One: Do you really think you can win this battle... Dark?
Dark didn't answer immediately. His expression remained blank, almost bored. Then, with a calm motion, he raised his hand upward and curled it into a tight fist.
Dark: (coldly) I'm going to absolutely obliterate you, One.
One: Oh really?
He reached back, his fingers brushing across the worn grip of a demonic sword sheathed across his spine. With a slow drag, he unsheathed it, revealing a jagged blade pulsing with chaotic energy. Cracks glowed across its edge, like it had been reforged in a pit of screams.
One: Maybe you've gotten too strong for your own damn good. So strong your brain shriveled into a raisin. Let me remind you where you're standing.
He tilted his head, grinning with cracked teeth.
One: You're in Hell's Eldritch Grade. My territory. And I've picked up a little title recently... but I won't spoil it just yet. Let's pretend this is a boss fight, khakha.
Dark: (thinking) What the hell is this idiot on?
One's aura flared suddenly, black and red lightning bursting around him. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each motion leaving behind a trail of decay across the ground.
One: Kheekh... time to die.
The space between them shattered.
Both vanished at once—air cracking behind them like a ripped curtain. Their blades collided mid-air in a violent flash, Dark's Kyuketsu now formed into a sleek black katana clashing with One's monstrous demonic sword. Sparks shot across the battlefield as shockwaves rippled outward, splitting the ground beneath them like paper.
One roared with a savage cry, his body surging forward in brute chaos.
Dark: Shut it.
Dark's blade locked with One's—but One abruptly dropped his weapon, lunging forward and grabbing Dark by the shoulders. In one brutal motion, he spun with zero gravity and hurled Dark skyward, tearing the sky open as he ascended.
One didn't hesitate.
One: Annihilation.
The word left his lips like a curse. In that instant, Dark exploded mid-air—his entire form torn apart by the invisible detonation. A flare of cursed energy shot outward, leveling the terrain in a wide radius.
But there was no scream. No delay.
Dark regenerated almost instantly—his body reforming faster than the dust could settle.
He reappeared behind One.
Everything slowed.
The world itself hesitated.
The clouds froze in place, the color drained from the air, and time turned to glass.
Dark: Got you.
The moment froze.
Time fractured.
The battlefield trembled as reality itself stalled on the edge of a blade.
Black and white washed over the frame like ash bleeding into ink. The wind stopped. The heat paused. Even the flames flickering from the cracks in the hellish terrain bent backward, trying to avoid what was coming. At the center of it—Dark's katana hovered, still mid-swing, his body perfectly still. His crimson eyes locked forward, not blinking. Not breathing.
The blade connected.
It wasn't just an impact—it was a declaration. The screen shattered visually, like glass breaking inside the viewer's skull. A ripple of shadow burst outward in a ring from the point of contact. No sound followed. Just distortion. As if the world couldn't process what had just happened.
One's body twisted from the hit—thrown across the battlefield like a meteor skipping across molten terrain. He slammed into the edge of a ruined spire, shattering the obsidian rock and sending burning stone in every direction.
He hit the ground hard.
Rolled once.
And stood back up like nothing happened.
The silence that followed was loud.
His head turned slowly, half his torso sliced clean open, exposing corrupted muscle and bone laced with demonic ink. His regeneration kicked in instantly, but slower than before. Much slower.
One: Heh...
He coughed, blood spewing down his chin.
One: Okay... okay now we're actually... playing.
Dark didn't respond. His body slowly lowered from the air, boots kissing the ground like death stepping through dust. His blade remained in hand—clean, sharp, untouched.
Dark: This isn't play.
Dark: This is the last time you raise your hand against me.
One: KHHHAAAHAHAHAHHHAA... oh Dark... You're starting to sound like me now. All dramatic and self-important.
He lifted his hand.
One: Let's make it worse.
The air around him twisted. Cracked. Then shattered.
Dark's eyes narrowed.
