Kur'thaal burned.
Above the endless, smoldering wastelands, the skies churned with storms of ash and ember, twisting violently as if reflecting the war that raged below. Fire and shadow clashed against radiant light—an unrelenting collision of two worlds that had never known peace.
The host of Asphodel descended like falling stars, their celestial radiance cutting through the perpetual gloom of the Abyss. Their wings, vast and blinding, sliced through the air, their spears leaving trails of golden fire in their wake. Every beat of their wings sent waves of light rippling through the darkness, the intensity of their arrival shaking the very foundation of Kur'thaal.
At the front of the charge, Seraphine.
Her three pairs of crescent-shaped wings shimmered with deadly grace, their edges glowing with condensed light. A living weapon. A force of destruction made flesh. Her presence commanded the battlefield, each movement precise, each strike unstoppable.
And beside her, Azarel.
The golden accents in his white wings flickered with the dawn-like glow of Asphodel. His form was carved from celestial perfection, his silver eyes unreadable, his body wrapped in armor that gleamed against the darkness. The first light of battle shone upon him, casting long shadows over the land. It was the first time he would step foot on the cursed soil of the Abyss.
For the last six moon cycles, he had trained alongside the finest warriors of Asphodel. His body was strong, his movements fluid, his mind sharp. Each battle, each sparring session had pushed him further, shaping him into something more than just a soldier. He was becoming a weapon, a tool of celestial wrath. And yet, despite his growth, this was the moment that would define him.
His wings, still unfamiliar to the weight of battle, beat in time with the others, and for the first time, he felt something stir deep within him—a pull to the very core of his being, a connection to the land he had only ever heard of in whispers.
Beside Seraphine, Azarel was poised, but there was a flicker of something more in his eyes. He was not just ready to fight—he was about to face a test that would determine if he was truly one of them. The Abyss. The land of demons. His first real taste of it.
The first wave of battle erupted below them.
Asphodel's celestial host tore through the demon ranks with an overwhelming power that shook the very foundations of Kur'thaal. Angels descended like gods of retribution—spears raised, blades flashing with divine fire as they tore through the battlefield. With every strike, the demons' dark forms were obliterated. Their flesh burned, their screams lost in the roaring winds of fire and light.
Seraphine led the charge, her blade igniting with pure divine energy. With each sweep, she cleaved through dozens of demons at a time, her radiant power decimating their ranks. She moved like an unstoppable force, her beams of light cutting through groups of demons effortlessly. It was said that in one flash, Seraphine could erase fifty demons from existence, their bodies disintegrating into nothing more than ash before they even hit the ground. She was a force that could never be matched.
Beside her, Azarel fought with a deadly grace of his own. He held his spear steady, each thrust tearing through the dark forces before him. His movements were swift, calculating, and precise—blindingly fast as he took down demon after demon. His form, wrapped in gleaming armor, was a beacon of light amidst the shadowy chaos. The demons fell before him, their strength meaningless in the face of such raw celestial power.
But still, the demons fought back.
A mid-rank demon, its body twisted and malformed, rushed at Azarel with claws outstretched, roaring in fury. Azarel parried its attack effortlessly, his spear slicing through the air with blinding speed. He had no time to feel pity for his enemies—he was a warrior of Asphodel, and the only thing that mattered was the destruction of the Abyss. With one quick motion, the demon was felled, its body crumpling to the ground in a heap of charred flesh.
Another demon, this one larger and more ferocious, bared its fangs and launched itself at Seraphine. She met it head-on, her blade flashing as she slashed through its torso. The demon's body disintegrated in an explosion of light, leaving nothing but a smoldering crater where it once stood.
But it was then that Azarel saw something that made his heart skip a beat.
From the chaos of the battlefield, a figure emerged.
A beautiful demon.
The demon moved through the battlefield with effortless precision, weaving through the carnage like a shadow slipping between cracks of light. His body was bare at the torso, covered only in glowing white and gray runes, etched into his skin like ancient scripture. The runes pulsed faintly, shifting in time with his breath. His hair, black as the deepest abyss, whipped around him in the fury of battle, and his eyes—red, like embers waiting to ignite—met Azarel's gaze from across the battlefield.
Azarel's breath caught, a flicker of recognition. His instincts flared, the anger and betrayal surging to the forefront of his mind. The demons had been nothing more than obstacles, pawns to be destroyed. But this demon was different. His presence, the way he moved, it unsettled Azarel in ways he could not fully comprehend.
The demon's muscular arms rippled with strength as he swung his blade through the air, cutting down angel after angel. His powerful chest, marked with glowing runes, flexed with each swing, each strike sending the bodies of celestial warriors flying. He moved effortlessly through the chaos, as if the very essence of battle bent to his will. In mere moments, five angels were slain, their bodies tumbling through the air in a grotesque display of broken wings and shattered armor. The speed and ease with which he tore through them was a stark reminder of the demons' power. They were more than just enemies—they were a force to be reckoned with.
Azarel's hands clenched around his spear. The sight of that demon and his effortless killing, was enough to make Azarel's blood run cold. He was a demon, yes, but he was not just another demon. He was something far more dangerous. The way he moved, the way his power manifested—it was terrifying, yet undeniable.
Azarel's instinct screamed at him to strike, to end Vael before he could do any more damage, but something within him hesitated.
Why?
Why did he hesitate?
The world around him was war. Death. Fire.
And yet—he could not move.
The demon turned.
For a single heartbeat, their gazes locked.
Silver and blood.
Something shifted.
Something deep.
Azarel's body tensed, his grip on his spear tightening, the energy within him flaring with power. He was ready to strike. He was ready to end this demon, once and for all. However, the demon did not move, he just starred back at Azarel. His eyes shifted from senseless killing mode to a more soft expression. They looked at each other as if no war was being held around them.
But then—
The moment was gone.
A sudden roar of energy split the air as Nethros arrived. His presence was like a tidal wave of destruction, a surge of hellish flames that swept forward, engulfing the battlefield in a cataclysm of chaos. The very earth trembled beneath the force of his power. Even Seraphine paused, her sharp eyes narrowing as the battle shifted around them.
She saw it now.
This was not just a battle.
This was a warning.
Kur'thaal had been preparing.
Seraphine's mind moved faster than her body. She was a commander, a tactician, a warrior. And right now, she saw the truth.
The demons were not merely defending themselves.
They were testing them.
With a sharp signal, she called out. "Fall back!"
Azarel snapped back to the present.
He did not question it.
The angels broke from the fight, their formations shifting seamlessly as they retreated into the skies. Their light lifted, ascending beyond the reach of the battlefield.
But before Azarel followed—
He looked down.
And the demon was still watching him.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
The flames of Kur'thaal raged around him, casting his form in shifting shadows. His expression was unreadable, his body still—as if waiting.
Azarel's chest tightened.
But then, he turned away.
The host of Asphodel ascended, leaving the war-torn land behind.
Yet, as they disappeared into the skies, Azarel could not shake the feeling—
That something had changed.
That something had begun.
And that he would never truly be able to leave it behind.