Dark stood still. His figure was scorched, trembling, but somehow still upright. Fists raised loosely, shoulders uneven from the punishment he had taken. He faced Astaroth like a broken soldier refusing to surrender—not because he thought he could win, but because he refused to fall in front of a throne.
Then his body gave out.
No sound came from his lips as he collapsed. His knees struck the ground with a dull, cracking thud, followed by his shoulders slamming into the ash-covered stone. He didn't brace the fall. His limbs sprawled out unnaturally. Breath shallow. Vision dim.
Astaroth paused mid-step.
The Emperor tilted his head, not in concern, but in quiet observation—like one might watch a candle finally snuff itself out.
But the story didn't end there.
The camera dove—cutting through the flesh, the mind, the bloodied synapses—into the dark theater of Dark's unconscious. Down into the abyss of his soul.
It was not empty.
A vast, obsidian platform stretched outward in all directions, a boundless stage of flickering echoes and phantom mist. And at its center, Dark lay motionless. Curled slightly inward. Blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Eyes closed, barely breathing.
Then—
A voice slithered from the edges of the dark.
???: Get up, Dark. You're not done yet.
The voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was familiar in the way hunger was familiar. In the way nightmares knew your name.
Dark's right eye fluttered open slightly, enough to glimpse the shape crawling toward him—slowly, deliberately, like something too ancient to rush.
The being's body was inky and coiling, dragging itself along like a liquid shadow with weight. Eyes that weren't really eyes opened across its skin, glowing faintly before blinking shut again. Its tendrils reached out and brushed against Dark's hand.
The pain began to fade.
What touched him didn't hurt. In fact, it healed. It poured into his veins like smoke, but instead of suffocating him, it patched the broken things inside. Bones clicked back into place. Nerves stopped screaming. The shaking slowed.
???: You're not dead. So get up. Dying's not an option for you.
The symbiote crept further along his forearm, entering his bloodstream not as an invader, but as a returning king. Dark's fingers twitched. His breathing steadied. A flicker of recognition crossed his brow.
Then the voice laughed, a twisted, wet chuckle that echoed across the black stone.
???: Mmmmm... tastyyyyyyy.
The voice deepened, the shape expanding as if unfolding from itself.
Vorax: I welcome myself back... to my rightful host.
Dark: ...Vorax?
The symbiote pulled away from his skin—not in departure, but in emergence. It rose behind Dark's body, stretching upward like a looming phantom made of oil and smoke. A humanoid face began to form out of the mass—twisted, intelligent, wickedly sharp. Not monstrous, but never human.
Vorax's face was sleek, alien, lined with interlocking ridges where bone met shadow. Its jaw extended slightly longer than normal, armored with void-black teeth. Two long tendrils slithered from its temples like the horns of some ancient predator.
Vorax: I've always been here, Dark. You just couldn't hear me.
Dark sat up slowly, his strength returning by the second. He placed a hand against his chest, as if verifying his own heartbeat.
A breeze stirred across the black platform.
Vorax: I've lived inside your heart all this time. Watching. Waiting. Protecting. You're the only one I trust.
Dark: Then why didn't you speak to me sooner? Why not leave a sign?
Vorax turned, gazing into the void surrounding them. He didn't answer immediately.
Vorax: I did. Hundreds of thousands of times. I screamed, clawed, tried to tear my way through the veil between us. But you... you couldn't hear me.
Dark: ...
Vorax: ...
Dark: You thinking what I'm thinking?
Vorax: Oh yeah. Let's fight Astaroth together.
Dark: You serious?
Vorax: Deadly.
The vision cracked.
The inner realm shattered like a mirror dropping from space. We returned to reality—
To the battlefield. To Hell.
Dark lay facedown in the shattered rock. The dust had settled. Astaroth had turned his back and was already walking away, his cloak dragging behind him in embers.
Astaroth: ...It was half bad. Well fought, Dark.
His tone was casual. Pitying. Disinterested.
Then—
A voice. Not just Dark's.
Dark: Oi.
A low rasp, darker than before. Echoed with something else. Something symbiotic.
Dark pressed one hand against the ground. Then the other. He began to rise, slowly, one knee at a time.
Dark: Where...
Astaroth stopped. He didn't turn yet.
Dark placed his other foot forward, gritting his teeth through the weight of his body.
Dark: ...do you...
