This is the first chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
Image credits (in order of appearance): Victoria Blotta, Petr Joura
He awoke in a tenebrous pall; there was no light anywhere around him, only unending gloom. Cold sweat covered the whole of his body, and he could feel the roughness of weathered stone against his wings, back, shoulders, and tail. Reaching up with one of his six arms, he felt the same warm stone above, mere inches from his body. He was fully encased.
Or was he?
With all six of his hands, he pushed on the stone and was rewarded with a grinding sound as the slab above moved. He continued to push, and the stone slab continued to move until it crashed to the ground below, cacophonously shattering. The one who had been encased within the sarcophagus sat up.
There was still no light to be found anywhere amid his surroundings, but he did not need it. The gloom had thinned, and his eyes had adjusted. A large rectangular room, about twenty feet wide by thirty feet long, stretched out before him. The sarcophagus that he had awoken in was near the center of the back wall, perhaps a foot or two away from it. Line after line of runes were carved upon the walls, stout, blocky, and angular. Taking up most of the floor was an enormous red inverted pentagram, and the sarcophagus occupied the pentagram’s lowermost point. The door ahead, situated between the pentagram’s two uppermost points, was identifiable only because of the seams in the wall that outlined it; the lines of runes did not break for it.
This place was a tomb, the tomb of he who had just awoken. There could be no doubt of that. But, the question remained: how did he get here? More so, who was he?
He looked down at himself. He was about nine feet tall and composed of corded muscle covered by fair, red-tinged skin. Each of his feet had ridges of red scales that stopped near his ankles, and the six toes upon each of his feet ended in hard, onyx-colored nails that were almost claw-like. Between his legs stirred a sinewy tail that ended in a sharp, blade-like point that was as black as his toenails. His six hands, each of which had four fingers and a thumb, were as muscular as the rest of him, and his wings were black, leathery, and altogether bat-like, a cloak of organic shadows sprouting from his shoulders. Reaching up with his two uppermost hands, he felt the pair of thick, spiraling, ram-like horns that crowned his head.
Zeraga.
The word manifested unbidden in his mind, a whisper from a voice that was at once his own and not his own.
Zeraga.
The strange word came again. No… He shook his head. It wasn’t just a word; it was a name. His name.
“Zeraga,” he said tasting the name as it was rendered in his deep, almost growling voice. It was fire and sulfur and blood and blades.
A new power reared up within Zeraga, an inferno at the very core of his being that sent white-hot knives slamming through his veins. A coil of lurid orange-white flames, crackling, snarling, and seething, manifested around each of his six hands, radiating heat so intense that it would have melted the flesh of a mere mortal like candlewax. But, Zeraga was no mere mortal, and the flames, which he intuitively knew to be hellfire, caused him no pain whatsoever, neither in their manifestation nor their burning. Indeed, the hellfire felt as much a part of him as his wings, arms, tail, or any other part of his body. The light of the diabolical flames spread across the whole of Zeraga’s tomb, replacing the darkness with ersatz daylight. As if in response, the runes upon the walls and the pentagram upon the floor began to glow with crimson light.
A sequence of moving images formed in Zeraga’s mind. He was wearing copper armor with metallic green trim. Pauldrons and a breastplate girded his upper body, vambraces were clasped around each of his wrists, and metallic boots sheathed his feet, shins, and calves. A crimson cloak billowed out from his shoulders, between his spread wings, and a crimson half tabard hung from his belt. In his uppermost right hand, Zeraga gripped a golden scythe with a bronze blade that had jagged lines of metallic green, the same as the trim of his armor, running through it. Atop the scythe was a shining ruby that was the size and shape of a spearpoint. Each of Zeraga’s other five hands wielded either a hellfire sword or a hellfire axe.
He stood upon a vast expanse of rocky ground that looked like the emerald green scales of a serpent’s skin. An actinic green sun hung in the rose-colored sky above from which acid rained unrelentingly. Surrounding Zeraga was a horde of aberrant, demoniac creatures, a press of warped, animal-like heads, clawed arms, taloned legs, whipping tails, and snapping wings. Zeraga desperately fought them off; he was a whirlwind of fire and blades propelled by wrathful flesh and an equally wrathful will, but the demons were too many, and he was only one.
Then, the image unraveled.
Zeraga blinked his eyes as he registered that he was once again looking upon his tomb. The runes on the walls and the pentagram were still glowing. Had something about them triggered the images? Or was it, perhaps, the hellfire burning around his hands?
