The smoke from the previous battle still clung to the air like rot.
Dark walked forward through the dying mist, boots crunching through layers of melted ash and twisted stone. Behind him, the island was a broken memory. Ahead—was something worse.
He didn't know the creature's name.
Didn't care to ask.
It had waited in the next clearing—lean, hunched, muscles like snapped cables pulled too tight beneath pale, cracked flesh. Horns curled backward from its skull like hooks dragged out of hell's ceiling, and its eyes were nothing but black marbles. Empty. Proud.
It had spoken once.
It had said:
??? : I am the reaper of this isle. The eater of gods. I—
Dark didn't wait for it to finish.
He appeared in front of it mid-sentence.
And shattered its jaw with the back of his hand.
The creature hadn't even screamed. Not at first. Its voice box had ruptured on impact. It tried to form words, tried to recompose its stance—but Dark was already beside it again. And again. Each blow stripped something away—bones, pride, direction.
It struck back once.
A blade of screaming wind shot from its palm, aiming to sever Dark in half.
It grazed his coat.
Dark sighed.
Dark: You're not even interesting.
With one palm, he grabbed the creature's face—then slammed it into the ground. Hard enough to crater the island again. The impact echoed across the sea like thunder with a heartbeat.
The creature twitched.
And Dark crouched down next to it, his voice cold.
Dark: I gave others a choice.
He stared at the hollow sockets in the creature's face.
Dark: Igor chose.
Dark: Malik chose.
Dark: Raz. Clum. Vel.
Dark's shadows coiled behind him, rising like silent judges.
Dark: But you... you don't deserve a choice.
He stood.
Raised his hand.
And said nothing.
The shadows obeyed without a word. They surged into the creature's body—through its mouth, its wounds, its eyes—devouring everything that once gave it meaning.
It didn't scream.
Hollow Shadows don't scream.
What stood after was no longer proud, no longer even a monster.
It was just... empty.
Shapeless black armor, featureless face, no voice, no presence. Just the outline of a warrior without purpose.
Dark turned away, already bored.
Dark: Stay behind. Guard the island. That's all you're good for.
It didn't nod. It couldn't. It just stood still, silent and lifeless, until the shadows dragged it into the tree line, vanishing like smoke.
Dark exhaled.
Then looked toward the ocean.
Dark: (thinking) Time to go lower.
The sky had darkened above him. He could feel it now—something tugging beneath the crust of the world. Something... familiar. Violent. Ancient.
Hell.
Not the poetic one.
The real one.
Dark closed his eyes and reached into the only part of himself that still felt foreign—his Hell-type magic. Twisted, imperfect, barely stable. Gifts left behind by contact with things not meant for this world.
Dark: (murmuring) Alright... let's try this again.
He extended one hand toward the cracked earth.
The runes didn't come naturally. His body tensed, aura flaring faintly as the shadows bent at strange angles. Lines of black fire traced across the ground like veins searching for direction. Symbols appeared—jagged, shifting, broken—but they held.
Barely.
The air snapped with heat. A low rumble shuddered beneath the island. The earth rejected the spell—then yielded.
A circle of burning red light formed under his boots, surrounded by spiraling glyphs that flickered in and out of understanding.
The gate began to tear.
From nothing, a seam of crimson light split the air in front of him, vertical and trembling, dripping sparks of ash and flame.
The smell of blood poured through it.
Dark: (thinking) Crude... but it'll hold.
He stepped forward.
The shadows wrapped around his shoulders like armor. The air howled against his entrance.
And then—he walked through the portal.
Into Hell.
The first thing that hit him was the heat.
Not the kind that burned skin or dried sweat. This heat lived inside your bones. It hummed in your marrow. It whispered across the surface of your soul and promised you wouldn't survive the walk. It wasn't fire. It was pressure. A constant, ambient weight that crushed your lungs every time you tried to breathe.
Dark stepped fully through the portal, and the light behind him vanished like a dream snapping shut. There was no sky in Hell—only a ceiling of rotting stone lit by drifting embers and the pulse of lava veins that twisted across the distance like bleeding scars. The air was iron-thick, rust-colored, and every inhale scraped against his throat like sandpaper dipped in ash.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't speak.
He simply walked.