He reached to the left. From his spatial arsenal, the Kyuketsu materialized in a swirl of void sparks, its black blade gleaming under Hell's fractured light.
Dark: ...think you're going?
Astaroth finally turned. Not fast. Not surprised. Curious.
Astaroth: (thinking) A symbiote...? No, not just that. I've never heard of a Void-born bonding with a demi-human.
Astaroth: Symbiote. Name thyself.
From Dark's shoulder, a snake-like tendril rose, uncoiling as a head formed at its tip. The voice that followed was smoother now, laced with mockery and venom.
Vorax: I am Vorax. Last of the Voiders.
Astaroth narrowed his gaze.
Astaroth: "Voiders"... That name stirs no memories. From whence did you slither?
Vorax grinned, baring teeth that shimmered like obsidian blades.
Vorax: Far beyond your knowledge, old speaker. I hail from a dying star lost beyond the Nexus Zone, buried within the folds of the Eard World.
Astaroth: Hmph. Thy tongue bears riddles. Mayhap thou could offer clarity?
Vorax's grin widened, coiling back into Dark's shoulder.
Vorax: Perchance... but no. Let my host show you instead.
Dark exhaled.
Vorax: (thinking) You ready?
Dark: (thinking) ...No. I've given it everything. He hasn't even started trying. He's been toying with me. I—
Vorax: (thinking) Shut up. You don't get to talk like that. You're Dark. Others your age are still trying to master basic magic. You've challenged an Emperor.
Vorax: (thinking) That man isn't just strong—he's Astaroth. Throne of Embers. Ruler of All Hells. The 4th Emperor.
Vorax: (thinking) Do you know what that means? That man could burn all Seven Hells to ash in less than a second if he wanted to.
Dark: (thinking) And demons still prey on our kind. We don't invade their realm. We never do what they do.
Vorax: (thinking) You fool. Let me show you the truth.
Dark's vision went black.
A flash. A memory. A slideshow of blood and fire and steel.
Vorax: Over 10,000 years ago, it was humans who first invaded the Netherworld. The realm of flame, ash, and hell-born life. You were the monsters once, Dark.
Vorax: And now Astaroth stands here, waiting. Hoping. Watching to see if you'll stop holding back and finally fight like the being he knows you are.
Dark: But I—
Vorax: No buts. No what-ifs.
Vorax: USE. YOUR. FUCKING. STRENGTH.
Dark flinched.
Dark: I WAS GONNA ASK WHAT IF I HAVE NO MANA LEFT?!
Vorax laughed, guttural and amused.
Vorax: Mana? You think I'd let you run dry?
Vorax: I generate infinite mana passively. At all times. Without cost. You're standing in the Reverse Mana Zone, idiot.
Dark: Reverse...?
Vorax: Tap into your cursed mana. Let it cycle backward through your core and force itself into regeneration. Output loops into input. That's the secret.
Vorax: Infinite fuel.
Dark: Teach me—
Vorax: Later. Now go.
The world snapped back.
Dark blinked.
Astaroth: Done? Back from your little timeout?
Dark stood straight. His spine cracked once as he rolled his shoulders. The Kyuketsu flickered in his hand, pulsing with voidlight.
Dark: Yeah.
Dark: I'm ready.
Astaroth smiled.
Astaroth: Good. Now... let me remind you what an Emperor truly is.
The air stopped moving.
Dark didn't have time to breathe, didn't have time to blink. A sudden shift—no flash, no burst of energy—just the vanishing of space between them. One instant, Astaroth stood across the battlefield.
The next, his hand was wrapped around Dark's face.
Dark's body jolted back from the sheer force. His limbs flailed as Astaroth dragged him forward, boots skidding through scorched ground, tearing deep grooves into Hell's charred stone. The motion was slow, deliberate, humiliating. Astaroth walked forward with each step echoing dominance—not speed, not brutality—command.
Astaroth: Thou hast proven thyself worthy to stand.
His grip tightened.
Astaroth: But thou art still so far beneath my gaze.
And then, he threw him.
Dark's body hurled into the air like a missile launched by a forgotten god. The sky cracked. Not metaphorically—literally. A fissure of light ripped open across Hell's firmament, exposing the higher layers of the dimension like torn pages in a cursed tome.
Dark soared upward at impossible speed, past clouds of blood mist, past jagged moons and fractured suns, until—
BOOM.