He did not know, could not know, but he hoped that he could find a way to learn. Zeraga swung his legs over the left side of the sarcophagus and slid out, his feet thudding against the stone floor. He walked up to the leftmost wall of his tomb, and the runes glowed brighter as he approached, beckoning him. With a mental exertion that was as natural as moving a muscle, Zeraga dismissed the hellfire around his hands. The fiery coils growled as they unraveled, leaving the tomb lit solely by the sanguine glow of the infernal runes upon the walls and the pentagram upon the floor. Zeraga reached out to touch one of the runes, a square-like one that was composed entirely of right angles that came in on each other and increasingly shrank in a blocky attempt at a spiral. As his fingers grazed the surface of the rune, Zeraga knew its meaning:
Infinity.
There was power in the rune, too. Zeraga could feel it. It was like lightning waiting to strike. He trailed his hand across more of the runes, each time feeling the same entwined sense of meaning and power. A sentence was formed:
Infinity dwells in the mind and shakes the multiverse.
Zeraga’s hand fell from the runes, and his face twisted into an expression that was a mixture of awe and confusion. Infinity dwells in the mind and shakes the multiverse. Zeraga knew the statement to be true, knew it to be true on an atavistic level that lent strength to his bones and muscles, but what was it actually supposed to mean? Zeraga touched more of the runes, soon discovering another sentence:
The Doomfire dies but descends back into dormancy and therefore does not die.
And then another:
Even the valahiyan do not envy him.
Zeraga stepped back, shaking his head in frustration. Both of the statements were true, as true as the first one had been, but what did they mean? None of them made any sense. Was he the Doomfire, or did the name refer to someone, or something, else? Who, or what, were the valahiyan? Zeraga was not confident that the other runes would provide any answers, not if they were as cryptic as those he had already read.
Who had come up with these things and carved them inside his tomb? For that matter, who had created the tomb? If all of it had been the work of Zeraga himself, he certainly didn’t remember any of it. He shook his head again. There were too many questions and no answers. But, he knew what he had to do now.
He had to leave the tomb.
Turning away from the runes, Zeraga walked toward the door. The runes upon it bore the same beckoning, vermilion glow as all of the others, but Zeraga did not reach for them, instead touching the seam that separated the door from the wall. A loud click came from a hidden, internal mechanism, and the door swung open with a coarse, grinding sound.
A vast landscape of rolling hills lay beyond, and the sky was a shifting purple-black shade of twilight. There were neither stars nor a moon, yet just as before, Zeraga’s sight was unfettered by the darkness. Off in the distance, he could see what had to be the largest of the hills, and upon it stood an opulent palace of gold and gem that glimmered in the perpetual gloom.
“Fork it over,” said a male voice, stern and commanding, from directly outside the tomb.
“Damn it,” replied another voice, also male, but shriller and more fluid than the other. “I was hoping that he would stay in there for at least another century or two.”
Zeraga stepped out of his tomb, and the door closed behind him of its own accord, locking into place with a click of its internal mechanism. “Am I being expected?”
On either side of Zeraga stood a humanoid that was about eight feet tall. They had pale gray skin, black feathered wings, and glowing red eyes. Tiny horns curled out of their foreheads. The humanoid on the left had facial features that were harsh and chiseled; the one on the right had a rounded, oval-like face and long, curling hair that was as golden as the palace off in the distance. Both humanoids wore armor wrought from a putrid orange metal, and black cloaks were clasped to their shoulders. Each of them wielded a spear and a large, circular shield.
The humanoid on the left gave a derisive grunt. “What do you think?”
“Please forgive Dhunael,” the humanoid on the right cut in, almost sounding like he was singing rather than talking, “he is merely frustrated because we have been guarding your tomb for the past five thousand years. I, personally, think it has been an honor. It is an even greater honor to see Lord Zeraga Baal’khal, the Doomfire, risen again. My name is Sazoriel, by the way.”
Zeraga smirked. Already, one of his questions was answered; he was indeed the Doomfire, the Doomfire that dies but descends back into dormancy and therefore does not die. Zeraga asked his next question. “Where are we?”
“There’s another bet you lost,” Dhunael said dryly.
Sazoriel ignored his companion. “We are in Golgotha, the twelfth of the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ. Before you ask, we are devils. So are you.”
“Who, or what, are the valahiyan?”
“Read some of the writing on the walls, did you?” Sazoriel smiled. “They are the damned souls whose eternal suffering provides all of us with our glorious powers, you included.”
