Zarion staggered in the crater, one hand pressed desperately against the gaping wound in his chest. His breath came in ragged, broken gasps, sweat dripping down his pale face.

His voice trembled with fury and fear.

"That flame… it's still inside me… gnawing at my very being. My body can't regenerate… it's like the wound itself refuses to exist… and yet it devours me from within."

His eyes widened, veins bulging as the purple glow flickered inside his torso, spreading like veins of corruption. He coughed violently, blood spraying across the broken stones.

He roared in denial, his voice shaking the scorched battlefield.

"Damn it..what abilities does this flame has ?

A crooked grin spread across his face.

"So… he can manipulate purple flames now too?"

His voice trembled with a mix of admiration and fear.

Up above, Azreal hovered silently, suspended in the blood-red sky. His body radiated power like a dying star.

Then—

A voice echoed in his mind.

"This is Orvath, my Lord. I apologize for using a telepathic channel, but I—"

Azreal's voice cut in, cold and sharp. "What do you want, Orvath? Don't waste my time."

Orvath replied quickly. "The gates have been secured. All the evolved Infernals defeated. No casualties among our Pillars, though… we lost a lot of Hell Soldiers."

Azreal's gaze dropped to Zarion's twitching body. "Good. Your newly evolved Infernals, Zarion… all gone."

Zarion chuckled through his blood. "So what?"

Azreal's eyes burned.

He raised his finger to the sky.

A black and red sphere ignited above his hand, swirling with godfire and death. It expanded violently, a colossal inferno burning the very air around it. The wind howled. Lightning cracked. The clouds split.

The sphere swelled until it covered the heavens.

A second sun, forged from damnation.

"Jio Graze."

Azreal's voice rang like a final judgment.

His finger dropped—

—and so did the sun.

Zarion looked up and laughed madly, blood dripping from his lips.

"It's not over, Azreal! You… you'll help me achieve my goal someday! You will be my final card against the gods!"

BOOM.

The inferno collided with the land.

The explosion tore through twenty kilometers in all directions. Mountains collapsed. The air ignited. A massive sphere of flame swallowed the battlefield. The sky went white. Earth melted into lava trails. A hellish roar echoed across every gate of Hell.

Nothing survived the impact.

The land was scorched flat, blackened and glowing with heat.

Azreal slowly descended through the ash-filled sky, his face calm.

"…It's over for you, Zarion."

---

The Royal Palace — The Grand Hall

Nena's heels echoed sharply against the marble floor as she stormed toward the great doors. The maids clung desperately to her arms, their voices frantic.

"Nena, please! You mustn't—!"

"Let go of me!" she snapped, her eyes blazing with panic and fear.

Just then, Fredrick stepped into her path, blocking her escape. His face was calm, but his voice carried weight.

"Nena… what's wrong?"

Her chest heaved, her words tumbling out like fire.

"Don't ask me what's wrong! Didn't you feel it too—the shockwaves shaking the very earth?! Something terrible is happening out there! We can't just sit here—we should be by his side!"

Fredrick's expression hardened, though his tone remained steady.

"Lord Azreal and the Pillars are out there. They're holding the front. If we rush in now, we'll only cause more chaos. The best we can do… is wait for him to return."

Nena clenched her fists, trembling. "But—!"

He cut her off, his eyes sharp, his voice edged with iron.

"Listen to me. Even if you went now, what could you do? You wouldn't be helping Lord Azreal—you'd be distracting him. Do you want his focus split between his enemies… and you?"

Her breath hitched. She faltered, her fire dimming. Slowly, she lowered her head.

"I… I suppose you're right," she whispered. Her voice softened, breaking under the weight of worry. "Then… I'll wait. I'll wait for Azreal to return."

Fredrick gave a subtle signal, and the maids closed in gently, guiding her away down the vast hall. Her footsteps grew quieter, swallowed by the silence.

