ELYSION—06:00 PM
Amidst the chaos of mist and echoing thunder—
The view from Sunspire Tower was suddenly cut off by a dense shadowmist that swallowed all sight.
A darkness so thick it was as if night had abruptly devoured day.
A mix of emotions churned within Gaius. He stood frozen, watching the shadowmist before him, his grip tightening on the sword in his hand. Questions pounded relentlessly in his soul: Was this victory, or the death of his brother?
But suddenly, a clear, piercing sound cut through the chaos.
Dong... Dong... Dong...
The bells of Elysion rang.
Their tone pure as heavenly water—
sweeping away the screams of Tartarus like wind clearing smoke.
"Answer us, Ken..." Danteus hissed, his voice low and trembling with cold anger. His brown eyes froze as he stared into the thick mist. Ready to avenge his friend's wounds.
Ken, lying battered upon Elysion's great gate—
slowly lifted his head.
Blood still dripped from his broken nose,
but from beneath his tattered hood, a hoarse laugh echoed.
"Heh... Heh... Heh..."
It was a laugh filled with relief and triumph.
Yet also deep, bitter undertones—
like wine aged far too long.
His hand reached into his robe—
pulling out a silver bell the size of a marble.
Ding...
A small answer to a grand call resonated.
"I'm still alive..."
"...need my violin here."
The mages responded with a roar that shook the sky—
Yellow lightning struck down from Elysion's towers—
ZZZAAPP! KRACK!
Forming giant runes in the sky:
Shield… Arrow… Sun.
The mages were ready.
Yet… amid the commotion—
Gaius suddenly vanished from the tower.
Before the mages, Danteus and Hector stood side by side, Danteus's hand resting on his brother's shoulder.
"THE TIME HAS COME... MY BRODY!"
Right behind them stood Liora, adjusting her wolf-cut hair—
In her hand, Elyra's staff was held tight, its tip glowing brightly—a golden light radiating beauty that was both calming and terrifying to the creatures of darkness.
She gathered light energy at its tip, firing it straight into the shadow cube trapping the three Tartarus generals.
Giving the signal to attack.
And below—
the giant gate groaned open.
KRRREEEAAAK...!
Not slowly—but like a floodgate bursting after being held too long.
The first to step out:
The King.
No luxurious armor. No warhorse.
Just a sword with a blade so clear it reflected the lightning around it.
"For my brother... For my people...!"
He ran alongside his people—
bakers, blacksmiths, shepherds with their children—
their eyes blazing with one cry:
"For the innocent!"
Above them—
Mages floated gracefully like guardian angels and reapers of death to their enemies.
Their robes fluttered like raven wings—
fingers dancing as they unleashed lightning.
BZZZT—! BOOOM—!
Every strike incinerated three demons at once.
Exploding without mercy—
Those trying to flee with their wings—
Were instantly bound by electrocuting lightning—
Tearing their wings forcibly from their bodies—
Dropping them ruthlessly to the ground.
Ken smiled within the darkness.
His body dissolved into mist—
reappearing atop the fortress walls.
There—he leaned back—
watching the retaliation begin.
"Just as i thought... My brother..."
Amid the sea of his people, Gaius's eyes locked onto three figures.
He leaped high—
His deadly sword swing cleaved the air
Like an eagle swooping down on its prey.
Ready to split Nekron's head.
But… Zephiron reacted swiftly—
summoning his twin blades—
The swords flew toward the stumps of his severed arms—
embedding right into the wounds.
Becoming bloody, flaming metal hands—
A replacement for his rotting arms left tragically on the ground.
Quickly, he shot forward—
blocking Gaius's sword swing that whispered for Nekron's head.
"You again...!" Zephiron snarled furiously.
Gaius's shining eyes reminded him of the war 300 years ago, when Gaius—still a prince—fought alone on the battlefield without escort—
He did exactly what Ken was doing now. Facing three Tartarus generals alone, all to protect his people.
Before him, the three Hell Generals seemed like amateurs playing fools in a carnival.
"What... You miss me?!"
Gaius's voice shattered the shadows of the past for Zephiron,
yanking him back into the presence of the glorious king.
"Everything ends after this, Gaius! You and your people are nothing but hypocrites"
"All of you will pay for this!"
"Just like 300 years ago, Zephiron! We will not run..."
In an instant—
Gaius's eyes glowed, emitting a golden light brighter than the sun.
From behind him, yellow lightning gathered above his head—
Like a crown of the war god.
BOOOOOM—!
The lightning exploded—
hurling the three hell generals
Like dry leaves in a tornado— thrown back without dignity.
Without grandeur,
just three beings realizing
they faced a man who was more than a king—
A legend risen from ashes with wrath.
And above it all.
In the ruin and the glory,
one sentence echoed clearly in everyone's heart:
Every cloud has a silver lining...
And that silver is the undeniable proof of their unyielding resolve...