From behind One, something began to crawl outward from his back. Arms. Dozens of them. Skeletal, twitching, layered with tattoos of lost languages. Some wielded broken weapons. Others just pointed. They moved independently, snapping, twitching, dragging across the floor as One's aura surged.
The Devil Stench returned tenfold.
Dark's breathing slowed. Not in fear—but in recalculation.
Dark: (thinking) His form... mutated again. Something eldritch. No—it's more than that.
Dark vanished.
Reappeared above him—blade descending in a full arc.
But One caught it.
Not with his hands.
With the arms behind him—four of them reached out and grabbed the blade mid-swing. Each limb screamed as it burned from the contact, but they held it still.
One: You're strong.
One: But I'm a concept now.
His voice sounded layered. Like more than one voice speaking at once. Like something broken trying to speak through a meat puppet.
One: I was death for fun. Now I'm purpose.
The arms hurled Dark backward—hundreds of meters through a jagged cliff wall. He crashed through it without resistance, dirt and fire erupting behind him.
But he came out the other side already recovered—his coat torn, his expression colder.
He raised one finger.
Dark: Ryo: Cradle of Black Rain.
The sky cracked.
Dozens of black comets fell from the heavens—each one trailing streams of anti-magic fire. They homed in, bursting across the field with surgical precision. Each impact detonated with soundless shockwaves, ripping apart the terrain, cratering everything around One's stance.
But the creature didn't dodge.
He walked through it.
Every step slower.
Every step heavier.
Each comet seared into his body, peeling away chunks of muscle, shattering bone—but still he moved. Not out of resilience. Out of conviction.
He reached the center of the field again, blood running down his body like ink under water. His breathing was jagged now, but the smile hadn't faded. The cuts across his body didn't close as quickly as before. Something deep inside him was beginning to fray—his regeneration slowing, his limbs twitching unnaturally.
One: Haaa... still think this ends with you standing?
Dark didn't answer immediately. He walked forward, slow, controlled, the smoke curling around his feet as if recognizing who the true predator was. His katana lowered slightly at his side, shadows curling off its edge in rhythmic pulses.
Dark: You're still breathing. That's the part I'm correcting next.
One: Kehh... you're sounding more like me by the minute.
Dark stopped about ten feet away. The space between them cracked under the weight of both their presence. The island beneath their feet, already half-collapsed, trembled with every breath they took.
Dark: You're not a concept. You're a mistake that kept mutating.
Dark: And I'm the one fixing it.
One tilted his head.
One: So serious. So poetic.
He dragged the tip of his demonic sword across the broken stone, sparks flashing with every inch.
One: But you don't get it... I'm not trying to win anymore. I'm trying to drag you down with me. If I die—I'm taking you too. Your blood will soak this layer, and whatever comes next will never forget the one devil who cracked the "Future Emperor."
Dark's face didn't twitch. His gaze locked in—unshaken.
Dark: You're not dragging me anywhere. You're not that kind of devil. You're not even Hell's worst. You're just the loudest.
One snarled and lunged again. Their blades collided, the explosion of energy turning the world into chaos. Black fire and red stench collided mid-air, warping the atmosphere into something unnatural. Gravity shifted. The terrain rose and fell. Sound bled into silence and back into thunder.
Dark vanished mid-clash, reappearing behind One—but this time, One anticipated it. One spun with six eldritch arms spiraling around his back, each one intercepting from different angles, catching Dark's wrist, his elbow, the hilt of the sword.
Dark didn't flinch.
He let go of the sword.
And with his free hand, opened his palm against One's chest.
Dark: Ryo: Breath of Collapse.
The spell was instant. A sphere of compressed void detonated point-blank, launching One back with enough force to level a mountain.
His body skipped across the surface of the field, tearing through brimstone, shattering blackstone pillars, until he finally came to a stop—buried under flaming rubble, half his torso gone.
Silence returned.
The smoke rolled back slowly, revealing the shape crawling out from the wreckage.
One was laughing again.
Coughing, bleeding, ribs visible through torn flesh—but laughing.
One: Khe...khahaha... now that... that was new.
