There was unseen pressure gripping through the Kingdom of Hell.Many feared what was happening, yet none dared to speak of it.
It was something that haunted every soul that roamed beneath those burning skies — a silence so heavy it could crush bones.
Old skeletons lay scattered across the dark field, their remains covering most of the barren land. Once warriors, now dust and memory. The wind howled through their ribs like a mournful cry of the dead.
Inside the black fortress, Lyoth stood tall — the ruler of darkness himself. He faced a crowd of his own soldiers in what seemed like a simple warm-up, though to anyone else, it looked like a massacre waiting to happen. At least ninety stood before him, blades drawn, armor trembling. Lyoth's shadow stretched across the cracked ground, his Cursed Daggers gleaming faintly in the dim red light.
"Begin," he said calmly.
The soldiers charged all at once. Lyoth rotated his dagger once, then threw it — one quick motion, faster than the blink of an eye. The dagger pierced through the first few men, and as he summoned it back, it tore through more. They fell instantly, lifeless. But there were too many — an army of his own men, trained but powerless before him.
Lyoth leapt into the air, his coat sweeping like smoke. He threw both daggers high above, twisting midair. With a single sharp kick, he struck the falling daggers — an explosion of black energy burst outward, knocking every soldier to the ground. The air shimmered, and a pulse of dark power swept across the hall.
Lyoth landed silently among the fallen bodies. His daggers returned to his hands like loyal pets.
"How pity for you," he spoke coldly, voice echoing. "You cannot even dodge a single attack — which I merely call a warm-up."
He walked slowly, the sound of his boots clicking against the stone floor. His dark coat fluttered behind him, and his face remained hidden beneath the shadows of his hood. The air around him was heavy, trembling with silent power.
Suddenly, a roar shook the skies above.
It came from beyond the crimson mist that always cloaked the heavens of Hell. The ground trembled as the Black Reaper descended, wings wide and massive, his presence bending the air itself. Sand and ash swirled violently across the battlefield — but before they could even touch Lyoth, they froze midair, suspended by his will alone.
Lyoth turned his head slightly. "Why are you here?" he asked, his tone calm yet commanding. "Has your body healed?"
The Black Reaper lowered himself, his massive form folding like a shadow. His deep voice echoed, "I have healed… but there is something I must tell you."
Lyoth's presence grew heavier — an invisible pressure filled the room. "Speak," he demanded.
The Reaper's eyes burned faintly. "Zeiris is weakening the Wingman City."
Lyoth froze.
"Zeiris…" he murmured. The name carried a past. He remembered him — once human, just like Lyoth. They were the only two who had ever gained the power of darkness and survived.
"How do you know this?" Lyoth asked, his voice low but filled with suppressed rage.
"He sent a message," the Reaper growled. "And that message was — 'Do not lay a hand on Wingman City. Let me play the cards here.'"
Lyoth closed his eyes briefly. A faint smirk crossed his lips.
"Then indeed… we will not attack it — for now." His tone hardened. "But we will destroy the remaining ones. Prepare the army."
The Black Reaper bowed, spreading his wings. "As you command."
Then, with a single beat of his wings, he soared into the sky and disappeared into the mist once more.
Elsewhere…
Aron found himself once again in that same strange place — the realm of peace that appeared only in his dreams. Beautiful rivers flowed endlessly, mountains stood tall and white beneath the snow, and the wind carried a calmness that felt almost divine. The air itself seemed alive, whispering secrets of knowledge and fate.
And there — standing a little distance away — was the same man again. The man with the blade. The same sword lay stuck in the ground before Aron, glimmering faintly.
Aron stared at it but refused this time. "I will not pick it up," he said firmly.
The man remained still for a moment. Then, without a word, he drew the sword himself. The sound of the blade echoed like thunder. Aron took a step back — his hands were empty.
The man charged forward, swinging the blade. Aron raised his arms in defense, but in a blink, the sword sliced through his hand. He fell to his knees, staring in shock as his hand hit the ground. The pain — real, burning, unimaginable.
He screamed, clutching the bleeding arm. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The man approached silently, his eyes cold, and without hesitation — he swung again. The sword cut through Aron's neck —
And then, silence.
Aron's eyes snapped open.
He woke up gasping, his heart racing. Sweat drenched his body. That pain… it was gone. But the memory of it — too real.
He sat there for a moment, staring at his hands. Both were intact.
He took a deep breath, calming himself. It always happened like this — every time. The same dream, the same man, the same death.
He stood up, washed his face, and dressed. The morning sunlight slipped through the icy windows, golden and gentle. The cold air filled his lungs as he opened the door.
Outside — a breathtaking sight. The valley stretched wide, frozen rivers glistening like diamonds beneath the sun. Birds flew across the white peaks. Aron smiled faintly.
He picked up a steel bucket and walked to the well. The water was freezing, but he filled it and brought it back, setting it over the fire. He tossed in potatoes, watching them boil. After a while, he replaced the water, added vegetables — carrots, tomatoes, and herbs — along with a pinch of spices.
When the aroma filled the air, he lifted the wooden dish and laid the food out carefully. The main dish — a giant piece of meat — sizzled beautifully, cooked to perfection. He cut through it with his knife. Juicy. Tender. Perfect.
As he sat down to eat, a familiar voice called from behind.
Carlos.
Carlos grinned. "Wow, didn't know you could cook like this, man."
They both sat together, the warm food steaming between them. The sun shone bright, reflecting over the snowy lands. From where they sat, they could see the entire valley, the little village beneath, and the mountains beyond.
Aron took a bite of the potato — soft and hot. The meat melted in his mouth, the spices blending perfectly.
Carlos laughed, satisfied. "You nailed it, brother! This is delicious!"
Aron smiled. "Thanks, brother. It's all the teaching of my dad. He taught me how to make this."
Carlos nodded. "Your dad must be proud."
Aron looked up at the skies — quiet, thoughtful. "Maybe… just maybe, he will be proud of me." His hair swayed gently with the cold wind.
For a brief moment, everything was peaceful.
Elsewhere…
The wind howled across a desolate plain. Snow turned black as it touched the ground.
Zeiris stood there, his eyes glowing a deep crimson.
"The cold grows heavier," he murmured, his voice calm yet cruel. "Tonight… will be a night of hell for them."
A giant wolf growled beside him, its fangs dripping with shadow.
Zeiris grinned — a dark, twisted smile spreading across his face. The snow beneath him cracked.
"Let them freeze," he whispered. "Let the world remember the name… Zeiris."
The wolf howled toward the crimson moon, and the darkness began to spread again.