Zeraga nodded as he took in the information. It felt as familiar as the hellfire had. It also meant that the statement, “Even the valahiyan do not envy him” was undeniably an ill omen.
Pushing the thought from his mind, Zeraga asked another question. “What happens now?”
“We take you to Lord Asmodeus.” Sazoriel turned and pointed to the golden palace. “Over there.”
“Pay your debts first, Sazoriel.” Dhunael set down his shield and held out his hand.
“Yes, yes,” the other devil sighed. He set down his shield as well, at which point he pulled out a handful of coins from one of his belt pouches and handed them to Dhunael. “Happy now?”
“No.” Dhunael picked up his shield.
“I hope you will forgive the delay, Lord Zeraga,” Sazoriel said, taking up his own shield once more. “Dhunael and I will take you to Lord Asmodeus now if you are ready.”
“Would it be possible for me to get some clothes first?” Zeraga asked. In the tomb, he had only vaguely registered his nakedness, but now that he was standing before two others of his kind, he felt exposed.
“Oh yes, of course,” Sazoriel replied, “How stupid of me to have forgotten; I can understand why you would not wish to appear before the Lord of Golgotha in your current state.”
The devil recited a short incantation, and an ostentatious golden robe trimmed in crimson appeared on Zeraga’s body. The garment felt thick, soft, and luxurious.
“Thank you,” Zeraga said, “Now, we can go,”
Sazoriel and Dhunael took flight; Zeraga was not far behind. Upon the winds of Golgotha were carried distant cries of torment, inevitably those of the suffering valahiyan. Below could be seen fortresses of packed earth standing on the hills and far apart from each other; they were like rotted teeth in a ghoulish maw.
The golden palace of Asmodeus grew larger with each wingbeat, as though Golgotha itself were shepherding Zeraga and his escorts closer. Within what felt like only a few minutes, they were landing in front of the palace. The whole of the palace gleamed even more brightly now; it was a monolith of opulence, a true jewel of Hell. Its crenellations were made from the same orange metal as the armor worn by Dhunael and Sazoriel. Above the crenellations, rising from the center of the roof, was a cylindrical golden tower that itself was crowned by battlements of the same orange metal. The palace’s gate was a massive slab of amethyst that hosted a massive inverted pentagram rendered meticulously in ruby mosaic.
“Lord Asmodeus, it is us, your loyal servants Sazoriel and Dhunael!” called Sazoriel, “We come with Zeraga Baal’khal, the Doomfire who dies but descends into dormancy and therefore does not die!”
In response, the gem-door of Asmodeus’s palace swung open.
Sazoriel turned to Zeraga. “The door is open; our duty is done. We shall take our leave now, Lord Zeraga.”
Zeraga nodded. As his escorts flew away, he passed through the open door. It slammed shut behind him. Beyond lay a hallway of perfectly smooth marble. The floor was patterned with faces frozen in varying expressions of anger, torment, and pleasure, some distinctly separate while others bled together into grotesque amalgamations of eyes, noses, mouths, and emotions. Grandiloquent murals occupied the walls, garish swathes of crimson, orange, copper, gold, and gray that depicted devils at war with the same kinds of creatures that Zeraga had seen himself fighting in the vision he had had in his tomb. At the head of the diabolical legions in the mural on the left wall was painted a muscular, heavy-set man with the same skin tone as Zeraga. Six ram-like horns crowned his bald head, and he had a full black beard. Four bat-like wings, also not unlike Zeraga’s own, unfurled from the painted devil’s shoulders, and he had goat-like legs covered in shaggy gray hair that ended in thick, cloven hooves. His tail was a green-scaled serpent with black diamond patterns; its head had yellow eyes, perfervid and hypnotic, and an open mouth that displayed its forked tongue and pearly fangs. The leading devil wore an iron breastplate, spiked iron pauldrons, and a belt of skulls. In his right hand, he held high a stout iron warhammer that had a crimson inverted pentagram etched upon its head. His left arm was mostly covered by a circular iron shield that had the same crimson inverted pentagram emblazoned upon it, albeit much larger.
The diabolical champion was locked in combat with a naked, voluptuous woman. Her skin was a putrid shade of yellow, and the she-demon’s lower half was that of a crab with a lurid orange carapace, almost the same shade as hellfire but still not as bright. Giant black horns jutted out of the she-demon’s back and shoulders like blasted towers upon a blasted landscape, and she held high a mighty spear that was as long as Zeraga was tall. Ropes of sanguinary fluids hung from the spear’s serrated head.