_ _ _
He arrived like night wearing a starlit raincoat.
His steps were calm. Unhurried.
As if the world still had time to wait for him—
Or perhaps, the world simply had to await his arrival.
From within the mist, torn open by the scent of blood and ash, emerged a figure clad in a dark coat that shimmered like cosmic dust. His black hair was wild yet precise, like a storm that had chosen its own path. A pair of calm yet piercing eyes, like the sky's shadow just before lightning strikes, observed the world with the wisdom of an executioner who had witnessed death intimately, time and again.
His blue tie was adorned with tiny golden lightning bolts—a symbol of pride and power that needed no explanation. His right hand was gloved in dark leather, not for style, but to contain a strength too profound for mortal touch.
He didn't utter a single word as he stepped into the center of the field. Yet every demon soldier fell silent at his presence. Some froze; some groaned—whether in fear or something more primal: reverence in the face of incomprehensible power.
The sky seemed to hold its breath.
The wind stopped blowing.
The mist ceased its hissing.
Even the hellfire raging around him appeared to bow in respect—or perhaps dignified terror.
And when the man raised one hand, with a motion as gentle as stroking a lover's hair, the very earth trembled. Lightning struck from a cloudless sky—blue-white light splitting the darkness, piercing demonic bodies not with ordinary fire, but with celestial energy long contained, refined, and now unleashed as the highest form of judgment.
Every bolt was a poetry of ruin:
Demons touched didn't burn—they unraveled, exploding into particles of light that faded like dying stars.
Those who tried to flee flew toward the lightning instead, like moths fatally drawn to flame.
Their screams went unheard—absorbed by the sacred silence surrounding the man.
He wasn't fighting.
He was executing.
Every movement was a symphony of destruction performed in silence.
His coat remained untouched—blood and dust dared not cling to it.
His steps never faltered—the world rearranged itself to make way.
And his eyes… always cool, always observing everything without needing to blink.
A demon soldier, brutally shocked by the terrifying lightning—his body half-unraveled—tried crawling closer. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, yet full of acknowledgment:
"Dan—Danteus... My Lord..."
Danteus didn't turn.
His gloved fingers moved something in the air—as if plucking an invisible string.
The soldier fell silent forever—transformed into ice crystal that then shattered into diamond dust, scattered by a wind that suddenly began to blow again.
In the distance, Ken—standing atop the fortress—smiled faintly.
"Always so dramatic," he whispered to the wind.
Meanwhile, Liora—watching from the ranks of the mages—gripped Elyra's staff tighter. Not out of fear, but awe.
She knew:
This wasn't merely power.
This was art.
And Danteus?
He was the maestro who had just begun his concert.
_ _ _
And after the lightning split the sky, came a laughter that made demons shiver.
He appeared not long after his brother brought the sky down to earth—a perfect contrast. His steps were leisurely, as if the battlefield were a morning garden for his relaxation. His long black robe swayed gently in the wind carrying the scent of scorched earth, and that smile—sharp, mocking, and full of play—invited chaos without any need for a battle cry.
His black hair was perfectly swept back, as if even chaos dared not mess with it. His eyes were as sharp as daggers, yet their glint held the warmth of a misleading joke. And the hand that supported his chin... seemed to be appraising a painting, not witnessing a battlefield.
He was not a savior. He was not a slaughterer. He was the owner of the stage.
"Ah... so some are still standing, I see?" he murmured, his voice lazy, almost bored—yet that very tone froze the blood in the demons' veins. His voice was like a dagger wrapped in silk—smooth, yet deadly.
Unlike his brother, who fought with divine silence and precision, this man danced in blood and the rhythm of ruin. Every move was flamboyant, brimming with near-arrogant confidence. When he spun, his robe formed a black circle that swallowed light, and every time his blade struck, it was accompanied by a crackling laugh—a sound more terrifying than any roar of anger.
Each of his strikes didn't just cut bodies—they cut morale. He didn't kill to win—he killed to amuse himself, to prove that even in death, there was an art only he could master.
"That Void Blade... Hector?" uttered one of the demon soldiers who recognized him, his voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.
Hector only grinned widely, letting the acknowledgment hang in the air like the scent of death. "Glad someone remembers. I thought you'd all forgotten about this Devilman!"
Fire scorched the field. The lightning had passed. Now it was the storm's turn to laugh.
And when the two brothers stood side by side—one silent like a sacred night, the other laughing like a fallen angel—no demon was foolish enough to remain standing. One destroyed with sacred silence, the other with mocking clamor. One was judgment, the other was ridicule.
Hector raised his Void Blade, its dark violet edge seeming to devour the light around it. "Don't worry..." he whispered, as if sharing a secret. "I won't let you die in boredom."
Then he struck—not with rage, but with delight. Like a child playing in a garden, but what he plucked wasn't flowers—it was lives.
And above it all, his laughter continued to ring—clear, echoing, and eternal—like a reminder that sometimes, the greatest calamity comes with the most charming smile.