Dark didn't move. He stood centered in the chaos, shadows pulsing at his back, sword now floating beside him, humming with tension.
One forced himself upright, every bone screaming, his demonic aura flickering like a dying flame. But even in ruin, he looked forward.
One: All that, and still I ain't dead.
Dark: No. But you're close enough.
He raised two fingers. The shadows shifted again—tighter this time. Sharper.
But then—
One dropped his blade.
He stood there, chest heaving, arms slack.
One: You know what?
One: I'm done.
Dark's eyes narrowed.
Dark: What?
One exhaled, a long breath, a tired laugh in his throat.
One: I said, I'm done. Not dead. Not broken. Just done.
He looked up, eyes bloodshot but clear.
One: You win.
A pause.
One: I've tried everything. Threw every form I had at you. Every mutation. Every hellborn trick I earned. And none of it stopped you.
He wiped blood from his mouth.
One: Hell... maybe you really are what they whisper now. The walking collapse. The next breath of war. The future emperor.
Dark remained silent, watching. Calculating.
One raised a single hand—not to fight, but open. Willingly.
One: You offered something earlier. I didn't understand it then. I do now.
He took one step forward.
One: I ain't afraid of death. But if you're building something... something beyond all this?
He dropped to one knee.
One: Then let me walk beside it. No lies. No tricks. No pride.
Dark said nothing for a long time. The wind circled around him, carrying the silence like a crown.
Then finally—
Dark: Stand.
The shadows flicked around One—not consuming, but binding. Integrating. Reforging.
No longer a wild devil. No longer a mutation of war.
Now something else.
Dark: From now on... you walk with me.
One rose slowly, the weight of defeat replaced with a new strength—refined, reborn, shadow-wrapped.
He didn't smile this time.
He bowed his head.
Dark turned away, his coat trailing through the scorched ash.
Dark: Let's move.
Dark turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward One without breaking stride. The air had settled, but it pulsed now with something different—command. Intent.
Dark: Return.
The command didn't need to echo. The air itself obeyed. One's form dissolved slowly, melting into spirals of void that spun inward like a black hole devouring arrogance. The shadows welcomed him into the Summoning Veil—Dark's personal dominion of power, loyalty, and silence. The last thing to fade was the glint in One's eye, amused, already reshaped by purpose.
Dark continued walking as if nothing had happened. The battle, the decapitation, the final clash of wills—it was already weightless. His coat flared behind him with each stride, torn and dusted from the chaos of combat, but still regal. The blood that coated his arms had dried. The bruises that hadn't already healed were fading second by second. Even the air around him began to clear, sensing that he was done here.
He descended deeper into Hell.
The path ahead stretched into a narrow canyon of black stone and smoldering pits, illuminated only by the heartbeat-glow of molten veins running through the earth. There were no cries. No guards. Not even whispers now. Just the quiet breathing of the next layer, like a beast in its den, waiting for him to make the first move.
Dark's eyes remained still, but the flicker in them sharpened.
He knew something was watching again.
And it wasn't the weak ones anymore.
Dark's pace didn't change, not even as the sky above twisted into an even deeper shade of crimson. The air ahead grew thick, like sludge made of agony and molten hatred. The tremors beneath his feet became steadier now—not from the land rejecting him, but from something approaching. The ground wasn't trembling. It was bracing.
From the jagged ridges on the horizon, massive silhouettes emerged. Not beasts. Not mobs. Not mindless fiends swinging rusted blades. These ones had form. Power. Rank. They weren't the slithering scum of the upper circles. They were rulers. Commanders. Arch-demons who hadn't moved in centuries—and now, they marched with purpose.
Dark didn't blink.
Massive horns curled from their heads, some with armor made from their own bone, others with flesh branded in sigils older than language. Their eyes burned violet, black, gold. One dragged a spiked censer behind him, the smoke from it made of lost souls. Another had no face, only a spiraling maw. Each step they took melted the stone beneath them, warping the ground like clay.