Alone now, Fredrick exhaled deeply. His eyes flicked toward the windows where the faint tremors still rattled the glass.

"The war is escalating," he muttered. "Those shockwaves… Lord Azreal must be facing an enemy unlike any other."

---

Second Gate of Hell

Veymar dropped Noctis Reaver, the blade vanishing in a burst of flames.

"Tenth place, huh? What a letdown."

Blight lifted his head, eyes narrowing at the rumbling skies. First the shockwaves… now that roar from the final gate? His voice trembled with a mix of awe and dread.

"What kind of monster could force Lord Azreal into a fight like this?"

Veymar smirked. "Let's go find out. Let's crash the infernals' little party."

They turned to leave—when a glowing red circle cracked open beneath them.

Blight's eyes widened. "What the hell…?"

Veymar turned, grin widening. "Now we're talking. Round two, then?"

---

Fourth Gate of Hell

"My lady," Nyssara said, "You summoned Nàrhr'zul."

Selmora smiled. "I was getting bored. But I wanted him alive…"

She turned to her whip. "Bad boy."

It screeched in her hand.

"Let's go.The other have most likely cleaned their gates . Those shockwaves… they came from the final gate. If even Lord Azreal is stepping in, then the situation is dire. We shouldn't waste more time."

A red glowing circle formed behind them, the ground trembling.

Nyssara gasped. "It's still alive?!"

Selmora grinned. "Oh? I might get a scream after all…"

---

Final Gate of Hell

Azreal scanned the burning wasteland.

Orvath's voice returned. "My Lord, something… something has happened at every gate."

Azreal's brow furrowed. "Explain."

"The evolved infernals… all the ones slain by the Pillars… they've resurrected. Somehow."

Azreal's fists clenched. "That bastard… Zarion… he planned this…"

His heart pounded.

Suddenly—pain.

Azreal gripped his chest as the mark on it glowed violently.

The black sun on his forehead blazed.

He dropped to his knees.

"Damn it… what's happening?!"

Lucifer's voice echoed in his head.

"This is the cost, Azreal. The mark's been dormant too long. You weren't ready."

Azreal groaned. "You never said anything about a drawback."

"You won't move for a while. Let the Pillars finish it. The mark is returning to dormancy."

"Till we meet again. Try not to die next time… embarrassing both of us."

Azreal fell back, gasping.

The sun mark on his forehead dimmed and slid back into his chest.

His body collapsed.

"…I've reached… my limit."

---

First Gate of Hell

Malphas stared at the glowing circle.

Something pulsed beneath it.

He stepped back—just as it exploded.

Smoke surged out like a tidal wave.

From within it—Thorne stepped out, blades twirling.

"Did you miss me?"

Malphas' eyes narrowed. "Welcome back from the dead, Thorne."

Thorne smirked, bowed his head. "Thanks for the welcome."

Then—he vanished in a blur of flames.

BAM!

Malphas chuckled as his ash caught Thorne's wrist mid-strike.

"Did you really think that'd work?"

Ash rushed through Thorne's body—engulfing him.

But the figure dissolved into smoke.

"…A clone," Malphas muttered. "So the real one's still here."

Two Thornes appeared beside him, blades slicing through the air.

Ash flared—forming shields.

A third came from below—ash swallowed Malphas in a black sphere.

Thorne scoffed. "Almost."

Ash parted.

Malphas walked out. Calm. Controlled.

"Before you try again… look down."

Thorne froze. His legs—engulfed in ash.

His eyes widened. "You… you mixed it in the earth."

Malphas raised his hand.

A silent gust—

The ash surged upward, consuming Thorne.

Smoke exploded.

Thorne stepped out again, untouched.

Malphas' eyes narrowed. "No resistance… another fake."

Thorne chuckled. "Almost got me. But why don't we stop playing games and fight for real?"

Malphas raised his hand.

The ash around him stirred, whispering.

"Rise."