The ground beneath him cracked with every step. Not from force—but rejection. This realm didn't want him. He didn't belong here. Hell knew that. But it also knew it couldn't stop him. The surface buckled and shuddered as if unsure whether to break or kneel. His shadows curled tighter, more hesitant here. They weren't afraid—but they understood this land. This was home turf for something else.
He descended through the first layer—an endless plane of jagged spires and molten rivers. Blackened corpses hung from chains suspended between crags, their bones still twitching from pain that didn't understand how to die. Demonlings crawled beneath the rocks, hissing and chittering in languages long lost to time. They saw him. They paused. Then they retreated.
He was not prey.
Dark didn't glance at them.
Instead, he focused inward. His hands pulsed faintly with the unstable remnants of Demon Magic—scraps of spells and sigils he hadn't fully learned, fragments he'd stolen through instinct and combat. They weren't refined. They weren't safe. But they were enough to move forward.
Ahead, the first rank waited.
A city carved into the cliffs like a cancer, walled off with jagged metal and guarded by creatures that had once been men. Their armor fused to their flesh, their eyes burned like brands. They wore blades instead of hands, and each of them exuded an aura that could erase a battlefield.
They weren't important.
Dark stopped at the gates.
The guards raised their weapons instinctively, snarling something guttural and sharp. Words built from hatred and hierarchy.
He didn't answer.
He raised one finger.
The ground answered instead.
A single eruption of shadow burst from beneath the gate, tearing through the wall, the guards, and part of the cliffside in one clean, devastating wave. No sound. No echo. Just removal. Like they had never existed to begin with.
The gate collapsed.
Dark walked through the dust and ruin, eyes calm, pace slow, as the city's alarm howled in the distance—horns shaped like bone, bells made of skulls, and a siren cry that called the next rank forward. The demons within stirred, confused at first. Then enraged. Then unified.
The first wave came fast—beasts with fused limbs, spears growing from their spines, mouths in their stomachs and rage in their lungs. They screamed promises of death, of torture, of swallowing his soul in pieces.
Dark gave them five seconds.
Then his hands moved.
And so did the shadows.
They didn't fight with elegance. They devoured. They ripped through the horde like sentient guillotines, splitting flesh and armor, dragging screams down into cracks that weren't there a moment ago. The ground became unstable, the city trembled as dozens of elite warriors vanished under the tide of ink and silence.
He didn't give commands. He didn't need to.
This wasn't a war.
It was cleansing.
He stopped again once the smoke cleared. Blood soaked the stone. Flames danced lazily along shattered towers and shrines carved to forgotten gods. The scent of sulfur thickened.
Then came the next presence.
Bigger.
Hungrier.
Stronger.
Not an Emperor. Not even close. But a rank worth noticing.
Dark turned toward the castle nestled in the upper spire of the city, where the throne of the current Warden of this layer resided. A massive figure stood at the balcony, watching. Its body was wrapped in rusted chains and ceremonial armor blackened by centuries of sin. Its horns were fractured, repaired with bone grafts and molten steel. Its mouth was sewn shut, and yet—its voice crawled into Dark's mind like a whisper made of blades.
Warden Var'Kul.
He spoke through thought, raw and ancient.
Var'Kul: You bring surface defiance into our depths. You wear the skin of something foreign. You should not have come.
Dark looked up at him calmly, hands still in his pockets.
Dark: Then come make me leave.
A pause.
Then the Warden's chains uncoiled.
Dozens of them shot down from the spire like tendrils from a dying god—each infused with cursed flame, each capable of shredding reality's edge. They twisted in mid-air, trying to bind, crush, tear, pull him limb from limb.
Dark didn't dodge.
He raised one hand.
Snapped his fingers once.
And the entire city dimmed.
His shadows responded like an immune system to a virus. They expanded. Exploded. Drowned the chains before they could touch him. The infernal bindings convulsed, shattered, reversed—snapping back toward their master with triple the force.
The Warden was ripped from the spire and slammed into the ground with a quake that echoed through the entire layer.
Dark approached slowly.
Var'Kul tried to rise—burning, snarling, bleeding molten black from every joint. He raised a sword that had taken continents.
Dark tore it in half before it left his hand.
He struck once.
Open palm.
Into the Warden's chest.
The creature buckled. Chains scattered. Bones fractured.
And Dark leaned in close.
Dark: You're not worth the offer.
Then, like before, the shadows answered.
They swarmed.
And Var'Kul was erased.
Not joined.
Not reborn.