And all of them... stared directly at him.
Dark stopped.
He took in the battlefield. Hell's armies—just the upper echelon of this single city—lined the cliffs, the towers, the gates, and the sky above. Hundreds. Thousands. All of them strong enough to crush kingdoms.
And yet they waited.
Because the thing they feared had returned.
Dark raised a hand.
The shadows didn't surge.
They knelt.
Igor stepped forth first, summoned with no words. His form shifted mid-rise, more refined than before—his armor sharper, aura heavier, presence louder.
Then Vel emerged—no longer regal, but savage in calm elegance. Then Malik, his form shifting with abyssal magma dripping from his back like a furnace given form. Then Raz, the flare of hatred still glowing in his skeletal wings. Then Clum, silent as frost laced with blackened flame.
And then... One.
He rose slowly, tall, effortless, like a nightmare remembering its name. His smirk had returned, but it wasn't mockery anymore. It was anticipation.
They lined behind Dark without command. They felt it too.
This wasn't another skirmish.
This was war.
Dark: I'm not here for mercy.
He looked forward again as the demon commanders raised their weapons.
The heat didn't matter anymore. Neither did the smoke. Not the twisted sky, or the veins of flame running through the land like bleeding roots. All that mattered was this moment. Dark stood still as the demon commanders raised their weapons, their forms towering, grotesque, draped in ancient armor and hatred that had fermented over eras. They didn't speak. They didn't move yet. They waited. Waited for the first step. For the first strike. For the one who had made gods kneel to give them reason to swing.
Dark didn't need to draw his blade. He didn't need to charge or scream or flare his aura like some insecure beast. He took a breath—calm, steady, patient. His coat shifted slightly in the wind, torn and stained in places, but still falling perfectly around him like a king's banner.
Behind him, the ground opened in silence. A black mist swept in with a chill not even Hell could replicate. Igor stood first—his armor darker, sharper, more focused than before. Then Malik, shoulders rising with molten veins running across his back like a forge. Raz emerged next, silent but pulsing with barely-contained violence. Clum followed with flickering frost on his gauntlets and a breath that froze the ground at his feet. Vel stepped beside them, regal, calm, and waiting. One rose last. Not laughing. Not smirking. Just watching.
Seven stood behind him now. The true seven. Shadows forged by defeat, hardened through obedience, elevated through loyalty.
Dark took a single step forward.
And the commanders moved.
The first wave came like a tidal surge—twelve elites sprinting down from the peaks, each one dragging weapons infused with the souls of thousands. Their speed was ridiculous, their aura alone strong enough to tear minds apart. But none of that mattered.
Dark didn't even glance back.
Dark: Clean them up.
In an instant, Igor blurred forward, faster than light and heavier than sound. His greatsword tore through the first demon without resistance, the upper half of its body separating cleanly before it realized it had died. Malik followed, erupting like a volcano, smashing his fists into the ground and sending a wave of molten hellfire crashing upward. Raz flew overhead, his skeletal wings leaving a streak of burning sky behind him before he speared two commanders mid-flight. Clum landed silently, fingers spreading across the stone—everything froze. Vel wove through the chaos like a conductor, his spear dancing between arteries and armor, never wasting motion.
And One—
One stood still.
Then snapped his fingers.
Dark didn't turn. He felt it.
One teleported through three demons at once, his body turning into smoke and ink between each strike, reappearing with a blade in one hand and another in the other, laughing quietly now—not out of mockery, but enjoyment. Controlled, calm, lethal enjoyment.
None of the seven spoke. They didn't need to. They had their orders.
They weren't the same as before.
Dark watched as the first dozen were reduced to limbs and fragments. The air was red now—not with blood, but with the aftermath of divine execution.
More demons poured in from the sides. Commanders. Sub-commanders. Summoners. Beasts on chains. Bladed horrors bound in ancient laws. And still they came.
And still they died.
Dark took another step forward.
He wasn't just commanding anymore. He was cleansing.
This layer had forgotten what it meant to fear.
