Kraven Krane had become a storm — not just a hunter of demons, but the nightmare they feared in return. His descent through the layers of Hell was more than a warpath; it was an extinction.
With each step into the next infernal layer, Kraven evolved. The twin cursed daggers absorbed more than blood — they devoured essence, power, and memory. They whispered to him now, ancient tongues of war and vengeance, demanding more.
By the time he reached the 665th layer, where Beelzebub fell beneath his blades, Kraven had transcended mortality. He had become something else — a being forged in vengeance, tempered by sorrow, and sharpened by rage.
He had torn down demon lords. Broken abyssal war engines. He crushed the fallen prince Belial in a three-day battle that split the skies of Hell. He drowned the siren Lilith in her own sea of lies, her screams echoing through the damned like music. He stole Asmodeus's staff of sin and shattered it with his bare hands.
From their remains, Kraven forged new power:
The Ember Revenant Form — a second skin of living infernal flame and spectral ash.
The Blade of Mourning — a weapon formed by fusing his daggers into one cursed greatsword that screams with the memories of the slain.
Hellwalker's Sight — the ability to see through lies, illusions, even across dimensions.
The Covenant of Undeath — a pact sealed in demon blood: Kraven could never die, not by time, nor blade, nor god. He had become immortal.
When he reached the 666th layer, it did not welcome him. It tried to consume him.
The air was thick with souls of traitors and gods. Reality twisted into a nightmare of bleeding stars and whispering stone. It was here Satan sat — on a throne of obsidian flame, carved from the first fallen angel's bones.
Before Kraven stood a gauntlet of Satan's personal generals. Each more terrifying than the last:
Azarak the Despoiler, whose wings could split reality.
Mor'teth the Boundless, made from the regrets of mankind.
Seraphane, the fallen angel of justice, who wept light that killed.
Dremagar, a shadow-dragon made from forgotten nightmares.
And behind them all — Satan, seated.
He did not rise.
"So," Satan said, voice both serpent and storm, "the man of war comes to my throne. The last of your kind, but the first to breach my gates."
Kraven didn't answer.
He let his weapons speak.
What followed was not a battle — it was a massacre. Each general charged, and each fell.
Kraven split Azarak in half with a slash that tore the sky. Mor'teth tried to drown him in sorrow; Kraven drank it like wine. Seraphane's light shattered on his armor of ash. Dremagar swallowed him whole — and choked on his own heart as Kraven carved his way out.
The throne room shook with power.
Blood rained from the obsidian heavens.
And then Kraven stood before the Devil himself.
Satan rose — towering, ancient, infinite. His wings eclipsed Hell's sky, his horns crackled with time itself.
"You seek the Elixir of Life," he said. "You dare presume to bargain with me?"
"Not bargain," Kraven replied, calm as the void. "Take."
Satan smiled. Then the last war began.