Inside the Throne of Woe, where obsidian cracked beneath the force of Malgus's presence, the Primordial Demon stood before his war table—an ancient slab of carved voidstone that shimmered with living maps of the multiverse.
Lilith and the remaining Dreadbound Five stood by his side. The others had returned victorious—Oblivion Keep was rubble, the traitorous Grand Dukes sealed into the Eternal Prison, where the Warden of Despair would ensure misery unending.
And yet…
Malgus's gaze narrowed on a particular sigil floating above the map. It flickered. Barely present. Shifting like a shadow in daylight.
The angels.
They had made no direct move. No retaliation. No divine retribution. Too quiet.
"They play the long game," Malgus muttered, voice low. "They wait. They measure me. Maybe they think this is a trick."
"Shall we provoke them, my Lord?" Lilith asked, claws gently tracing the runes along the map.
"No," Malgus said. "That would confirm their fears—or worse, play into their traps. Instead, we move subtly."
He turned to Velmora, who stood wreathed in swirling illusion, her hair a cascade of floating ink.
"You will descend into the Lower Abyss. Find four of the strongest feral lesser demons. Train them. Prepare them. A portal to the Mortal Realm will open soon—but only for a moment. Wait for it. When it opens, you go through. Begin our return."
Velmora bowed, smiling faintly. "Subtle annihilation. As you command, my lord."
And with a flash of violet light and whispers that echoed like forgotten screams, she vanished.
THE SEVEN REALMS OF THE MULTIVERSE
Long before the angels schemed, before even the three Primordials waged war, the Seven Realms were created by the unknown cosmic balance that governed all.
They are:
The Highest Abyss – Realm of the True Demon Lords, the dark throne of power where chaos and strength are law. Diablo's original domain before his sealing.
The Highest Heaven – The realm of pure law and light, where the Celestial Thrones and the Archangels dwell. Power here is absolute—but so is control.
The Lower Abyss – A violent crucible of fire, blood, and constant war. Home of lesser demons, broken beasts, and chaotic energy. Only the strong survive long.
The Lower Heaven – The training grounds of minor angels and celestial beings. Order is taught here, and obedience enforced through divine branding.
The Mortal Realm – A fragile middle-ground, where the Abyss and Heaven wage their eternal war indirectly, shaping kings, empires, and prophecies.
The Realm of Law – A dimension of mechanical precision and timeless order, controlled by no faction. It governs cosmic constants, guarded by the ancient Sentinels.
The Chaos Realm – A formless sea of potential, where time, logic, and identity are fluid. Home to lost gods and twisted possibilities.
The Forgotten Realm – The final, forbidden realm. Unreachable by gods or demons. Its existence is denied, yet whispered of in dreams and madness.
But in this chapter, the war touches two: the Lower Abyss and the Mortal Realm.
THE LOWER ABYSS
A storm of violence and chaos stretched for trillions of miles.
The Lower Abyss—home of the fallen, the feral, the forgotten. Here, demons who had never tasted order or command waged endless war for food, power, or just the joy of destruction.
Velmora hovered above the carnage, watching. Unfazed. She floated past the Mountains of Bone and through the Rivers of Bloodmist, eventually catching sight of what she sought.
Four lesser demons—scarred, mutated things—were attacking a massive Abyss Hound, clawing at it in a coordinated strike for fresh meat.
They turned toward Velmora when she descended, at first snarling.
Until they saw the brand on her shoulder—the ancient sigil of the Dreadbound. Their rage turned to fear. Their hate turned to awe.
They knelt, snarling words in the guttural demon-tongue:
"High blood. Forgive."
Velmora gestured coldly. "You four. With me."
They obeyed instantly.
They journeyed across the abyss—hunted, challenged, attacked—but Velmora annihilated all threats in silence, never looking back.
Until finally—
The portal shimmered.
A fractured circle, crimson and pulsing with heartbeat rhythm, floating just above a battlefield of bones.
Thousands of feral demons sensed it too. They gathered in waves, shrieking and howling, all trying to be first through the gate.
Velmora appeared at its center like a specter of judgment.
Every demon went still.
She spoke one word in the True Language of the Abyss:
"Leave."
And they vanished like smoke on a storm wind.
She stood before the portal. Watched. Waited.
THE MORTAL REALM: YEAR 821, THIRD AGE
A small village.
Quiet.
Forgotten.
Until the Holy Detachment came.
They arrived under banners of gold and ivory. They came bearing scriptures, swords, and flame.
Because a farmer's boy had said a forbidden name.
The village resisted nothing. And still, they were slaughtered.
Homes were torched. The church claimed it was justice. The High Priest smiled as he ordered executions and ritual purgings.
The boy—Eryk—watched his father beheaded.
Watched his sisters burned alive.
Watched the blade that cut through his own face.
When he awoke, hours later, disfigured and alone among ash and blood, he crawled.
He dragged himself to the ritual circle his father had once carved beneath the roots of their home.
His father had whispered:
"Only in desperation. Only when the gods turn their backs."
With blood and shattered bone, Eryk drew the runes. He did not know the words. But something older inside him did.
The circle flared with pulsing red.
The ground cracked.
The portal opened.
A DEMON'S ENTRY
Velmora stepped through first.
Behind her, four lesser demons followed—twisted abominations covered in grime and fire. They growled at Eryk, ready to feast.
Until Velmora snapped an order in the Primordial Tongue.
They knelt before the boy instead.
Eryk stared in horror.
Then awe.
Then confusion.
Velmora approached, kneeling beside him.
She placed a clawed hand over his chest. "You summoned us. The pact is forged. You live… and we will give you power."
Eryk coughed blood. "I don't understand…"
Velmora smiled faintly. Her body shimmered, shifted, and she transformed into a pale-haired woman—gorgeous, elegant, dressed like a wandering healer.
The demons began feasting on the village corpses, reshaping themselves, disguising their monstrous forms into humanoid ones, twisted but passable.
When it was done, Velmora extended a hand to Eryk.
"Come. You will lead us to the nearest city."
Eryk took her hand.
As he stood, the first seed of wrath bloomed in his chest.