Kaelion's head with a roar that split the clouds.
Kaelion didn't even blink.
He moved like the sea itself. Fluid, unstoppable, calm—until it wasn't.
He pivoted on one heel and parried the strike with a one-handed swing so precise, so unfathomably sharp, it deflected Syvrek's entire assault without even sparking. The force of the redirection hurled Syvrek sideways across the field like a comet. He rolled through a dozen corpses, dug a trench through two hills, and didn't rise right away.
Kaelion exhaled slowly, readjusting his collar. Astaroth's head tilted slightly. His gaze drifted toward the broken demons around them—twitching, limping, bleeding from mouths that dared not speak. Then, back to Kaelion.
His eyes flickered once. And the realms changed.
A pulse erupted—not of light, not of flame, but of sheer presence. It wasn't seen. It was felt. Across every Hell—small, vast, ancient, forgotten—something shifted. In the lowest pits where fire refused to burn, in the vaulted towers of mid-tier tyrants, in the deepest cores of molten cities too far gone for gods to witness—everything stopped. Every. Single. Being.
Fell.
Knees hit stone. Heads bowed. Entire legions dropped mid-march. Lords collapsed in the midst of rituals. Kings shattered their own crowns as their minds buckled under the recognition. And those in other worlds—hell-beings that had long escaped or exiled themselves—froze wherever they stood. Even they felt it. Even they knew. He had returned.
In one realm, high above black suns orbiting a burning capital, a three-headed demon paused mid-feast. Its three mouths, soaked in blood, spoke in unison:
Three-Headed Lord: He has awoken.
In another, within a canyon where time had stopped flowing, a chained beast stirred for the first time in 900,000 years. Its eyes opened—crimson, ancient—and whispered through gritted fangs:
Prison Beast: Welcome back, Emperor.
In the highest dominion of the Supreme Hell, towers that scraped the membrane of reality itself began to tremble. And in unison, the grandmasters of that empire—beings who had never bowed in their existence—placed a single hand to their chest and lowered their heads.
Across all Hells, the message was the same.
"Welcome home, Throne Of Embers."
Then came his voice.
It didn't echo from his throat—it reverberated through existence, crawling into ears, into bones, into the very identities of those who once called themselves Hellborn.
Astaroth: Greetings, my wayward kin. I am Astaroth. The Crown of Ashes. Your Emperor. And I have returned.
The words didn't echo—they branded. Astaroth's presence now stood atop every thought in Hell. Even those who tried to resist felt their minds buckle and bow.
Astaroth: You will return. To your homes. To your worlds. To your lands. You will return to what you once were—before all of this. Before madness replaced honor.
He stepped forward slowly, and even Kaelion could feel the breath of that authority sink deeper into the fabric of the world. It wasn't control. It was command.
Astaroth: I've slumbered long within the chambers of ash and silence. And what have you done while I slept?
His eyes glowed brighter. His voice tightened.
Astaroth: You turned on humanity.
The air darkened. The ground began to hum.
Astaroth: You conquered what was not yours. You spilled blood for sport. You broke balance. You turned our world into rot. Into evil.
And then—
He shouted.
Astaroth: FOR WHAT?!
The words didn't hit ears, they split them. Even the strongest flinched. Even Kaelion's eyes narrowed for a moment. Some screamed. Others bled from the nose, the eyes, the soul.
Astaroth: Billions dead. For no glory. No order. No cause!
He raised a single hand toward the broken battlefield.
Astaroth: From this moment on—all Hellborn shall return to their worlds. Their dominions. Their flames.
His hand lowered.
Astaroth: This war is over.
And yet... Dark did not move.
Not a flinch. Not a breath. Not a sigh of relief.
He stood still, sword resting at his side, crimson eyes locked forward—trapped in a silence that wasn't confusion or fear.
It was purpose.
One that was suddenly... fractured.
Dark: (thinking) I came here for one reason.
He stared across the field of corpses, some still twitching, others already being absorbed into the depths of his own shadows. Hollowed. Converted.
He remembered the screams. The burning cities. The women clawing at walls as their children were torn from them by demonic claws. The villages that prayed for a savior and received nothing but slaughter. He remembered the sound—not of war—but of sick, twisted pleasure. The grunts. The mockery. The way they laughed.
He had sworn. Not out of vengeance, but out of justice.
To erase Hell.
But now... the embodiment of that Hell stood here.
