Zatiel worked methodically, dragging the limp, battered bodies of the surviving bandits toward the center of the camp. Even the lookouts he had knocked unconscious earlier—those who had been thrown unceremoniously from their perches—were hauled in one by one.
Most of them were in terrible shape: broken bones, deep cuts, missing fingers or entire limbs. Several were barely clinging to life, yet by some twisted miracle, not a single one had died… not yet.
When the last body had been placed within the rough circle he had chosen, Zatiel drew his sword without hesitation. The blade's edge caught the faint light of the dying campfires before he turned it on himself. With a single, deliberate slice, he cut into the flesh of his own arm. Dark blood welled immediately, flowing in a steady stream.
He held a wide-mouthed jar beneath the wound, collecting every drop until the vessel was nearly full. By the time he stopped, his vision had begun to swim from blood loss. A lesser man might have collapsed, but with a physique close to three points, Zatiel's body was far stronger than the average human's. He endured the weakness with the cold patience of someone who had suffered far worse before.
He bound the wound with a strip of cloth and lowered himself to the ground. Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing, letting his body recover, forcing himself back toward peak condition.
It was then he sensed movement—someone approaching cautiously.
Opening his eyes, he saw Ezequiel, the boy with the missing hand and empty left socket where an eye had once been. His injuries had knit enough for him to stand and walk, but his steps were slow, guarded.
Ezequiel stopped a few paces away, his expression unreadable. I should not try to understand a monster like him, he thought. Not yet.
"You're already strong enough to walk? Good," Zatiel said without looking up from the jar in his lap.
The boy stiffened slightly at being addressed, but recovered quickly. He already understood that nothing escaped his master's awareness.
"You're probably wondering why I didn't kill them," Zatiel added casually, nodding toward the ring of unconscious bandits.
Ezequiel simply nodded. Curiosity was natural, but he knew better than to waste time with questions Zatiel was already inclined to answer.
"They have a purpose," Zatiel continued, his tone flattening, eyes briefly flashing cold as they swept across the bound figures. "And you'll find out what it is soon enough."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he shifted focus. "You're my subordinate now, so there are a few things I need to know. First—let's introduce ourselves properly. I am Zatiel. What's your name?"
"Ezequiel," the boy replied.
"Second—since we'll be leaving this place soon, is there anyone you need to find? Someone you care about, someone you must keep safe?"
The question caught him off guard. He blinked, then shook his head. "No."
In truth, the life of a slave had taught him well: attachments were dangerous. Caring for someone only made them a target.
"Alright. That's all," Zatiel said simply.
Ezequiel hesitated, frowning slightly. "Master, I—"
Zatiel raised one hand, cutting him off. "I don't care about your past. The moment you chose to follow me, your life began anew. All I require from you is loyalty. Give me that, and I will always be there to help you. But you must remember something…"
His voice grew colder. His gaze locked on Ezequiel's remaining eye, and for a moment the boy felt as though the world itself narrowed until only that gaze existed.
A suffocating pressure crashed over him, cold and heavy as molten mercury flooding into his lungs. It was the weight of a predator's focus—the kind that froze prey where it stood. The faint crackle of the campfires seemed to fade away until only the sound of his own heartbeat remained.
Ezequiel knew instinctively that the presence before him wasn't merely human. It was something ancient and merciless, a nightmare wrapped in flesh. His willpower was the only thing keeping him conscious.
Knees trembling, he sank to the ground, unable to resist.
"Never betray me," Zatiel said, each word a slow, deliberate strike. "If you even think of it, I will know. And when that happens… death will seem like a kindness you'll never be granted."
The pressure vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving the air unnaturally still.
Ezequiel gasped quietly, like a man surfacing from deep water. His reaction was not weakness—it was instinct. Even the bravest soldier quailed before a tiger's stare, and Zatiel's aura was far worse. Though his current body was weaker than in lifetimes past, the memory of countless slaughters clung to him like a second skin.
The boy rose slowly, forcing his breathing back under control. Then, with renewed steadiness, he dropped to one knee—not in submission born of fear, but of choice.
"I chose to follow you," Ezequiel said, his voice firm despite the rawness in it, "and I will never regret that choice."
Many could speak the words, but Zatiel recognized truth when he heard it. Ezequiel's resolve was carved into the very core of him.
A grin broke across Zatiel's face. "Hahaha! I knew I wasn't wrong about you. But Ezequiel is a bit long. I'll call you little EZ."
