The cold, sterile air stung Ryle's lungs as he awoke.
He staggered to his feet, finding himself surrounded by endless, silent silver walls that stretched beyond sight, illuminated by a pale, sourceless glow. Thea, Tobin, and Kessia were nearby, rising groggily, weapons instinctively in their hands.
"Stay close," Ryle said, his voice low and tense.
Their footsteps echoed unnaturally as they moved forward, each step seeming to stretch the hallway longer, deeper, farther. The silver floor pulsed faintly underfoot, as if the hallway itself was a living thing, watching them.
But then, with a blink—
Ryle was alone.
Thea, Tobin, Kessia—gone. Not a trace of them remained.
A low hum filled the air, and in the distance, seated atop a jagged silver throne, Azazhel awaited him.
He lounged casually, holding something grotesque in his hand: the severed head of Lucifer, the once-proud Demon King, now reduced to a cold, lifeless trophy.
Azazhel grinned, his silver hair shimmering like a river under moonlight.
"Welcome, Ryle," he purred. "Witness history."
Ryle tightened his grip on his sword but didn't rush forward. The air around Azazhel was thick, oppressive. Charging in would be suicide.
Azazhel lifted Lucifer's head slightly, admiring it.
"I am the strongest Demon King," he said, voice calm, almost reverent. "Newly born... yet carrying memories older than the stars."
Ryle said nothing, eyes scanning for traps, tricks, anything.
Azazhel chuckled softly.
"Lucifer... aided me," he continued, his fingers idly stroking the dead king's golden hair. "He helped me ascend to this throne. Why he did so... even I do not fully know. Perhaps love. Perhaps hatred. Perhaps hope."
He leaned back against the throne, silver armor gleaming.
"But you deserve a story, don't you? A fairy tale. Before you die."
Azazhel's voice shifted—no longer mocking, but solemn, almost melancholic.
He began:
"Long, long ago, before the sun knew how to rise,
before the rivers learned how to sing,
there wandered a man made of silver.
He was born not from love, nor from stars, nor even from hope—
he was forged from emptiness itself.
A hollow thing, a walking grave.
He had only one wish: to find the most beautiful place in the world...
where he could quietly die.
But fate, sly and smiling, placed something in his path.
On a cold night, where even the moon forgot to shine,
he found her:
A woman of gold, crumpled in the snow, her light flickering like a dying candle.
She was wounded, chained, her glow fading into nothingness.
The silver man, who had never cared for anything—not kings, not gods, not himself—
looked down at the broken gold woman...
And without a word, he shielded her from the howling winds.
"Why do you save me?" the gold woman whispered.
"You are light," the silver man said simply.
"And I wanted a beautiful place to die."
But the gold woman, even broken, smiled.
And in that fragile smile,
the silver man felt something stir in his hollow chest:
not duty, not pity—
but meaning.
He lifted her, carried her across frozen rivers, bloodstained fields, and valleys where monsters sang.
With every step, the silver on his skin cracked,
and from those cracks, a gentle light emerged—
a new heart, growing inside his empty shell.
Time passed.
The gold woman's light healed.
The silver man's body became strong.
Together, they defied the darkness that tried to claim them.
Again, and again.
One day, atop a hill bathed in dawn's first light—
the most beautiful place the silver man had ever seen—
he knelt, smiling for the first time, and said:
'This is where I thought I would end.'
The gold woman touched his hand and answered:
'No. This is where we begin.'
And thus, they walked onward,
not to die—
but to live,
and to shine together,
forevermore."
Azazhel's silver eyes gleamed.
The story's echo lingered in the air, heavy and painful.
Ryle's fists clenched. He understood the meaning hidden beneath the tale.
The silver man... the gold woman...
Himself and Thea.
Azazhel and Lucifer.
Two pairs, mirroring each other across cruel fate.
Azazhel smirked, breaking the heavy silence.
"Silver is not worth as much as gold..." he mused lazily. "So you need many... am I right?"
Before Ryle could respond, a pulse of light exploded from Lucifer's severed head.
In a blinding instant, hundreds of Azazhels spawned, stretching endlessly across the silver world. Each clone grinned maliciously, blades dripping with silver energy.
From nowhere, Thea, Tobin, and Kessia reappeared beside Ryle, weapons drawn, faces grim.
There was no time for a plan.
The clones attacked.
The silver hallway transformed into a battlefield of chaos and light.
Tobin roared, swinging his massive sword, sending clones flying with every earth-shattering blow.
Kessia's magic blazed, golden barriers snapping up around them, beams of light piercing the endless tide.
Ryle fought savagely, his dragon energy burning bright—but he was exhausted, every movement slower, heavier. His sword felt like it weighed a hundred tons.
Thea danced among the clones like a whirlwind, her Twinlight swords shining like twin stars. She cut through the enemy ranks, a golden flame refusing to be extinguished.
Still—the clones were relentless.
A blade pierced Ryle's side; he grunted, slashing it away, but blood poured freely.
Tobin saw it.
With a feral yell, the big man threw himself between Ryle and a charging clone, taking the blow meant for his king.
"Tobin, NO!" Thea screamed.
A silver blade plunged through Tobin's chest. He looked back at Ryle one last time—and smiled.
Then he fell, body hitting the silver ground with a terrible finality.
Kessia shrieked in grief, her dagger Slash, blasting clones apart.
Ryle staggered forward, blood dripping from his mouth, falling to one knee.
He could barely lift his sword now.
Azazhel, still seated on his throne, laughed.
With a wave of his hand, the remaining clones vanished, leaving only the corpses and the wounded.
The silver world went eerily silent.
Azazhel's voice, rich with mockery, cut through the stillness:
"Come now, silver man," he chuckled. "This is where you thought you would end, isn't it?"
Ryle, gasping, bleeding, forced himself to glare at the silver king.
But his body trembled.
He couldn't move.