Legends are rarely polite.
They do not announce themselves.
They do not wait for understanding.
They begin when something that was never meant to fall…
is forced to.
The Seventh Hell had endured the fall of empires.
It had survived divine wars, cosmic purges, and the collapse of entire realms. It had seen beings beg, rage, and disappear—never to be spoken of again.
It was not a place where miracles occurred.
But today—
something was happening that no one wanted to see.
A huge pillar shattered.
A massive figure slammed straight through it.
Obsidian stone exploded outward as the body pierced the pillar's core before crashing into the ground beyond. The impact echoed across the crimson plains as the figure struck once, flipped violently, struck again, then rolled to a halt.
Dust surged upward.
For a brief moment—
there was nothing.
Then the dust began to settle.
A clawed hand pressed into the ground.
Black wings unfolded, scattering ash as a towering figure pushed himself upright. Cracks ran across his dark skin, molten gold glowing beneath. Hellfire hissed from a deep gash across his shoulder.
He stood tall despite the damage.
This was the King of the Seventh Hell.
And he was bleeding.
Across from him—
the dust shifted again.
A figure stepped forward, boots crunching over broken stone. One hand rested in his pocket. In the other, a sword spun lazily.
Dark black steel.
Veins of dull crimson.
Chipped. Scarred. Dangerous.
The figure stopped and lifted his head.
Young.
Unbothered.
Annoyingly calm.
This man was Altair Vane.
A name that history would learn to regret.
Altair tilted his head, crimson eyes flicking over the wound.
"…Huh," he muttered. "You didn't break as fast as I expected."
The Seventh Hell groaned.
The King straightened, wings spreading as hellfire surged outward. Magma crawled through the fractured ground beneath his feet.
"You stand before me," the King said, voice heavy,
"bleeding—"
His gaze sharpened.
"—and still speak as though this place belongs to you?"
Altair glanced at his arm. Blood dripped freely.
"…Yeah."
He studied his sword.
"I came here for one thing," he said. "And you're taking too long."
"You will kneel," the King growled. "Or you will cease to exist."
Altair blinked.
Then laughed.
"…Kneel?"
He rested the sword against his shoulder.
"Yeah, no. I don't do that."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Then—
the King moved.
His foot drove into the ground.
Hellfire surged as he launched forward, fist tearing through the air toward Altair's chest.
Altair shifted, blade lifting just in time.
BOOM.
The impact detonated the air. Altair slid backward, boots carving trenches before he stopped himself with his sword.
Blood splashed across the blade.
"…Okay," Altair muttered. "That one counts."
The King pressed in, knee slamming toward Altair's ribs.
Altair twisted aside, still sent skidding.
He rolled, rose on one knee, and slashed upward.
Hellfire burst from a deep gash across the King's side.
The King staggered—then his tail snapped out.
CRASH.
Altair was hurled into a broken pillar, stone exploding around him.
He coughed, stood immediately.
"…You're really attached to this place."
The King raised his hand.
Hellfire condensed into a blazing mass and hurled forward.
Altair lunged through it, slicing the attack apart as heat washed over his back.
He closed in and thrust for the King's throat.
The King caught the blade.
Barehanded.
Molten veins flared as steel stopped inches from his neck.
"…Huh," Altair said. "That's new."
The King slammed his head forward.
Altair crashed back across the ground, rolling to a stop.
He sat up.
"…Yeah. I'm annoyed now."
The King spread his wings.
The Seventh Hell responded.
Pressure crushed down from all sides.
Altair stepped forward.
The ground shattered beneath his foot.
He swung—not at the King, but at the air.
The pressure split.
Altair surged forward and struck.
CLANG.
The King slid back, carving deep lines through the earth.
A thin crack ran across his forearm.
Altair rushed in.
The King twisted his wrist.
A sword slid free—jagged, molten, runes burning along its edge.
They collided head-on.
BOOOOOOM.
Shockwaves tore the battlefield apart.
They vanished.