_ _ _
The remaining Tartarus forces froze in blood-chilling terror. Their eyes widened as they watched two figures approaching with leisurely steps, like gods descending from cosmic thrones. The air vibrated not with war cries, but with a silence more terrifying than a thousand screams.
"That's..." one demon whispered, his voice breaking with awe and terror combined.
"The Two Hell's Executioners..."
Yet one soldier, clinging to the last shreds of courage, broke the silence:
"My Lord... We must retreat! They're too close...!"
His voice trembled like an over-tightened string, nearly snapping from fear.
Nekron ignored him. Instead—his fury ignited like a volcano awakening.
"These two traitorous dogs!" he roared, Breath-Stealer shaking wildly in his grip.
"I will sever their hands right on this field!"
Belial quickly grabbed his shoulder, claws digging deep. "Fool!" His voice cracked with uncontrollable panic.
"You almost died fighting the Shadow Assassin alone! Haveyouforgotten howthey obliterated the Bloodhorn Elite Corps? Even Azraelis himself couldn't stop them!"
Among them, Zephiron watched the two legends with both deep admiration and bitter hatred—
his breath ragged, his heart pounding wildly.
"No wonder... these humans dare defy Hell."
"RETREAT!" Zephiron shouted, his voice nearly lost in the growing rumble.
"SAVE THOSE WHO REMAIN!"
But it was already too late.
As if destined, as if written in the universe's star-script—their efforts were now merely decorative.
They had arrived.
Danteus raised his hand—a simple, elegant motion, like a conductor leading an orchestra of apocalypse.
KRAAAAAAK—!
Blue lightning struck the Tartarus formation—making their bodies convulse like insects electrocuted in a glass jar. The blue light reflected in their wide-open eyes, capturing their final moments before darkness.
In another corner—Hector leaped high, his body cutting through the air like a wrathful meteor.
BOOOOM—!
His fist slammed into the earth—a wide fissure gaped open, releasing risen corpse-hands from abounded land. They grabbed the demons' ankles, dragging them into eternal darkness.
"Descend into your graves!"
Meanwhile, Gaius pressed forward—leading the wave of his people with a sword gleaming with pure intent.
"ELYSION!"
His cry split the sky, answered by thousands of voices merging into a single war chant.
His sword strokes were simple—yet they severed Tartarus necks with deadly precision, like a scythe cutting through weeds.
The mages in the sky began to chant—their voices blending with the elements they summoned:
"IGNIS! FULMEN! GLACIERS!"
Fireballs, lightning, and ice rained down on the rear lines—turning them into smoldering charcoal statues that crumbled at the touch of the wind.
The Tartarus forces were trapped on all sides:
Before them: A wave of humans with fiery eyes, ready to cut them down with axes and hoes.
Behind them: Mages prepared to roast them from the sky.
Beside them: Danteus & Hector waited patiently for their beloved playthings.
Those who had once tortured—now felt the sting of wounds.
Those who had burned villages—now screamed as their own skin blistered under the same flames.
Not a single human had fallen.
The most painful and bitter irony of all.
The once-feared hellspawn were now slaughter-lambs—torn, burned, shattered.
The land of Elysion transformed into a canvas of violence:
Pools of black blood flowed through gutters like rivers of sin.
Demon flesh littered the ground like trampled trash.
Broken horns adorned blood-soaked puddles.
The stench of sulfur and burning entrails filled the air—a bitter perfume of victory.
The three generals huddled among the remnants of their army—of the thousands who came, only thirty remained.
It hadn't taken years—not even a full night.
Elysion needed only minutes to burn them all to ash.
"THE PORTAL... NOW!" Zephiron roared, his voice hoarse with despair.
Belial clawed the air—wounds on his hands gushing black blood—a dark hole opened with a horrifying sound.
But...
Danteus & Hector were already standing before them.
"Leaving so soon?"
Danteus smiled coldly, his eyes radiating frozen hatred.
He flicked his wrist—
ZZAAP—!
White lightning struck the Tartarus line—10 bodies turned to ash instantly.
"RUN...!" screamed Nekron, his voice now sounding like a frightened child.
They plunged into the portal—chased by fire-arrows and curses that would never truly fade.
Before the portal closed—Zephiron glanced back at the two traitors.
His eyes promised an oath sworn through gritted teeth:
"See you in Tartarus, bastards...
I'll hang you intestines on the gates of deepest hell!"
— — —
The portal closed.
Leaving Elysion victorious once again.
A message to the entire universe:
Never disturb the peace of those who stay silent, for the silence of a lion is more dangerous than its roar.
All that remained was a sea of demon corpses—
and the flag of Elysion flying proudly over the dented gate,
where Ken slept with a faint smile on his lips,
as if saying,
"I told you—I'd protect you all."
And in the distance, dawn began to break—
illuminating a world once again saved by heroes
who chose sacrifice over surrender.