A rupture of white noise blasted through the heavens. A crack opened not in Hell, but across reality itself.
Cut to Earth.
Far from Tokyo, deep in the northern stretches of Japan—an old, silent city shuddered. The skies rippled. Civilians on sidewalks paused as every window shattered. The entire ground trembled, spider-webbed with cracks. Streetlights bent. Sirens wailed, but no one could understand what was happening.
They hadn't seen the cause.
Because Dark hadn't landed yet.
Up in the sky, the camera caught him—still ascending.
His eyes opened.
Dark: (thinking) What... the hell was that?
Then something appeared above him.
A shadow that didn't cast light. Astaroth.
He hovered with arms crossed, body relaxed, cloak flickering like liquid fire.
Astaroth tilted his head.
Astaroth: Boo.
He raised one hand. Open palm. And slammed it down.
Dark had no time to brace.
The impact was ungodly. Not just force—it was judgment. His body plunged down, crashing through layers of atmosphere, splitting open clouds and boiling the sky itself. Flames curled around him as he pierced through dimensions like a meteor made of flesh and defiance.
Then he hit.
The Earth didn't crack.
It shattered.
Not in chunks. Not like broken plates.
Trillions of pieces disintegrated outward like a fractal explosion, each fragment spinning into the void. The planet burst apart like a dying sun.
Silence.
Space.
Dark's limp form floated among the ruins. Blood drifted in zero gravity. Bits of concrete and glass spiraled past his face.
Then—
Astaroth appeared behind him.
One hand grabbed his arm.
Blink.
The Earth reformed.
Instantly. Completely.
Time reversed, but only for the world. The civilians below hadn't moved. Their conversations continued. A girl laughed at her phone. A man poured coffee.
And above them—
CRACK.
Dark's body slammed into the top of a building.
Glass exploded. The structure caved in. He plummeted floor after floor, limbs smashing through concrete and rebar until he hit the lobby and rolled through smoking rubble.
He lay still.
Coughing.
Blood poured from his mouth. Something ruptured inside. His ribs were crushed. His lung collapsed. His nose broken again. One eye swelled shut.
Dark: WHAAAT... THEE... FUUCCCKK... WAS THAT—?!
The words barely escaped his throat, each syllable spat with blood and disbelief. He tried to move but winced. His insides felt like they were boiling.
Vorax: (thinking) Yes. You saw that correctly.
Vorax: (thinking) He destroyed the Earth using your body. Then reversed the destruction, and threw you back into it. For fun.
Dark didn't respond.
He stood.
But slowly—unnaturally slow. His body twitched with tension, like a machine waking from overload. Blood seeped from his palms as he clenched them.
Shadow bloomed from his feet.
It curled upward around his limbs like ink dropped in water, forming jagged lines across his arms, torso, and neck. His cloak, ragged and scorched before, now rebuilt itself from that same shadow, forming a mantle of black threads and serrated folds. It didn't look like fabric—it looked like a weapon.
Dark's expression changed.
He wasn't gritting his teeth anymore.
He wasn't gasping for air.
He was silent.
His eyes—barely glowing under the shadowed hood of his newly formed mantle—burned with something alive. Not anger. Not vengeance. Precision.
He stepped forward, out of the cratered building and onto the road.
Traffic continued around him.
No one noticed him.
No one cared.
The world moved in ignorance. Cars passed by. Mothers held their children. A little boy pointed to the sky where something had glowed moments earlier, but no one listened.
Dark turned left, walking calmly into the crowd.
A distant whistle echoed.
Not from above.
From behind him.
He stopped.
A missile soared through the air—silent, sleek, black-tipped. It came fast. Too fast. And it wasn't aimed at him. Not exactly.
It was headed for the civilians behind him.
It closed in—only inches from his cheek.
Time slowed.
Dark didn't blink.
He looked to the side, registering its arc. His eyes tracked the children walking behind him. Calculated. Measured.
His hand snapped out.
He caught the missile.
Fingers dug into the metal like claws into clay.
He turned—slowly—toward where it had come from. His feet shifted. He bent his knees. One foot dragged against the concrete, leaving a burning groove.
And then he threw it.
The ground split beneath him.
The missile vanished in a flash of black streaks, moving faster than human perception. Faster than sound. Faster than consequence.
Far away, at the origin—a secret military installation on the edge of a desert—the silence was ruptured. Guards looked up too late.
