"Power is never given. It's taken… and it always takes something in return."
The night was silent.
Too silent.
The wasteland stretched endlessly beneath a crimson sky, broken only by bones of forgotten gods and towers half-swallowed by sand.
The air smelled like rust and old blood.
Chaos walked barefoot through the ruins, each step leaving trails of black fire. His body was still healing — torn muscle knitting back together, skin burning, reforming, then tearing again.
He didn't scream. He didn't need to.
Pain was a language he had long mastered.
As he walked, he could feel the thing inside him — that pulsing heart of darkness. The Demonic Core.
It beat in rhythm with his rage.
Thump. Thump.
Each pulse brought with it a whisper — not from outside, but from within.
"Feed me."
"Destroy."
"Let me out."
Chaos stopped. His eyes glowed faintly red, reflecting the flicker of distant lightning.
"So you can talk," he muttered.
The voice hissed, deep and layered — male, female, beast, god, all at once.
"We are one. You are my vessel. My chosen. My king reborn."
"Your king?" Chaos's tone was calm, but his hands twitched, barely restraining the violent energy crawling under his skin.
"I don't kneel. Not to demons. Not to gods."
"You misunderstand, mortal flame. You are the throne."
The ground shivered. A black circle spread beneath him, glowing like liquid night. Flames rose from it — not red, not orange, but pure darkness.
Chaos's knees buckled. The Core's power surged through his veins, and for a moment, he saw flashes — memories not his own.
A throne of skulls in a city of ash.
A crown of horns.
Legions of shadows chanting a name — Chaos.
Then he saw himself — not human, not alive, but something between.
He gasped, clutching his chest as the visions faded.
"What… am I?"
"You are what they made you to be," the Core whispered. "A weapon forged by gods, perfected by hell."
A sound cut through the stillness.
Movement — soft, quick.
Chaos turned sharply. His senses flared. The Demonic Core pulsed faster, almost eager.
From the fog emerged three figures — humans, cloaked, armed with crude weapons. Their faces were pale, eyes hollow.
"Stay where you are, demon," one of them hissed. "We saw what you did to the statue."
Chaos tilted his head. "Humans… You survived."
"We survive because we hunt things like you." The leader raised a weapon — a long metal rod engraved with fading divine runes. It glowed faintly as he aimed it.
Chaos stared at the weapon, then at the man.
"You still believe in gods?"
The man spat. "Belief doesn't matter. Power does."
He swung. The rod cracked against Chaos's shoulder, releasing a burst of divine light.
The ground trembled. Smoke exploded.
When the dust cleared, Chaos stood there — unharmed.
The wound had healed before it even formed.
The man froze. "W-what…"
Chaos moved faster than thought. He grabbed the hunter by the throat and lifted him into the air.
The Demonic Core thrummed inside him, hungering.
"Feed."
The man's body began to shake violently as black veins spread across his skin. His eyes rolled back. In seconds, he was nothing but ash.
Chaos dropped what was left, watching the dust scatter into the wind.
The other two hunters stumbled backward in horror.
"Run," Chaos said quietly. "Before I forget what mercy is."
They ran. They didn't look back.
For a moment, Chaos just stood there — silent, the taste of power heavy in the air.
Then he realized something.
The Core wasn't just energy. It fed on souls.
Every life it devoured made him stronger… and less human.
He clenched his fist. "So that's your game."
"It is survival," the Core replied. "Consume or be consumed. This is the law of the new world."
Chaos looked up at the ruined sky. "Then the gods have made me perfect for it."
He took a step forward — and the ground cracked open beneath him. Black tendrils erupted, swirling upward like a storm of shadows. They coiled around his arms, his chest, his neck.
At first, he thought it was an attack. Then he realized — it was armor.
Living armor.
The tendrils hardened into a dark exoskeleton, sharp and sleek, pulsing with faint red light.
"Not bad," he murmured, flexing his claws.
"You awaken, my king," the Core purred. "Now claim your domain."
In the distance, he saw fire. Not divine — human.
A small settlement flickered at the horizon. He could hear faint cries, the sound of chains, the scent of fear.
He walked.
With each step, the world around him seemed to bow. Shadows bent in his direction. The air grew colder.
By the time he reached the edge of the camp, the sky had turned black.
Dozens of figures knelt before a massive iron cross, chanting in a forgotten tongue. At its base, a woman hung — bloodied, trembling, still alive.
Chaos's eyes narrowed.
"What is this?"
One of the men turned, hood falling back to reveal glowing eyes. Not human.
A Demon Priest.
"Sacrifice," the creature hissed. "For our master. For the true god of ruin."
Chaos smiled faintly. "Funny. I thought that was me."
Before the priest could answer, Chaos was already moving.
One heartbeat — and he was gone.
The next — the priest's head hit the ground.
Black fire erupted from Chaos's hands, spreading through the camp like a storm. Screams filled the night as demons burned, turning to smoke and cinders.
The woman fell from the cross. Chaos caught her effortlessly, lowering her to the ground.
Her eyes fluttered open. "W-who are you?"
Chaos looked down at her, expression unreadable.
"Someone who's done burning," he said softly.
He turned away. The flames behind him reached the sky, devouring the camp, the priests, everything.
"You could have saved them all," the Core whispered.
"But you didn't."
Chaos didn't answer. He just kept walking.
Because he knew the truth — he hadn't saved her out of mercy.
He had saved her because she was useful.
As he disappeared into the horizon, the Core pulsed again — faster, stronger, alive.
The world had felt his return.
And far above, in the broken heavens, a divine light flickered nervously.
"The fallen one walks again. ''