The infernal plain ripples with heat and shadow. Black stone stretches endlessly beneath a crimson sky, rivers of molten light carving through the landscape like veins of living fire. A thousand towers of bone and obsidian rise in the distance, each one whispering with trapped voices.
At the center of it all sits Mephistopheles.
The demon lounges upon a throne of twisted iron, one leg crossed over the other, top hat tilted lazily as a plume of dark smoke curls from his grin. His eyes, sharp, red, and cruelly amused with a gleam like embers in a dying fire.
Before him stands another figure cloaked in black flame, wings folded close, its face obscured by shadow. The air around it trembles with insidious power.
For a moment, silence rules the space between them, broken only by the slow tap, tap, tap of Mephistopheles's cane against the stone floor.
Then he speaks, voice smooth and venomous.
"So… it begins."
The cloaked demon lowers its head. "Abbadon has now been called. The mortal realm strains beneath its own imbalance. The dragon's vessel consumes faster than even you anticipated."
Mephistopheles chuckles, low and rich, the sound echoing like bells at a funeral. "Ah, yes. My dear Michael. So predictable. So gloriously ravenous." He leans forward, resting his chin on one gloved hand. "He devours the world's protectors while believing himself the weapon to save it. Isn't that poetic?"
The other demon hesitates. "He grows stronger than expected. If he continues to feed, even Abbadon will find him a proper challenge."
Mephistopheles's grin widens, teeth glinting like polished ivory. "Yes, yes, I've considered that possibility. But tell me, my smoldering friend, what is a symphony without dissonance? What is chaos without a spark to ignite it?"
He rises slowly, his cane clinking softly as he steps down from the throne. Every movement is deliberate, graceful, mocking. The floor cracks faintly beneath his boots as he walks in slow circles around the shadowed figure.
"The boy's flame burns brighter with every corpse he eats," he murmurs. "That old scourge of a dragon whispers, guides him along the edge of destiny… but I've seen destiny twist before."
He stops behind the cloaked demon. "And when Abbadon arrives, I want Michael's hunger so vast it consumes friend, foe, and god alike."
The cloaked demon shifts uneasily, its wings rustling. "Then the balance will collapse entirely. Even we will not survive."
Mephistopheles laughs again, softly this time, like the crackle of fire on dry wood. "Exactly."
He flicks his cane outward, and a massive portal blooms before them, an oval of black fire, its surface rippling with red veins like a beating heart. Through it, the mortal world flickers faintly: Sanctuary.
The white domed shape of the temple of the gods stands at its center, walls etched with celestial script, radiant spires piercing the clouds along the walls. Angels fly above it like sparks, their wings glimmering in the light of day.
The grin on Mephistopheles's face sharpens.
"How fitting," he whispers. "While the heavens squabble and the primordials fall, we shall take what remains of divinity for ourselves."
He taps his cane once, and the image shifts, showing vast legions of demons gathering beneath the red skies. They march in perfect lines, wings and claws glinting, banners of bone and sinew unfurling.
"Move the armies," he says. "All of them. Toward Sanctuary. I want the temple surrounded before the gods even realize what's coming."
The shadowed demon bows its head. "And the lesser realms?"
"Leave them," Mephistopheles says, brushing a speck of ash from his shoulder. "Let the mortals scream and the angels scatter. Their panic is the symphony to my delight."
He begins to pace again, gaze flicking back toward the shimmering image of Sanctuary. "When Abbadon begins his destruction, Heaven will tremble. When Michael meets him, the world will burn. And in the ashes…"
He grins wider, eyes narrowing with manic joy. "I will build something truly magnificent."
The other demon finally dares to ask, voice low and trembling. "You plan to defy Abbadon?"
Mephistopheles stops mid-step. For an instant, the air stills and becomes utterly silent. Then he turns his head slightly, grin returning, sharp as a blade.
"Defy?" he echoes, tone dripping with mockery. "No, no. I would never defy such a splendid catastrophe. I intend to… guide it."
His laughter fills the chamber, loud, wild, and echoing off the stone. The sound travels across the plains of the Pit like a storm, stirring the marching legions below.
He taps his cane once more, and the portal to the mortal world expands, black fire licking outward as the demon armies begin to move.
"March," Mephistopheles commands, voice ringing like thunder. "Seize the temple. Tear down the statues. Leave not one angel or chosen standing."
The legions roar in answer, their cries shaking the air. The sky darkens, red light flaring brighter as wings beat and claws scrape stone.
Mephistopheles watches it all with quiet satisfaction, his grin never faltering. "Yes," he murmurs. "Dance for me, little devils. The stage is set, and the world is already aflame."
The cloaked demon raises its gaze. "And Michael?"
Mephistopheles taps his chin thoughtfully. "Oh, he'll be along soon enough. He always is. Like a moth to a funeral pyre."
He smirks, tipping his hat as his eyes flare crimson. "Let him come. The world will burn brighter when he realizes he is the true villain of the world and reason for the loss of balance."
The air trembles. The throne room fills with rising laughter, dark, endless, echoing across the plain as the demon armies march toward the light.
And above the roaring legions, Mephistopheles whispers to the wind:
"Abbadon, old friend… I hope you're ready for the wonderful party I have planned for you."