Above the base—
The missile returned.
But this time, it had a passenger.
Two boots stood atop it.
Dark.
His arms were crossed.
His face unreadable.
The wind tore around him at breakneck speeds, but his cloak—rebuilt from Vorax's shadows—didn't flutter. It flowed like an extension of him, bound to no laws of motion or reality. His boots balanced perfectly atop the missile as if gravity itself obeyed his stance. No sound. No strain. Just a silent promise of violence.
The base below was alive with sirens.
Red lights flared against metallic structures. Soldiers scrambled into formation, some holding plasma rifles, others barking into comms, their voices desperate and clipped. Mechs stirred from underground bays, rising with the whir of alien gears—angular machines outfitted with energy cannons scavenged from ruins beyond Saturn's orbit.
A single soldier looked up.
He saw the missile descending—more than that, he saw Dark.
And in that instant, he felt it.
That ancient terror.
The kind etched into the DNA of all living things. The kind that didn't scream danger—it screamed finality.
Inside the control tower, a technician stammered at his monitor.
Technician: It's... it's not a missile anymore. There's someone riding it. Standing. What the hell is this—?
Commander: Focus targeting! Bring out the Sky Lasers! Initiate Overr—
CRASH.
Dark dropped.
The missile never hit.
He stepped off it midair and landed through the ceiling of the main hangar, boots first. The force of the landing ruptured the entire structure—beams snapped like paper straws, and the floor split open in a perfect circle beneath him, caving through six levels of reinforced alloy.
The moment he landed—silence.
Not out of respect.
Out of disbelief.
Dark stood amid the crumbled impact crater. Dust hovered around him in a trembling ring, never touching his body. The cloak writhed behind him like tendrils of void, the faint outline of Vorax pulsing across his arms and chest.
Soldiers took aim.
Dark didn't move.
Instead, he raised a single finger.
The lights in the entire base shut off.
Every monitor, cannon, suit of armor—drained. The energy was gone, siphoned by something unseen.
Dark: (cold) You shouldn't have aimed that at civilians.
Then he moved.
He vanished from sight—not with a blink, not with a blur, but with a rupture. Reality bent where he stood. When he reappeared, he was behind the first mech—one palm already buried through its cockpit.
It didn't explode.
It imploded, sucked into a point of nothing before violently collapsing into a black pulse that deleted three nearby drones instantly.
Dark didn't pause.
He stepped forward again, and again, his movements faster than the facility's sensors could track. Cameras captured only brief afterimages—slashes of shadow, glimpses of a burning gaze, the glint of Kyuketsu.
One by one, the base fell apart.
No massive blasts. No screaming or chaos.
Only precision.
Soldiers collapsed, unconscious but unharmed. Weapon systems melted down without detonation. The AI cores of the defense mechs rewrote themselves into loops, spinning endlessly in harmless code.
Dark wasn't killing them.
He was neutralizing them. Efficiently. Elegantly.
Then, as he stood at the heart of the base—surrounded by silence and crushed steel—he looked up.
Dark: (thinking) Still not enough.
Behind him, Kyuketsu shifted. The blade vibrated, humming softly. It knew.
Vorax: (thinking) Something's coming.
Dark: (thinking) Something worse?
Vorax: (thinking) No. Something old.
A pressure descended.
The air thickened. Not from heat, but from presence.
Then, above them—hovering in the void left behind by the broken ceiling—descended a silhouette cloaked in fire.
Astaroth.
He floated down without wings. No sound. No force. Just arrival.
His coat was unburnt. His hands still gloved. His eyes, dimmed—not with weakness, but with silence.
Astaroth: So... thou survived.
He touched the ground with a quiet step, like a god deigning to walk among insects.
Astaroth: Impressive. Most impressive.
Dark didn't speak.
He adjusted his grip on Kyuketsu. The blade responded—its shape subtly shifting, heavier now, denser.
Vorax: (thinking) He's serious again. But this... this feels different.
Astaroth stepped forward once.
The entire base behind Dark lifted—not exploded, not crushed—lifted off the ground and floated upward in chunks of metal and flame, as if gravity itself had reversed out of respect for his steps.
Dark lowered his stance.
Kyuketsu turned blacker than black, absorbing light, warping air.
Dark: (calm) Round two, huh?
To Be Continued.
End Of Arc 6 Chapter 14.