A gathering of figures evident in the whiteout of a heavy snowfall stood in the old remains of an abandoned schoolyard. They were four: three middle-aged men with faces worn by hard living and one young woman whose eyes burned with desperation. Dressed in thick winter clothes, they formed a tight circle, their gloved hands clasped together, their voices rising and falling in a discordant chant; the words they spurted out were old and undecipherable, a forbidden spell gotten from the darkest corners of forgotten scrolls. The snow fell in thick, relentless sheets, clinging to their shoulders and hair, but they did not seek shelter. They were bent on summoning whatever they were trying to summon.
For a long, tense hour, the chant was the only sound in the desolate area. Then, as one, they fell silent. The sudden quiet was more profound than the previous noise, broken only by the soft hiss of snow.
Not long after, a man emerged from the gaping, shadowed maw of the school's main entrance. He did not look as if he belonged to this world. His skin was like the beautiful and untouched white of milk. His long, wavy black hair, sleek as a raven's wing, framed a face of breathtaking beauty, high cheekbones, a sculpted jaw, and lips that seemed carved from cold marble. His eyes were a deep, fathomless grey, the color of a storm-laden sea, and they held an ancient, piercing intensity that seemed to see directly into the soul. He looked like a figure who had stepped out of a Renaissance painting depicting fallen angels, his presence radiating a cold, deep solemnity. He stared into the swirling grey distance for a long moment, as if tasting the new air around him, before his unsettling gaze settled on the four kneeling figures, who had immediately prostrated themselves in the snow, their foreheads pressing into the ice.
"He's here," the man murmured, his voice a cold tone that vibrated in the frozen air. "Such a strong aura can never go unnoticed." He paused, his grey eyes narrowing. "Not just that. I can sense the essence of his Purple Pearl, too."
The prostrate figures exchanged horrified glances despite their bowed heads, a ripple of fear passing through them.
"You may rise," he said, the command devoid of warmth.
The four scrambled to their feet, snow falling from their clothes. Their expressions are a mix of terror, awe, and naked hope.
"What do you want?" the pale-skinned man, Thyrax, asked. His tone was detached, as if asking about the weather.
The eldest of the group, a man with a silver ring piercing his eyebrow, spoke up, his voice trembling with reverence and long-nursed hatred. "For centuries, he has roamed this earth, killing and causing destruction, wiping out entire bloodlines. Our ancestors… they failed to fight back. They could only hide and pray. Now that his presence is so potent here, we want to fight. We want to make him pay for every death he has ever caused. That is why we tapped into the forbidden magic… to summon you here, my lord."
"So?" Thyrax asked, a single eyebrow arched. The simplicity of the question was an insult, implying the grand speech held nothing.
"We know you are powerful, my lord," the young woman blurted out, unable to bear the silence. Her eyes were wide, gleaming with fierce light. "All we want is for you to fight for us… or empower us to fight this battle!"
Thyrax's gaze swept over the four of them, then he laughed, the sound devoid of humor and full of contempt. "You four? Against Malphas? Even with my empowerment, he would crush you like insects beneath his heel."
The hope in their eyes flickered, threatening to die. But then Thyrax spoke again, "However… I will empower you. But you must spread the power out. Find more people. More foolish, more desperate souls to join your cause. A single spark is easily extinguished, but a wildfire is harder to contain. The more you are, the higher your chance of destroying him. But heed this: you must move before he retrieves his Purple Pearl. If possible, destroy the Pearl first. That is your only true objective."
The four nodded vigorously, understanding and grim determination settling on their faces.
"As you say, my lord!" the pierced man said. In the same instant, Thyrax flicked his wrist, a gesture as casual as shooing a fly. No visible energy erupted, but the four humans gasped in unison, their bodies seizing up. They collapsed back into the snow, convulsing violently. Bright blue threads of energy lit up beneath their skin, moving through their veins like lightning, illuminating their faces in ugly patterns. They writhed in agony, mouths open in soundless screams, and Thyrax watched, his face holding no emotion. He observed their suffering with utmost detachment as he waited until their convulsions began to subside, the violent energy settling into a steady hum within them. Finally, they lay still in the snow, panting, steam rising from their bodies where the heat of the new power melted the flakes. They radiated a now dangerous energy that made the very air around them shimmer.
Slowly, they pushed themselves up. Their eyes now glowing with the same faint, residual blue light. In unison, they bowed again, their voices stronger, infused with unnatural power. "Thank you, Lord Thyrax. We owe you our lives."
He ignored their gratitude entirely. Without another word, he turned and walked back into the dark embrace of the falling school, the shadows swallowing his pale form whole.
Thyrax was from the same dark realm as the entity known as Malphas, the being who is now called Miguel. But Thyrax was several times lower in the true hierarchy of power. He was a powerful demon god in his own right, feared and worshipped in countless dimensions. Yet, even he had to offer respect and worship to Malphas, like all the others, even though the latter had been absent from their realm for a thousand years. For even in his diminished state, without his full power symbolized by the Purple Pearl, Malphas possessed a strong potential to unmake all other gods with a mere flick of his will.
And over the long, resentful centuries, that truth had grown in Thyrax's heart like a poisoned thorn. He was ready to do anything, to risk this fragile human world, to empower these pathetic, vengeful insects, if it meant proving, once and for all, that he was stronger. That he was worthy of the fear and reverence that Malphas commanded simply by existing.