He was reminding it.
His voice didn't rise.
His tone didn't change.
Dark: Burn it all. Leave nothing but stone.
With Dark's eyes glowing, the world itself seemed to pause. The crimson firelight from the shattered sky reflected off his gaze, intensifying the glow into something otherworldly, almost divine. As if his stare alone could unravel existence.
The order had been given.
Everything that had fallen—every corpse, every fragment, every scorched pile of meat and bone—began to twitch.
Smoke curled from their remains, but not like natural smoke. It was darker. Heavier. With a shape to it, a will. It slithered across the bloodstained stone, dragging itself into the ruined flesh of the dead, creeping into open mouths, broken sockets, torn wounds. The once-proud commanders, the sub-lords of this layer, the chained beasts and eldritch wretches, all twitched in final protest as the shadows claimed them.
They didn't scream.
Not a single one.
They couldn't.
Their souls were already gone.
Dark raised his hand slightly. Not commanding. Not summoning. Just... accepting.
And the shadows obeyed.
From the scattered dead, new forms began to rise—grotesque and featureless, stripped of individuality, identity, or pride. Hollow Shadows. Warriors with no voices, no thoughts, no pasts. Armored in darkness, faces smoothed into nothing, they stood in ranks behind the Seven, staring blankly forward. Silent. Empty.
Dozens.
Then hundreds.
Then more.
Some still carried fragments of their former selves—torn banners, broken horns, fractured weapons now absorbed into their new frames—but the pride was gone. All that remained was loyalty.
Loyalty without heart.
Purpose without soul.
Dark stepped forward once more, the ash curling around his boots like kneeling servants.
His eyes swept across the silent field now lined with Hollow Shadows.
Dark: This is mercy. The kind you never gave.
He lowered his hand, and the entire horde fell in line behind the original seven. Their formation was perfect. Their discipline unnatural. There were no wasted movements, no noise. Just stillness and command.
The very ground seemed to bow beneath their weight.
Igor stepped forward, his armored figure turning slightly toward Dark. He didn't speak. None of them did. But Dark could feel it—what came next would be worse. Stronger. This was just the upper district of the weakest Hell. And already the land had fractured, bled, submitted.
Dark looked ahead.
The canyon narrowed.
At the edge of the next threshold, a fortress stood.
Not just any fortress—this one was ancient. Built before mortal memory, carved from blacksteel and obsidian forged in the breath of the first devils. Floating obelisks circled it like sentries. Rivers of blood flowed from its towers, and the scent of war lingered like perfume soaked into stone.
It wasn't guarded.
It was expecting him.
Dark: We move.
The Hollow Shadows turned in perfect unison. The Seven stepped behind him once more. And together, they walked toward the fortress—toward the next throne that would fall.
Dark's steps slowed just as the massive obsidian gate came into view—tall enough to scrape the ash-hung sky, wide enough to swallow cities. The closer they drew, the more the fortress felt... alive. The stone pulsed, slow and rhythmic, like it had a heart buried somewhere deep beneath its molten roots. Every echo of their boots reverberated too long, too far. It wasn't just stone they walked on anymore—it was bone, it was memory, it was the path that no army had ever crossed twice.
Dark raised his hand again, fingers curling inward.
Dark: Return.
The air behind him split open—not with light, but with silence. A gash of pure absence, lined with jagged shadow, spiraled outward. One by one, the Seven were pulled inward, their bodies unraveling like ink into the void. Not screaming. Not speaking. Only vanishing, with grace and purpose, into Dark's Summoning Veil.
Igor was the last.
He stepped forward slightly, his crimson visor glowing dim beneath the weight of what was ahead. Then, without a word, he faded—his form reduced to elegant particles that slithered into the realm within Dark.
They were gone.
Dark stood alone once more.
Not because he wanted to be, but because he needed to be.
What lay beyond this gate wasn't meant to be challenged by numbers. It wasn't the kind of enemy that could be outnumbered, outmaneuvered, or outlasted. It was a presence that hadn't moved in ten thousand years—not because it couldn't, but because it never needed to. A being so ancient that even the word "demon" didn't dare associate itself. This... was a Watcher.
