"Mephisto!"
Constantine spat out the name, each syllable dripping with dread. With Hell sealed by the collective might of its lords, only a few could answer his call—and this was no mere demonic lackey. It was Mephisto himself.
Constantine knew Hell like the back of his hand, familiar with its denizens and their tricks. But his lack of reverence for the infernal always came at a cost.
This time, he'd reached out to a demon far beyond his usual dealings—not some powerless avatar, but the Hell Lord in person.
Mephisto had played him, exploiting Constantine's overconfidence to force a breach of their contract.
The angel's feather floated upward, radiating a blinding holy light that formed a shimmering barrier between the group and Witchheart.
But the grenade—seemingly a dud—erupted with unimaginable force. A blood-red glow, laced with the sulfurous stench of Hell, swept through the base.
Then came a dazzling burst of crimson fire!
Matthew and Hellboy, caught mid-stride in the tunnel, instinctively dove for cover. Even Johnny Blaze, unconscious moments before, transformed back into the Ghost Rider.
"This bargain was a generous one, John! I've gifted you power beyond measure!" Mephisto's voice echoed, brimming with smug pride.
An angel's feather was a rare trinket, but hardly enough to sway Mephisto. His rage, stoked by past defeats at the hands of the barbarian and the Ancient One, had found a perfect outlet in Constantine.
A scheming demon venting his wrath on a troublesome mortal? It was only natural.
Mephisto had overdelivered on the contract, pouring in just enough power to teeter on the edge of triggering the counterattack from Agamotto's ancient barrier—but not quite enough to tear open a portal large enough for him to cross. Fearless, he reveled in his gambit.
Constantine was merely a convenient pawn. The demons of Hell had long awaited his soul, eager to "welcome" it properly.
The grenade's power rivaled that of a fully realized Witchheart. And Constantine, having just broken the contract, now faced its curse—his body would crumble bit by bit until death claimed him.
Then, his soul would plummet straight to Hell, into their clutches.
As a bonus, Mephisto could drag his disobedient son back home. A perfect deal!
A sentient Witchheart was worth far more than the fleeting destruction of the grenade's explosion.
"I screwed up. Damn it!" Constantine cursed, watching the feather's holy light flare into a radiant curtain, shielding the group.
The grenade's power unleashed a sky-blotting inferno, incinerating everything in its path. Witchheart, caught in the blaze, was reduced to ash, powerless against his father's brutal assault.
The entire base was obliterated.
The ground itself melted into a molten pool, sinking into a glowing crater.
In the exposed tunnel, Hellboy's body was scorched, his sawed-off horns regrown to their original demonic form.
The Son of Hell revealed!
A flame burned at the center of his horns, fending off Mephisto's power.
Hellboy's bloodline was a fusion of the Hell Lords' might, birthed as part of their grandest scheme against the human world. His human lineage, descended from King Arthur, was noble and pure.
The moment he drew the Sword in the Stone, England's gates would fling open to Hell, shattering the order upheld by the Sorcerer Supreme. Hell and Earth would merge.
Now, facing mortal peril, the latent power in Hellboy's blood surged, activated to shield him from death.
The flames on his horns restored his body, but the sins of Hell stirred within, awakening.
At the edge of life and death, Hellboy's humanity clashed with his demonic nature, his will locked in a silent battle no external force could sway.
"Bul-Kathos protect me!" Matthew roared, his voice raw with pain. He swung his axe with colossal force, each motion agonizingly slow.
Blood seeped from his brow, trickling down his face. His body became a leaking vessel, gushing crimson.
Then, he charged toward the heart of the flames!
For the first time, Matthew unleashed the power of his Nephalem bloodline, ignited by rage. A primal Berserk Charge erupted, honed by days under Rakanoth's tutelage, now instinctively perfected.
His clothes burned away, his skin glowed red, his frame swelled with power, and his hair turned stark white.
In that moment, he embodied the fury of a Berserker.
Matthew's blood wasn't purely Nephalem—his human lineage still lingered. But under this pressure, most of his mortal blood sprayed out, consumed.
This awakening would strengthen him in the future, adapting his body to the Nephalem's power.
If he could survive this cataclysm.
The Ghost Rider was forced low by Mephisto's might, nearly kneeling in submission.
The Spirit of Vengeance and Zatanos were Mephisto's equals in stature, but their power was shackled, and Johnny Blaze's body couldn't withstand their full force.
Flames flickered from the skeleton's bones, only to be absorbed and consumed by Mephisto's power.
The blackened bones began to bleach, turning pale.
When they matched a human's, Johnny Blaze would be dead.
"What is this?!" Steve shouted, clutching his head as the light barrier thinned under the flames' assault. The searing heat curled his golden hair.
Coulson turned to Constantine, his eyes a mix of horror and suspicion.
Melinda scrambled backward, fear gripping her at the apocalyptic scene.
Hawkeye, with effort, drew his last throwing knife—originally meant to keep Constantine in check. Now, he prepared to meet death like a hero.
"That's a demon," Constantine said, his cracked hand fumbling for the last cigarette in his pack. His arm shattered like glass, fragments scattering.
The cigarette fell to the ground.
John Wick picked it up, placed it in Constantine's mouth, and lit it.
"Thanks," Constantine said, taking a deep drag. Smoke seeped from the cracks in his body.
Crack!
The light barrier echoed the same shattering sound as Constantine's arm.
(Chapter End)
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