Crimson and molten gold streaked through the sky, clashing again and again. Each impact scarred the heavens, the sound barrier shattering under their speed.
A massive explosion erupted.
The King was hurled back—then stopped himself midair.
Altair was already there.
He struck downward.
CRASH.
The King slammed into the ground, a crater swallowing him whole.
Altair landed at the edge.
"Come on," he called. "Hand it over."
The King rose from the crater, blood dripping.
"If the other Kings see this," Altair added lightly,
"what happens to your reputation?"
The King inhaled.
Slowly.
Then laughed.
"…Have you gone mad already?" Altair muttered.
The King raised both hands.
The ground split.
Molten gold and crimson surged upward.
The Cosmic Magma Emerald emerged, warping space around it.
Altair's eyes lit up.
"…There you are."
The King drove it into his sword.
The weapon screamed.
Cosmic fire exploded outward as the blade transformed, heavier—older.
Altair grinned.
"Wow. Flashy."
He raised his own sword.
"My Excalibur's going to love this."
They rushed and collided again.
Not cleanly.
Not evenly.
Steel met molten blade with a scream that tore across the Seventh Hell like a dying star. The impact bent light around them, shockwaves ripping outward in concentric rings that pulverized the ground beneath their feet.
Sword.
Fist.
Shockwave.
Altair drove forward, crimson veins flaring along his arm as his shattered aura forced the King back step by step. Each swing of Altair's blade split the air itself, pressure bursting outward like invisible explosions.
The King answered with raw force.
His free fist slammed into Altair's guard, hellfire detonating on contact. Altair skidded across the scorched ground, boots carving trenches before he twisted mid-slide and launched himself back in.
They met again.
And again.
Every clash ripped chunks from the battlefield. Pillars collapsed. Magma surged. The sky fractured in spiderweb cracks, struggling to hold together under the violence.
Altair laughed through it.
Not mockery.
Not madness.
Enjoyment.
The King snarled and finally pulled back, wings flaring wide as he created distance. Hellfire surged violently along his blade, flames compressing, folding inward instead of spilling freely.
The temperature spiked.
The ground beneath the King's feet began to melt—not burn, but liquefy, stone turning into glowing rivers of molten gold.
"Burning Sun Strike!"
He swung.
The blade came down in a perfect arc.
A crescent of condensed hellfire tore forward, wide as a city street, its edge screaming as it consumed everything in its path. The ground vanished beneath it—stone dissolving into molten slag, space itself rippling under the heat.
Altair didn't retreat.
He planted his feet.
The earth shattered beneath the pressure of his stance.
Crimson light surged along his sword, not exploding outward, but compressing—layer after layer folding into the blade until the air around it screamed under the strain.
"Heaven Splitting Slash."
He swung.
A razor-thin crimson arc burst forward—not wide, not flashy, but impossibly dense. The slash didn't burn the air.
It cut it.
The two attacks met.
Crimson and molten gold collided head-on.
For a heartbeat—
the world stopped.
Space folded inward, crushed between the two forces as reality itself screamed under the pressure. Light bent. Sound vanished.
Altair pushed.
Muscles screamed as power flooded his frame, veins burning crimson as he forced his slash forward inch by inch.
The King roared and pushed harder.
Hellfire surged violently, overwhelming the clash as the molten arc began to consume the crimson slash.
CRACK.
The sound wasn't loud.
It was final.
Altair's sword shattered.
Fragments of black steel exploded outward as the blade disintegrated from the strain. The crimson slash collapsed instantly, torn apart and devoured by the overwhelming hellfire.
Altair's eyes widened.
The molten force slammed into him.
His body lifted off the ground as if gravity itself had let go. Heat tore across his skin, armor screaming as the attack drove him backward through the air.
Behind him—
space twisted.
Not naturally.
Not violently.
Deliberately.
A circular distortion formed, edges burning with molten runes as a portal tore itself open midair, its interior churning with chaotic void.
The King saw it.
Altair did not.
The King screamed—not in rage, but exertion—and drove forward with everything he had left. Wings beat once, violently, as he slammed his full momentum into the attack.
