Xin's voice cut through the giant's room, steady despite the tremor within. His words echoed off the crystalline walls, as if the world itself guided his words. "By this contract, you abide by the rules," he declared, ether weaving around his fingers in shimmering light, "To help me lead, to complete this Stage, and to do whatever it takes to see it through. In return, I will heal your wounds."
The words carried order, not as a request but as law, sealed in the form of an ether contract. Once spoken, they were unbreakable.
Belial's eyes narrowed, his chest heaving in uneven bursts, each breath laced with pain. Shadows and light swam in his vision. He clenched his teeth, fighting the ether that coiled around him like a tightening rope. This is Insanity! he rasped under his breath. Has Xin gone mad? Have I?
The thought sliced through him like a shard of glass. Xin, whom he had believed still clung to the idea of freedom due to his upbringing, now spoke words of chains—words no demon would ever accept willingly. Belial's body betrayed him. He willed his arm to move, his legs to rise, his chest to expand and roar defiance, but nothing obeyed. His wounds, carved deep, devoured his strength. He tried to summon the fire of his demonic form, but it flickered and died, strangled by exhaustion.
His gaze flicked to Toren. The man stood like an iron wall, eyes dark and merciless, shoulders radiating a strength Belial knew he could not match in this state. Even if he slipped Xin's binding, Toren would cut him down before he could blink. Rage pounded in Belial's heart, hotter than the pain of his wounds. The humiliation burned deeper, forcing him into stillness, cornered like a chained beast. His pride screamed against it.
But reason, cold and bitter, whispered in his mind. Time was running out. His wounds were too severe, his body bleeding out the last of its strength. Refusing the contract meant death—no glory, no vengeance, and no choice in the matter. His grit tightened, pride snarling...but in the end survival clawed louder.
"Yes," he said at last, voice hoarse, low, almost broken. "I do..."
The ether flared, surging around him, coiling into his chest, his spine, his soul. Invisible shackles clamped around his spirit, as if the universe itself had bound him. The cavern walls groaned, then silence fell like a blade. Belial exhaled, his body shuddering faintly. Bound.
The sensation clawed at him, vile and suffocating. He despised it, every fiber of his being recoiling from the brand of a power not his own. Memories stirred unbidden. The demon primordial had first forged the art of contracts, binding even gods to promises in ancient wars. Demons had once wielded such pacts as tools of manipulation. Belial had sworn never to let chains define him again, not after a deal long ago that had cost him more than he cared to remember. Yet now, by a human's and Xin's hand, he was bound a second time.
He laughed bitterly inside, though no sound escaped.
They call demons the root of evil, claim we enslave and corrupt. But desperation makes humans worse.
Xin's face flickered before him, expression pained, conflicted, hands trembling even as the ether held fast. No malice lived in those eyes, only desperation—a weakness that made the binding worse. To be chained not by hatred but by someone too frail to find another way.
Xin lowered his hands, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. He looked like a man who had severed his own limb to save himself but could not bear the sight of the wound. Belial closed his eyes, unable to fight any longer.
Xin wasted no time. He bent his head, drawing on the ether again, this time as a balm. For nearly an hour, he worked in silence, energy seeping into Belial's torn flesh, stitching what was broken. The process was agonizing, each particle of ether burning as it wove through demonic tissue. Belial's body resisted, his blood rejecting the human's touch, but slowly it yielded. Wounds closed, bones aligned, and the lung, shredded beyond recognition, began to function again. Pain dulled.
Belial sat motionless, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the cavern ceiling. His thoughts churned like storm clouds. Bound, healed, restored—but at a cost. When Xin finally leaned back, drenched in sweat, Belial flexed his fingers. They responded. His chest rose without the rattle of death. His strength, though not whole, was returning.
"Your work is sloppy" said Belial
"No thanks to all of those different ether in you," Xin shot back almost hesitantly, "Just what the hell did you do to mess yourself up like that?"
Belial didn't answer the question. He was contracted to help them not to answer questions that he didn't need to answer.
Xin exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. "What now?"
The question lingered, heavy with weariness and fear—fear of what they had done, of what came next. Toren stepped forward, boots scraping against stone. His presence filled the cavern, shadow stretching long in the dim light. His eyes bore into Belial's, daring resistance.
"Now you lead," Toren said, tone cold and final.
Belial's eyes widened slightly. He nearly laughed. Lead? They forced him into chains, then thrust leadership upon him? He wanted to curse, to spit venom, to tear the cavern apart. But the contract thrummed within, answering the command. The rules were clear: lead them, complete the Stage, do whatever it took. His own voice had sealed it.
He looked at Toren, then at Xin. His slaver's face was haunted, guilt etched into every line. Belial clenched his fists, contracted chains coiling tighter in response. He had no choice. The game had begun, and he was forced onto the board.
The giant bed felt soft and hard against his skin. Though it was carved for a crystalline giant, it had become his resting place for over a year. The place, called the lonely prince's hall, did not feel lonely to him now. He had kept it alive through blood, sweat, and will.
And a decaying scent of hollows
Belial rose carefully. His body answered, rebuilt piece by piece by Xin's hand. Every motion reminded him of the healing, of the toll it took, of the debt carved into his pride. His pride still smoldered, but survival pressed harder. The Stage loomed. A trial of blood, wit, and hunger for victory waited. He had led before, in games at least. This was no different. He would lead again.
"Follow me," Belial said. His voice cut low, steady. He moved past Toren, past the hostility of the man's piercing eyes. He did not pause.
Xin hesitated. Then he followed, steps careful, unsure. Toren lingered, his gaze sharp as a blade. But he too moved, shadows trailing him like chains.
Belial's thoughts ran quick. The contract bound him, forcing him into the role of a savior. But the contract only demanded that he lead, not how. There were cracks in every binding. There was space to twist, to turn. Chains made tools if handled right.
He was demon-born. Manipulation was not a trick, but a birthright. Xin and Toren thought they held his leash. They thought the bond made him their shield, their path forward. But leashes slipped, and hands that pulled them grew tired.
He would bend this oath into something sharper. He would guide them, yes, but on his terms. In this Stage, nothing was absolute but survival. Then, when the time came, he would find a way to break these chains.
For now, he walked, each step a defiance of the shackles within. The game was on, and always Belial played to win.