The sky over Arkion burned orange with the glow of rebuilding fires. Masonry dust floated through the air, mingling with the scent of scorched wood and faint ozone — the lingering residue of divine power. The people were alive, shaken, but alive. The guardians worked day and night to restore order, their circuits glowing faintly as they cleared rubble and healed the wounded.
Amidst the slow rhythm of hammers and rebuilding chants, Alzwalt Light walked through the recovering streets, hands in his pockets, golden light trailing behind him in thin, subtle threads. His expression was calm — thoughtful, not troubled.
He had decided something.
Back in the villa overlooking the southern quarter of the city, Alzwalt leaned against the balcony railing, a cup of tea in his hand. Kael sat nearby, polishing a dull sword, its edge not yet strong enough to channel a circuit.
The city below was moving again — the faint hum of life returning. Children running, merchants shouting, guards rebuilding barricades.
Alzwalt took a sip and exhaled.
"Too many civilians," he murmured, watching the sunlight fade behind the fractured skyline. "Next time… the battlefield will not be here."
Kael looked up, curious. "You mean… you'll fight outside the city?"
"Yes," Alzwalt replied simply. "Less risk to ordinary lives, more room for action. It's cleaner that way. Efficiency is the only mercy I can offer this world."
Kael nodded, pretending to understand, though his young mind still struggled to grasp the philosophy behind his master's every word.
"Eat," Alzwalt said suddenly. "You'll need your strength. Tomorrow, we train at dawn."
Kael's eyes widened, excitement flickering beneath the fatigue. "At dawn?"
Alzwalt smiled faintly. "You asked to be strong, didn't you?"
The boy grinned despite himself. Alzwalt turned back to the window, gaze distant. He could feel the shifting in the fabric of existence — something cold stirring in the far reaches of the infernal realms.
Far below the mortal plane — deeper than the Sixth, past the shattered plains of fire and ruin — a throne of obsidian and flesh pulsed with infernal energy. The very air burned with every breath. Chains of molten iron hung from the cavern ceiling, dripping with sparks that hissed against blackened stone.
There, upon the Throne of Silence, Satan sat.
His form was not monstrous — it was elegance and horror combined. Eyes like molten gold, hair of ash and flame, his wings torn and regrown countless times. Around him, the entire hall trembled, bowing under his presence.
Before him, four shadows kneeled.
"Rise," Satan commanded, his voice low, layered with a thousand whispers.
The first stood — tall, crimson-skinned, eyes like rubies burning from within. Ashtorin, Lord of the Fifth Hell. His domain was Blood and Blades, a place where rivers of molten iron flowed like veins through mountains of bone. His ability — Hemovore Dominion — allowed him to drain the life force and strength of any being through contact, converting vitality into raw destructive energy.
The second, ethereal and hauntingly beautiful, was Zythera of the Seventh Hell, her body formed of liquid shadow and silk-like tendrils. Her voice was like a lullaby and her power worse than any nightmare. Abyssal Mirage — the ability to distort perception, make dreams real, and turn willpower into madness.
The third was Kael'tharion of the Fourth Hell, a towering beast with crystalline horns, obsidian armor that grew like scales, and eyes that refracted hellfire. He wielded Soul Binders — spectral chains that could enslave the essence of fallen foes.
The fourth and youngest — Verrin, Lord of the Ninth Circle's Edge — appeared almost human, cloaked in black flame. His power, Infernal Transference, allowed him to inhabit or mutate mortal vessels without detection — the very reason Satan had summoned him.
Satan's voice rumbled through the chamber.
"The 6th Hell lies leaderless. Demetrius is dead. Order collapses. Behemoth has fallen. The mortals grow bold, their 'light' too bright." His tone sharpened. "That being… Alzwalt Light… his radiance burns even here."
The air trembled.
"I cannot step into the living realm yet — the seals hold. But I have learned of a circuit user… a girl in the city of Virelia, north of Arkion."
Satan raised a hand, conjuring her image from the air — a young woman with silver hair and pale sapphire eyes. "Lyra Alstein. Her circuit: The Astral Veil. The only known ability capable of breaching dimensional seals without triggering celestial detection. She is protected by one of the continent's strongest mortals — the Silver Spear of Virelia. But…" He smiled faintly. "…he is already dead."
The four demon lords exchanged glances.
"You will go to the realm of the living," Satan continued. "Find perfect vessels. Humans with willpower strong enough to contain your essence without immediate decay. Do not alert the Guardians. Bring me the girl. Her circuit will open the First Gate of Hell. When I rise…" His eyes blazed brighter, "…the world will end."
The hall went silent. Then, one by one, the four bowed.
"As you command… Lord of All Hells."
The rift opened in the depths of a forgotten wasteland. To mortal eyes, it would appear as nothing — a shimmer in the air, a flicker of distortion. One by one, the four demons crossed through.
Their forms twisted as they entered — divine rules rewriting their infernal anatomy into mortal flesh. When they emerged, each had taken a vessel.
Ashtorin possessed a warlord of the desert clans, his crimson eyes hidden beneath human flesh, his strength unchanged.
Zythera entered the body of a noblewoman in Virelia, her beauty disarming, her aura cold enough to silence entire rooms.
Kael'tharion took the vessel of a mercenary commander — scars and muscle enough to hide his inhuman core.
Verrin chose a scholar — a man unnoticed, unremarkable, perfect for manipulation.
When their eyes opened, they saw the world anew. Colors dulled. Sounds heavy. Flesh — fragile, but intoxicating.
"So this is… mortality," Zythera whispered, touching her face in fascination. "How weak they feel. And yet… how much potential they hold."
Ashtorin cracked his neck, the air rippling. "Let us find the girl and end this quickly."
Virelia City — once a jewel of progress, now a shadow of itself. The four infiltrated under the cover of night, shadows moving like hunters in human skin.
Lyra Alstein, unaware of her fate, sat beneath a glass dome, studying constellations through a silver lens. Her guardian — the Silver Spear — stood watch nearby, his spear gleaming faintly with circuit energy.
He never saw it coming.
Ashtorin's strike was silent — one move, one breath, one heartbeat — and the guardian's chest caved inward. Blood spilled silently on marble.
Lyra turned in horror, her hand sparking with circuit energy. "Who—"
Zythera appeared behind her, whispering like silk against her ear. "Sleep, little star."
Dark tendrils wrapped around her body, subduing her. The other two sealed the chamber, removing traces of infernal energy. The girl struggled briefly, but her strength was no match for the combined will of four Lords of Hell.
When they vanished, the city of Virelia was silent. Only the blood of its strongest warrior remained, soaking into the floor like a silent omen.
Miles away, in a dimly lit inn in the outskirts of the Northern Plains, Arata Kurogane sat quietly at a table, a black coat draped over his chair, steam rising from his untouched tea.
His eyes — calm, unreadable — lifted as he felt the shift in the world's rhythm. Circuits whispered to him, the world's logic trembling ever so slightly.
He knew.
"They've crossed the line."
He stood, adjusting his collar, the faint shimmer of the Soul Circuit dancing behind his pupils.
"John stays out of this. So does Alzwalt." He spoke to himself softly, almost with a smile. "This time… I'll handle it."
He glanced toward the direction of Virelia, his voice lowering to a whisper that carried weight beyond sound.
"Four Lords of Hell walking in mortal skin… fine. I'll find your vessels, save the girl, and then—"
His eyes glowed faintly, cold and absolute.
"—I'll go to Hell myself."