The molten arc surged.
Altair was thrown.
The world inverted.
Sky became ground.
Hell became distance.
And before he could even register the portal—
the force hurled him straight through it.
The portal snapped shut.
Silence followed.
Altair fell.
Not gently.
Not cleanly.
He tore through the sky like a discarded weapon, atmosphere screaming around his body as clouds split apart above him. The ground rushed up—stone, earth, shattered landscape—
BOOM.
The impact detonated outward.
The land caved in beneath him as his body slammed into the ground, shockwaves rippling across the terrain. Rock shattered. Soil burst upward. A crater formed instantly, swallowing him in a storm of dust and debris.
Silence followed.
For a breath.
Then—
a hand pressed into the broken earth.
Dust slid off scorched skin as Altair pushed himself upright, coughing once as he rolled onto one knee. His coat hung in tatters, burned through in places, edges still faintly smoking.
He looked down.
At his sword.
Or what remained of it.
The blade was broken clean through, fractures running jaggedly along the steel. Crimson veins that once pulsed faintly through the metal were dark now—silent, extinguished.
Altair stared.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Wind swept through the crater, lifting dust and ash as it passed—curling around him, then fleeing, as if the land itself had decided not to linger too close.
His gaze stayed fixed on the broken blade in his hand.
"…Tch."
The sound was soft.
Almost lazy.
"That bastard really went and did it," he muttered.
No rage.
No disbelief.
Just mild, genuine irritation—like someone realizing their favorite tool had been damaged beyond easy repair.
He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulder once.
Bone shifted.
Muscle protested.
Something clicked back into place.
Altair winced faintly, then relaxed again.
"…Great," he said dryly. "Now I've got extra work."
His fingers tightened around the shattered hilt, thumb brushing over the cracked metal where crimson veins had once pulsed.
"…You're not getting away with this," he added quietly—not as a threat, not as a promise.
Just a statement.
He straightened.
Dust slid off his coat as he rose to his feet, posture settling back into its usual easy confidence despite the damage.
"…I'll deal with you," Altair said, glancing once more at the ruined blade.
"After I fix this."
Then he turned.
And walked away.
Back in the Seventh Hell—
The battlefield was already erasing itself.
Cracks in the earth sealed slowly, molten rivers retreating back into the depths as obsidian stone reformed layer by layer. Shattered pillars rose from rubble, knitting themselves together as if rewinding time.
The sky groaned.
Torn seams of light stitched shut, fire and darkness folding back into their proper places. Pressure that had crushed the realm moments ago receded reluctantly, like a predator unwilling to retreat.
At the center of it all—
the King hovered.
His wings were still spread.
But they trembled.
Molten blood dripped from his wounds, evaporating before it could touch the ground. His sword—still transformed, still glowing faintly with residual cosmic fire—hung heavy in his grip.
He looked around.
The destroyed land.
The healed scars.
The empty space where Altair Vane had vanished.
His jaw tightened.
"Seal it," he said.
The words were not loud.
They did not need to be.
The Seventh Hell obeyed.
Ancient glyphs ignited across the sky, massive symbols burning briefly before fading into darkness. Colossal gates—large enough to swallow cities—began to close one by one, their outlines flaring as they vanished.
Realm pathways twisted violently.
Then snapped.
Connections collapsed.
Signals went silent.
The Seventh Hell folded inward, isolating itself from the universe beyond.
The King descended slowly.
Stone rose beneath him, reshaping itself into a throne as he lowered himself onto it. The moment he sat, his shoulders slumped—just slightly.
Enough to be noticed.
"…We are not answering any doors," he muttered.
Silence answered him.
Thick.
Heavy.
He leaned back, one hand tightening against the armrest as his gaze lingered on nothing in particular.
"…I hope," he said quietly, voice low and strained, "that brat doesn't return."
The Seventh Hell did not respond.
It simply remained sealed.
Legends are not born when a man wins.
They are born when a world decides to hide.
To Be Continued…