And Dark could feel it already.
The pressure wasn't crushing.
It was commanding.
It didn't press down from above—it twisted everything around it, made the world fold inward. Malik, Raz, Clum, Vel... even One would've been erased by proximity. A blink from this thing could reduce kingdoms to dry red mist. Even their strongest magics, their full-powered strikes—it would be like pebbles against the spine of a mountain.
But Igor?
Igor might survive ten seconds.
That was enough of a scale.
Dark lowered his head slightly, eyes narrowing. His aura dimmed—not out of fear, but calculation. Reckless strength would mean nothing here. This wasn't a battlefield. This was something else. This was an execution ground. A place where devils had once been judged and erased.
And yet he didn't stop walking.
His boots touched the blacksteel bridge that led to the gate. Beneath him, fire ran like veins of hate, and from the skies, something began to whisper.
Voices.
Thousands of them.
From every being that had ever died here.
Dark: (thinking) You're watching, aren't you?
A distant hum echoed from within the gate.
Low.
Curious.
Hungry.
The Watcher had noticed him.
The fortress door didn't open.
It disintegrated.
From the silence that followed the gate's disintegration, a sound emerged. Not a roar. Not a scream. It was the low drag of something immense, old, and armored shifting against stone. Each step echoed like cathedral bells drowned in void. The air inside the fortress grew colder, not in temperature—but in reverence, in finality. The darkness itself began to part, not from light, but from presence.
And then it spoke.
???: Thou tread'st upon sacred ash, intruder.
The voice did not echo—it landed, heavy and ancient, like scripture carved in iron. The accent was clean, archaic, noble yet broken by centuries of erosion. Every syllable rolled like thunder behind a cathedral's walls.
???: Know thee not this hollow ground? This soil where even kings dared not plant their banners? Speak thy name, that I may etch it upon thine epitaph.
Dark didn't blink. His eyes adjusted to the figure forming in the shadows—a being clad in armor the color of burnt dusk, etched with runes that dripped faint golden ichor. The metal wasn't smooth. It was jagged and ancient, like a relic unearthed from beneath dead civilizations. Its helm held no face, just a jagged slit pouring endless black mist. Its sword—no, its relic—rested against its shoulder, wrapped in chains that whispered hymns in a forgotten tongue.
Dark: You can call me whatever you want, but I came here to bury you.
The entity didn't move. For a long moment, it only breathed—a hollow exhale that caused the walls to groan and the floor to tremble.
???: Bold. And blind. The two vices of every fleeting soul that hath reached this step.
The Watcher slowly lifted his blade—each chain unraveling with the sound of rust peeling from divinity.
???: I am Caligo, Heir of the Deep Wake, Last Sentinel of the Null Conclave. I hath stood in silence since before thy stars were hung in the sky. And now... thou wouldst raise thy blade to me?
Dark stepped forward, his katana now fully in hand, gleaming faintly under the cursed twilight that bled through the fortress ceiling. His voice cut through the reverent stillness like a verdict.
Dark: If you've stood for that long without moving, then it's time someone finally gave you a reason to fall.
Caligo tilted his head slightly, as if in mournful curiosity.
Caligo: I weep not for the arrogance of youth, but for the fate it drags in tow. Very well...
He pointed the greatsword downward, stabbing it into the earth. The floor beneath them lit up with ancient glyphs, circles of judgment layered over one another, each thrumming with forgotten rites. Magic, divine and profane, pulsed upward through the stone.
Caligo: Then let this be thy proving. Should thou survive the breath of my blade, I shall grant thee my name in truth. Should thou perish... thy ashes shall serve as ink for the next tale of warning.
Dark: You speak too much.
His blade shifted slightly in his grip, shadows curling at his heels like blood trails in water.
Dark: Start the fight already.
To Be Continued....
End Of Arc 5 Chapter 17.