Zeraga had little doubt that the one who led the forces of Hell was Asmodeus, but who was the demon he was battling? Was she still alive? Zeraga guessed not, but, as with so many of his other questions, he had no way of answering them. He continued down the hallway.
After about sixty feet, the hallway split into a T. Each of the new corridors went for about fifteen feet before turning sharply at a right angle and going deeper into the palace. Directly in front of Zeraga was a door of orange metal, the same metal that constituted the palace’s crenellations. Upon the door was engraved a vast relief that depicted a roaring, gargoyle-like head with mighty horns, glaring eyes, and a maw full of dagger-sized teeth. Runes, stout and angular, like those on the walls of Zeraga’s tomb, were engraved upon the gargoyle face’s forehead, arrayed in perfectly straight lines like the serried ranks of a phalanx. Unlike the runes of his tomb, however, Zeraga could not read these ones.
A seam that had not been there before appeared in the exact center of the door, stretching from top to bottom, and the newly split halves swung open to reveal a vast chamber that was at least twice the size of Zeraga’s tomb. The immaculate marble walls hosted many paintings, engravings, tapestries, and other works of art, all depicting devils, hellfire, and what looked to be other locations in either Golgotha or elsewhere in the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ. The floor was made from obsidian with jagged ruby mosaics formed into nonpatterns. Near the back of the room was an obsidian dais with amethyst along its edges. Rising from it was a throne of putrid orange metal adorned with knotwork and many kinds of gems. Around and above the throne stood a ciborium of the same orange metal and also adorned with many gems; upon the ciborium’s canopy was emblazoned an inverted pentagram rendered in brilliant vermilion. All of the opulence served to draw attention to he who sat upon the throne, the devil who had been painted at the head of Hell’s legions in the hallway mural, the devil who could only be Asmodeus, the Lord of Golgotha.
Zeraga entered Asmodeus’s throne room, and the doors slammed shut behind him. Asmodeus wore a knowing grin, and his serpentine tail stared dispassionately at the approaching Zeraga, occasionally flicking out its tongue to taste the air.
“Zeraga Baal’khal, the Doomfire, my champion,” said Asmodeus, his voice deep and rich like a well-aged wine. “You have returned. I know that you have many questions, but first…”
The Lord of Golgotha waved his hand, and the center of the floor began to undulate. From it rose an obsidian platform upon which lay a suit of armor, the same copper and green armor that Zeraga had been wearing in his memory, complete with the crimson cloak and half tabard.
“Please,” Asmodeus continued, “put it on. That jejune robe does not suit you.”
“Thank you,” Zeraga replied as he approached the platform, shedding the robe with a strange, ethereal will that was not entirely his own.
One piece at a time, Zeraga donned the armor, and it felt like he was putting on a second skin. The platform sank back into the floor once he was done.
“That’s better,” Asmodeus said, “isn’t it?”
Zeraga nodded.
“Good.” Asmodeus and his serpent-tail nodded in unison. “Very good. For many millennia, you have served dutifully as my champion, and it is my will that you continue to serve.”
“How many times have I died?” Zeraga replied hesitantly, feeling the strange, ethereal will tighten around his mind, as though it didn’t want him to speak the words.
Asmodeus gestured dismissively. “It does not matter; immortality is my gift to you, as much a gift as this armor.”
A chunk of lead formed in Zeraga’s gut. He had heard those words before, in another life, and they didn’t sit right with him. There were things that Asmodeus was hiding. “On one of the walls of my tomb,” Zeraga said, “it is written, ‘The Doomfire dies but descends back into dormancy and therefore does not die.’ That was also the call that Sazoriel used to announce my arrival to you. It is also written in my tomb that, ‘Even the valahiyan do not envy him.’”
“The latter is merely the scrawls of some insane devil trying to profane your title.” Asmodeus gave another dismissive gesture. His serpent-tail mimicked it. The tail then locked its gaze with Zeraga’s, and the devil found himself taking a step toward Asmodeus, not entirely of his own volition; he both wanted to and didn’t want to.
“The truth is this,” the Lord of Golgotha continued, “As my champion, you have one of the most envied roles in all of the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ. You are nearly as mighty as an archdevil, and you have been led into eternity. You know it as no one else in the multiverse, not even me, can, for you cannot die. However, before you can truly lay claim to this coveted position, you must be tested.”
“Tested? Why?”