Just turned into another Hollow Shadow. His soul ripped out. His mind silenced. His presence devoured.
He didn't get a name.
He didn't deserve one.
Dark turned away from the corpse that was already forgetting it had ever lived.
He looked down toward the next layer. He could feel it opening already. Something else was watching. A smarter beast. A stronger presence.
Dark continued forward, the echoes of his footsteps lost beneath the oppressive silence now pressing down on the realm around him. Demons lunged from every corner, screeching with desperation, but none reached him. They were torn apart mid-air—ripped into mist before they could even cross the space between them. What killed them was unclear. Perhaps the raw force of his presence, or perhaps something darker, deeper, more instinctive. He didn't acknowledge them. They weren't obstacles—they were background noise. Despite his association with shadow magic, that wasn't the core of his arsenal. He was something far more refined. A wielder of Dark Magic, Ryo Magic, and countless ancient forces. His swordsmanship alone could dismantle legacies, and his control over combat had evolved far beyond human or demon comprehension.
Then the air changed.
Suddenly, breathing became harder. Movement, slower. Control, tighter. The space around him condensed, suffocating and unnatural. His steps lost their ease, and even his shadows wavered slightly. The world itself seemed to recoil. His jaw tightened. Whatever was coming... wasn't ordinary.
Dark: The hell...?
It wasn't just a heavy aura. It was a stench. Not one carried by wind or blood, but by sheer presence. A concept rather than a smell. The kind of rot that made the bones ache and the instincts scream. Its name was unspoken by most—but he knew it now.
Devil Stench.
A voice came from ahead. Familiar. Twisted. Alive.
???: Haaaahaaaahaaaaa. You dare step back into the same place I brought you back from the dead?!
Dark stopped. His brows furrowed. The familiarity wasn't imagined—it was etched into the fibers of his memory. That voice. That presence.
Dark: Who are you?
Dark: There could only be one devil that brought me back from the dead. That was One, and...
Dark: He was killed.
In a single instant, the presence appeared. No sound. No wind. No buildup. One simply stood there, a blur settling into form—his speed now terrifyingly beyond what Dark remembered. Fluid. Abrupt. Clean.
One: KHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Really?!?
He flung his arms wide, laughing violently as if the concept of death itself amused him more than fear ever could.
One: DOES THIS LOOK DEAD TO YOU?!
Dark's eyes sharpened. Just for a second, they widened—acknowledging the increase. The gap between them had shrunk. Dramatically.
Dark: (thinking) His speed... tch...
Dark: Step back.
One lowered his arms with a tilt of the head, mockingly curious.
One: How are you doing?
Dark: Bored enough to come back here and finish you all off.
One: KKHHHAAAAKHHAAKHAA. Finish us off?!
One: Last time you came here—you got killed! I resurrected your dumbass!
Dark: And I'm here to repay you for it. By giving you an offer.
One tilted his head slightly, confused, intrigued, almost insulted by the calm in Dark's tone.
One: Eh? What are you talking about?
Dark exhaled. He let his shoulders ease and his gaze steady, speaking like an emperor now, not a fighter.
Dark: What I'm saying is... join me. Become a shadow. Be loyal to me. Stand with me, as a stronger being. Joi—
One: Kheehee... what?
His laughter turned cold. In a blink, his hand gripped Dark's shoulder—tightly. Bones cracked beneath the pressure, the weight unnatural, pressing like malice in physical form.
One: You dare offer me something so...
Dark: Weak?
Dark's voice didn't raise, but it cut through the air like steel.
Dark: I told you. Move.
One smirked, his voice low, venomous.
One: What if I say no?
One: What will a weak man like you even do?
Then it happened.
A flash. A sound like air splitting along a razor's edge. A motion too quick for any onlooker to process.
Dark was behind him—seven paces away.
One stood still for a moment. Then, without a word, his head slid off his shoulders. A clean, surgical decapitation. The body didn't fall. It didn't move. Only the head rolled to the ground, lips still curled into a faint, amused smile.
One: Really? You just decapitated me for no reason at all.
His voice echoed from the ground like a whisper traveling through ash.
One: Don't cry when you die.
Dark: Hmph. Try me.
As the words left him, the severed head dissolved into dust—and at the same time, the neck of the body twisted, tore, and reformed. A new head grew instantly in its place.
And One smiled.
One: Khekhe.
To Be Continued....
End Of Arc 5 Chapter 16.