Not corrupted. Not mad.
But regal.
Astaroth had stopped it. Just by breathing, he had stopped it all.
And Dark didn't know what to do.
Then—
Kaelion turned.
He didn't speak loudly. He didn't need to.
Kaelion: Dark.
Dark's head snapped toward him.
Kaelion: Come here.
Dark walked forward. The battlefield still hummed under his boots. The air was still laced with a tension that couldn't be cut, only endured. Igor followed for a moment, but Dark raised a hand. Not now. This was something only he could answer.
He stepped into the presence of two Emperors. Two beings whose names cracked galaxies.
And he felt like a child.
Kaelion: This is Astaroth. Emperor of All Hells.
Astaroth turned to face him. Slowly. Mechanically. Like a god relearning how to acknowledge mortals.
Their eyes met.
Molten gold versus crimson shadow.
Astaroth didn't blink.
Astaroth: You are the one who scorched my dominions with will alone.
Dark stayed silent.
Astaroth: You slew my subjects. Hollowed their remains. Painted the blackstone with their blood.
Dark: I did.
Astaroth: Why?
Dark: Because they deserved it.
No hesitation. No apology. No bow.
Astaroth tilted his head, the metal of his armor groaning like a cathedral shifting during a storm.
Astaroth: You believe your will is justice?
Dark: I don't believe it. I am it.
Kaelion grinned faintly—just for a moment.
Astaroth studied him. Deep. Past the bones. Past the soul. Into that place beneath all things, where raw resolve sits untouched by magic or time.
Astaroth: Hm.
Then, without another word—
He stepped forward.
His gauntlet closed into a fist.
And struck.
Dark didn't dodge.
He flew.
The punch detonated the ground. Dark's body twisted through the air like a comet, his spine crashing through what remained of a demon fortress. Rubble exploded in every direction, blood from previous battles splashing against his coat as he hit the stone floor, skipped twice like a broken doll, and slid into silence.
Kaelion didn't move.
Astaroth: He is not ready.
Kaelion shrugged lightly.
Kaelion: Fight him anyway.
Astaroth turned his gaze slowly. Kaelion's eyes had drifted toward the skies.
Kaelion: (sighs) This is getting too boring. Besides... I've got a wife waiting.
He sheathed his blade.
Kaelion: Dark. He's all yours.
And in a blink of sea-colored haze—
Kaelion Draegor vanished.
The wind stilled.
The ground shuddered again.
Dark's hand—bloodied, cut, and shaking—gripped a stone slab as he pulled himself up from the rubble. His body was broken in places. His ribs felt shattered. His jaw was bruised. He spat out blood.
Dark: (thinking) He really didn't hold back...
But he still stood.
Astaroth watched, unfazed.
Dark's legs buckled.
He stood straighter.
Astaroth struck again.
A spinning backhand that created a soundless blast of force.
Dark flew again. Crashed through black pillars. Rolled across a path of molten glass and ash.
But he stood again.
He always did.
Astaroth: Why?
Dark: I haven't finished my reason.
Another strike. Faster. He didn't even see it. It was like the air itself punched him in the throat.
Dark collapsed, wheezing, coughing, dragging himself forward.
Astaroth: Stay down.
Dark: Make me.
Again.
Astaroth hurled a kick. A straight-up demigod kick that cracked Dark's collarbone and sent him flying backwards—
But he landed on his feet.
Staggered. But not fallen.
Dark: I came here to erase every being in Hell.
Blood dripped from his lips. His left eye was already swelling shut. He pointed at Astaroth, hand trembling.
Dark: If you're the reason they forgot their purpose... then you're next.
Astaroth didn't smile.
But something in his gaze shifted.
Not admiration.
Recognition.
He walked forward, each step measured, deliberate. Dark didn't retreat. He raised Kyuketsu. Barely. But he raised it.
Then—
Astaroth stopped.
Not from mercy.
But realization. This boy. This man. He bled. He broke. But he never stopped. Not from arrogance. But from something purer.
Astaroth: You are not an Emperor.
Dark didn't respond.
Astaroth: But one day... you might be.
He stepped back once. His blade still sheathed. His presence still devouring.
Astaroth: That day is not today. Remember that.
He turned away.
And for the first time in all recorded memory... Astaroth chose not to kill.
The wind blew. The ash fell. And Dark... still stood. Bleeding. But alive.
End Of Arc 5 Chapter 21.