“I test all of your incarnations.” Asmodeus gestured with his left hand.
A swirling vortex of seething red sorcery that was slightly larger than Zeraga exploded into existence before him, bathing the whole throne room in its resplendent light.
“This portal will lead you to Addaduros,” Asmodeus said, “It is there that you will find Hellscythe.”
“Addaduros?” Zeraga asked, “Hellscythe?”
“That is what I said.” Asmodeus’s tone turned cold and impatient.
Knowing that he would receive no further information from the Lord of Golgotha, Zeraga walked through the portal. He felt hot and cold; expanded and compressed; corporeal and ethereal, all at once in a span of time that was at once a moment and an eternity. He saw alternating bursts of darkness and colors that all bled into each other without beginning and without end.
A lungless hiss heralded the end of the teleportation. Zeraga found himself standing at the bottom of an enormous gorge of brown-red rock that was at least a hundred feet wide and many hundreds of feet deep. Within the gorge were many hoodoos of varying heights that rose from the ground at random intervals. Overhead was a large crimson sun that was as unrelentingly bright as the portal had been.
Zeraga spread his wings and took flight, following the flow of the gorge and going over the hoodoos. Up ahead, the devil saw an enormous, inverted pentagram etched in glowing red sorcery upon the ground with a ring of infernal runes around it. At the center lay a scythe, the same scythe that Zeraga had wielded in his memory; there was no mistaking it. The weapon had a golden handle, a bronze-and-green blade, and a ruby spearpoint. Descending toward the pentagram, Zeraga landed at the edge of the circle of runes.
You again. snarled a harsh, guttural voice within Zeraga’s mind.
“Hellscythe?” Zeraga replied, the name at once familiar and unfamiliar upon his lips. Was that really the weapon speaking, or was it a deception?
Oh yes, it’s me. the weapon replied. Come here. Let’s get this over with.
Zeraga passed through the circles of runes and approached Hellscythe; the devil was partially surprised when nothing happened. Reaching down, he picked up Hellscythe. The weapon felt as natural to him as the armor he wore, a true extension of his body. He also felt a strong, invisible pulse within Hellscythe, a wellspring of sorcerous might waiting to be unleashed.
“Can you take us back to Asmodeus?” Zeraga asked.
Hellscythe gave a condescending laugh; the sound of it grated against Zeraga’s brain. Two things. First, you should refer to him as Lord Asmodeus. You’ll live longer that way. Second, the sound of your physical voice annoys me. Use telepathy instead.
Zeraga bristled at Hellscythe’s words and scowled at the weapon. Can you take us back to Lord Asmodeus? His words were stilted and full of frustration, but he was pleasantly surprised at how easily the use of telepathy came to him.
I can. Hellscythe replied.
A lance of pain slammed through Zeraga’s chest, sending him to his knees as nausea twisted his stomach and his field of vision became a blur of colors.
But, Hellscythe continued, I would prefer to do this instead.
Another lance of pain slammed through Zeraga’s chest, shattering into fragments that coursed through the devil’s body. He screamed. The sound of seething sorcery followed, coming from behind. Zeraga forced himself to turn his head and vaguely saw a portal of intense purple light towering over him. From it came a cacophonous bellow as a behemoth stomped through, darkening Zeraga in its shadow.
The behemoth was savage and gargoyle-like. Crimson scales covered the majority of its body, and clusters of spikes that were the same color as its scales ringed its forearms, which ended in claws hands gripping a long chain festooned with cruel barbs. Curved black horns that were the size of swords crowned its head; below the horns were a pair of hateful, yellow-orange eyes. Too many teeth filled the behemoth’s slavering maw.
As Zeraga’s vision came back into focus, he saw the behemoth and knew it to be a demon. He also knew that the demon was the test to which Asmodeus had been referring.
The demon swept its chain at Zeraga. The weapon slammed into the devil’s side and threw him to the ground, its barbs scoring his armor and catching on his flesh. A swing from the other end of the demon’s chain followed. As the barbed links sped toward Zeraga, he threw up one of his hands and called upon his hellfire. The flames answered, forming a shield that let out a burst of sparks as the demon’s chain slammed into it. The demon snarled with rage at having been thwarted, and it tore the embedded side of its chain free from Zeraga; the devil cried out as the wounds inflicted by the barbs opened further, spilling more of his blood.
It’s better not to resist. Hellscythe said. It’s less painful that way.
