The chamber was deathly silent, lit only by the dim, flickering glow of a hellish brazier at the center of the obsidian table. Around it sat six monstrous figures cloaked in shadow—Demon Generals, each embodying a sin carved into the essence of the Underworld.
Wrath, clad in spiked crimson armor, slammed a gauntleted fist on the table. "This is madness. Pride... defeated? By a student?"
"A human student," Envy hissed, his serpentine tongue flicking out as his eyes narrowed. "He was one of the Seven. This shouldn't be possible."
Sloth yawned from his reclining throne of bones. "Unless it wasn't the student at all. Perhaps something else awoke. Something ancient."
Lust smirked, her eyes gleaming violet. "Or perhaps Pride grew too full of himself and let his guard down. Arrogance was always his downfall."
Greed chuckled, the sound dry as scraping coins. "His core is gone. Destroyed, absorbed... or worse, hidden. Without all seven, the original path to revive the King is lost."
"Then we must forge a new one," Wrath snarled. He stood, flames dancing in his eyes. "Azarith stirs in the Abyss. We no longer have time to collect all seven. We offer him something greater—"
"Souls," Gluttony interrupted, licking his lips. "A million fresh, screaming souls. Blood sacrifices. Life for unlife. We drown this world in chaos and feed him the harvest."
Envy nodded slowly. "A grand offering. The mortal plane is ripe with life. Cities to burn. Kingdoms to harvest. Hope to extinguish."
Lust leaned forward. "Then it's settled. Forget the cores. We change the plan. Let Azarith rise through fire and suffering. The blood of innocents will be his bridge back."
Sloth sighed, though a smile curled at the edge of his cracked lips. "Finally, something entertaining."
Wrath bared his fangs. "Prepare the armies. Open the gates. The Age of Flame begins now."
And far beneath the Underworld, something ancient opened a single, burning eye.
---
The great hall of the Academy of the Silvermoon glittered with crystal chandeliers and enchanted banners. Headmaster Galbraith, tall and robed in starlight silver, raised a hand as silence fell over the gathered students and professors.
"Today, we honor bravery. Cassian Lionheart, you stood against one of the world's ancient evils and emerged victorious."
The hall erupted in applause.
Cassian stood in ceremonial academy robes, still bandaged from the recent battle. He bowed stiffly, confusion roiling beneath his calm expression.
He was awarded a Rank Advancement, a sealed royal token, and a mysterious relic shaped like a sunburst—etched with unfamiliar runes that pulsed with faint warmth.
Everyone praised him.
Called him a hero.
But inside, he was terrified.
I don't remember.
The last thing he recalled was Pride's flaming blade piercing his shoulder. He'd collapsed. Then—nothing. No final blow. No death scream. Just… darkness. Then light. Then silence.
---
That night, he sat alone beneath the marble archways of the eastern courtyard. The moonlight felt colder than usual, and the air was heavy with questions he couldn't answer.
Felicia approached quietly, her long cloak whispering across the stone. She sat beside him without a word.
For a while, they just listened to the wind through the trees.
Then Cassian broke the silence.
"I shouldn't be alive."
Felicia looked at him gently. "Do you remember anything?"
He hesitated. "Flashes. Symbols in the air. Heat… like a star had burst inside me. A voice whispering, 'Burn for truth.' Then I woke up. Pride was gone."
Felicia took his hand. "Maybe it wasn't just you in that fight. Maybe something else… helped."
"Helped? Or took over?" Cassian asked, voice tight. "What if I'm not the one who won that fight? What if something inside me did… and I just watched?"
Felicia didn't flinch. "Even if that's true, you're still here. And whatever it was… it didn't destroy you. That means it chose you. Doesn't that matter?"
Cassian looked up at the stars. Somewhere deep in his chest, the sunburst relic glowed faintly against his ribs.
He didn't know if that made him feel safer… or cursed.
Far beneath the Academy, in a sealed sanctum untouched by time and guarded by divine wards, a lone saint knelt in meditation before an ancient crystal altar. Light pulsed through the chamber in eerie, rhythmic waves.
Suddenly, her eyes snapped open—glowing gold with divine sight. A vision tore through her mind like lightning:
> A child born in flame. The blood of Azarith. Eyes like eclipses. The world torn asunder by his awakening.
She gasped, clutching her chest as the vision faded.
A firstborn… born of the Demon King himself... destined to destroy everything.
A scribe nearby rushed forward. "What did you see, Saint Elsera?"
The saint rose shakily to her feet. "A future soaked in blood. Azarith's heir walks among us… and he will not need an army to end this world."
Without delay, a messenger was summoned—cloaked in white and sealed with the emblem of the Divine Watch. The saint handed him a sealed scroll.
"Deliver this to the king. He must know… before it's too late."
As the messenger vanished into the night, the saint turned back toward the crystal altar, whispering:
"The world will burn… and no one will see it coming until it's ash."