The name was unexpectedly lighthearted, but there was a flicker of warmth in Zatiel's eyes. In his second life as an Abyss Lord, he had commanded millions, but none he could truly trust. Demons were creatures of greed and betrayal; loyalty was just another word for until I see an opportunity.
This was different.
Ezequiel's lips twitched in reluctant amusement at the childish nickname, but he didn't protest.
Zatiel allowed himself several hours to rest, letting his body return to full strength. When he finally stood, the air around him seemed to hum with focus.
"Alright, little EZ. What I'm about to do is complicated and extremely dangerous. I need you to move one thousand meters away. No matter what happens, do not come closer until I call for you."
Ezequiel nodded at once and obeyed without question, disappearing into the trees until his presence faded from Zatiel's senses.
Alone now, Zatiel retrieved the jar of blood and knelt on the trampled earth. With slow, exact strokes, he began to paint symbols on the ground. Each movement was deliberate, his hand steady even as his eyes carefully avoided the marks he was making.
If I look at these Abyss runes directly in this weakened state… blacking out would be the least of my problems.
Runes were not mere decorations. They were the written language of the laws themselves, tools for harnessing the very framework of existence. Correctly drawn and activated with the right materials, they could produce effects that defied common understanding.
They could make a sword sharp enough to cut through steel, or imbue armor with the ability to turn aside flames. But these were child's play compared to the true potential of runes—those carved into the flesh and soul, transforming the bearer into something beyond mortal limits.
High-level rune knowledge was jealously guarded. Even among powerful Magi, few possessed the skill to craft them.
What Zatiel now worked on was far beyond what any apprentice could dream of attempting: a complex array designed to open direct communication—and a trade—with the Abyss itself.
This was one of the two most valuable pieces of knowledge contained within the first layer of memories the AI Chip had unlocked.
To make it work, he needed two things: the proper materials and an energy source.
The blood was simple enough. Though no longer a demon, his True Soul still carried the taint of Abyss Aura from his past life. That alone made his blood suitable for this ritual.
The energy source was trickier… for most. The Abyss was a realm that welcomed the souls of the chaotic and the damned. A hundred murderous bandits would provide more than enough fuel—if they could be driven into the proper state before death.
That was the purpose of the sub-array he inscribed next: runes that would drive the captives into a frenzy of madness, forcing them to slaughter each other in blind rage. The chaos of such a death would call to the Abyss like a beacon.
When the final stroke was in place, Zatiel closed his eyes briefly, gathering his focus. Then he pushed his Spirit Force into the array.
The drain was immediate and brutal, his vision going white at the edges. His skin went clammy, and for a moment he swayed, almost toppling over. But the runes responded, glowing faintly red.
The bandits stirred. One by one, their eyes snapped open—now entirely crimson. In an instant, they turned on the nearest living thing.
The camp erupted into chaos. Fists, teeth, blades—anything became a weapon. Men bit chunks from each other's flesh, bones broke with sickening cracks, screams rose and fell.
Within minutes, the ground was slick with blood. By the time only the captain remained—half his face torn away—he too collapsed.
As the last breath left the final body, the rest of the runes flared. A suffocating presence descended, thick and heavy with raw chaos. The air vibrated with it, and even Zatiel found his hands trembling from the effort of resisting its influence.
He has arrived, Zatiel thought.
Not "he" as in a demon. Demons were treacherous bargainers. The entity he addressed was the plane itself—the consciousness of the Abyss.
Every world had a consciousness, usually dormant and mindless. But sometimes, with enough time or power, a plane could awaken, developing awareness. The Abyss's mind was immense but crude, its chaotic nature limiting complexity. That made it perfect for certain deals.
Through the glowing runes, Zatiel projected his request. The souls of a hundred mortals were nothing to the Abyss, but he didn't need much—only the purest, most potent Abyss Aura, drawn from its deepest layers.
The bodies began to melt, collapsing into black sludge that oozed toward the center of the circle. The liquid swirled, thickening, condensing, until it formed a perfect sphere one meter across.
It was so dark it seemed to devour the very light around it, and the ground beneath it withered to dust. The sheer presence of it made the air taste metallic.
Abyss Aura—life to demons, death to all else.
Zatiel's lips curled into a sharp smile, eyes gleaming. "Finally… the time has come for the most powerful life form to be born."