Zeraga growled as he forced himself to rise, barely making it to his feet as the demon struck again. Swinging Hellscythe, Zeraga beat back the chain before launching himself into a charge. The demon lashed out with its tail, striking Zeraga’s chest. The force of the blow reverberated through the devil’s body, sending shock and pain surging through him, but his momentum did not slow; he roared as he closed the distance and hacked at his foe with Hellscythe. The demon moved to block with its chain, but Zeraga was faster. Hellscythe sliced into the demon’s waist, leaving bloody wound that was nearly as wide as its mouth. The demon roared in pain, and ropes of gore clung to Hellscythe’s blade as Zeraga drew the weapon back to swing again. Both the gore from the demon’s wound and the gore upon Hellscythe’s blade became a crimson mist that the weapon absorbed; Zeraga felt the sorcerous wellspring within it grow stronger.
A roar heralded the next brutal lash of the demon’s chain, interrupting Zeraga’s swing. The devil jolted out of the way; air whooshed by him as the chain missed. Exerting his will on his hellfire shield, Zeraga turned it into a sword that he swung at his foe. The hellfire sword slammed into the demon’s chain, melting through one of the links amid a shower of sparks, severing it.
The demon lunged and snapped its jaws at Zeraga. He leaped back, but the demon’s teeth snagged one of the devil’s left arms, tearing a chunk of flesh from where it wasn’t armored. Zeraga snarled in pain as blood flowed, and he lashed out with Hellscythe. The weapon’s edge grazed the demon’s chest, leaving a thin line of blood that became more crimson mist.
Snarling, the demon brought the severed portions of its chain down upon Zeraga. The devil blocked one with Hellscythe and the other with his hellfire sword. The sounds of ringing metal and snarling flames tore through the air, and part of the chain fragment that had collided with the hellfire sword fell to the ground as it was severed for a second time.
Drawing his weapons back, Zeraga swung both of them at the demon. Each one sliced into the demon’s chest, leaving a bleeding wound and a charred wound that crossed in a macabre X. From the wounds flowed more crimson mist that streamed into Hellscythe, and again, the arcane wellspring within the weapon grew stronger. Roaring in pain, the demon threw the whole of its bulk at Zeraga. The devil was too close to dodge; agony wracked him as he was thrown to the ground.
Lend me your strength. the devil said to Hellscythe.
And why would I do that? the weapon replied.
The demon was already standing over Zeraga, its chain fragments raised to strike the mortal blows.
Because I demand it. Zeraga forced his will upon Hellscythe, reaching for the power within that was now more valuable than life itself.
The demon’s chains were already coming down; they collided with Zeraga right as he claimed Hellscythe’s power. At once, vigor and suffering coursed through the devil, his old wounds closing as new ones opened. The demon drew its chains back to swing again, and Zeraga leaped to his feet, moving much faster than before. He greedily drank in more of Hellscythe’s power, causing a crimson pall of undiluted rage to fall upon his mind.
“Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed as he hacked at his foe with Hellscythe.
The next moments were a maelstrom of swings, lunges, and twists as Zeraga and the demon continued to fight, now trading blow for blow as equals. The vigor lent to Zeraga by Hellscythe was truly intoxicating; every wound suffered by the devil healed almost immediately, and his strength could not ebb.
Eventually, Zeraga found an opening in his foe’s defenses and leaped up to exploit it, opening the demon’s throat with a swift, decisive stroke of Hellscythe. The demon’s last roar, filled with agony, contorted into a fit of gurgling as it choked on its own blood, blood that soon became crimson mist. The demon fell to the ground a moment later; Zeraga stood atop the corpse, raised his weapons, and roared triumphantly.
Proud of yourself there? Hellscythe hissed sardonically.
Take us back to Lord Asmodeus. Zeraga replied, his voice still thick with bloodlust and battle-rage.
And why should I do that? Hellscythe sent a telepathic lance through Zeraga’s mind, shattering the crimson pall and replacing it with agony.
Zeraga snarled as he retaliated, mustering his willpower and lashing out at Hellscythe. The battle of wills between devil and weapon ensued for many long, grueling moments as each fought to overpower the other, sowing torment and suffering all the while. With each psychic exchange, Zeraga found it hard to tell whose mind he was occupying; was he in his own, or was he in Hellscythe’s?
Launching one last, desperate strike, Zeraga found himself overextended. Hellscythe retaliated, unleashing a fresh tide of agony that sent Zeraga into the oblivion of unconsciousness, a tenebrous pall.
The End
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