The ash surged upward like a wave—and from it, blades emerged. Long, jagged, floating swords, formed entirely of blackened ash hardened into metal, hovered around him—dozens of them, each one humming with cursed mana. His eyes, deep and empty, locked onto Thorne.

Thorne grinned. "Let's see if that ash of yours bleeds."

He vanished.

A whisper of smoke.

Malphas turned, just as the first blade came for his throat.

CLANG!

He blocked it with a conjured ash-blade, but another slash came from behind. Then another. Thorne moved like lightning—his body splitting through smoke trails, his flame-twin blades cutting through the air with brutal precision.

Malphas parried the strikes, backing away, his blades dancing around him in a storm of ash. Sparks flew with each clash. Flame met ash. Speed met silence.

"You're slow," Thorne hissed in his ear, slashing at Malphas' ribs.

Malphas twisted.

A blade of ash shot from the side and sliced across Thorne's back.

Blood hit the ground. A clean hit.

Thorne staggered, then rolled back into the smoke, snarling.

Malphas stood still, and the floating swords around him realigned like loyal hounds.

"You bleed," Malphas said coldly. "Then you die."

Thorne shot forward again, spinning through the smoke, flame dancing along his blades. He slashed in a wide arc—Malphas conjured a wall of ash to block, but Thorne's flames burst through.

The Thorne's fist slammed into Malphas' gut, knocking the wind out of him.

Flames erupted from Thorne's blades, engulfing Malphas in an inferno. Ash scattered in all directions.

Malphas emerged from the fire, cloak burning, part of his shoulder scorched—but his eyes still calm.

"You talk too much for an infernal," he muttered.

Suddenly—boom—the blades of ash turned inward. They formed a spiral and launched like spears.

Thorne dodged one—two—but the third grazed his thigh. He cursed, smoke exploding from his body to blind Malphas again.

But Malphas didn't rely on sight.

The ash told him where Thorne was.

He raised his palm. The ash thickened.

Then he whispered.

"Soul weapon—Zarkhalem."

Everything stopped.

The ash—every grain—turned darker. Heavier. It hummed.

And from behind him, a blade emerged. Unlike the others, this one wasn't just ash—it was alive with ancient mana, cursed flame, and divine wrath.

Zarkhalem. The Devouring Ash. A soul weapon forged from the agony of a fallen god.

It hissed as Malphas gripped it.

Thorne emerged from the smoke and charged—spinning his twin blades in a cross slash aimed at Malphas' neck.

Zarkhalem moved.

The blade didn't cut—it consumed.

It met the flames with a silent roar, devouring them entirely, swallowing Thorne's attack like it was dust.

Thorne jumped back, his face pale.

"What… what is that sword?"

Malphas didn't answer.

He just walked forward, dragging Zarkhalem. As the tip scraped the earth, ash followed—thin, black, almost invisible.

Thorne threw daggers of fire. Malphas didn't move.

The blades of ash blocked each one.

He conjured five more mid-air. They spiraled toward Thorne. Thorne dodged, weaving with inhuman speed, striking back, cutting down two of the swords.

But Zarkhalem wasn't done.

Malphas flicked his wrist—and a pulse spread.

The ash clinging to the field shifted, swirled, and mixed with Zarkhalem's cursed essence.

Thorne landed, panting.

Then… he froze.

His hand went to his chest.

A cough.

Then another.

He staggered.

"What… did you… do…?"

Malphas pointed a finger.

To the air around Thorne. A small orb of ash, faint and pulsing, floated near his face—unseen during the battle, unnoticed amid the smoke.

"You inhaled them," Malphas said softly. "While we fought. Zarkhalem's ash. It's inside you now."

Thorne's eyes widened.

"No—"

Malphas raised Zarkhalem high.

"Burn… from within, you poor, condemned soul."

Thorne screamed.

Fire burst from his chest. His skin cracked. Light erupted from his eyes and mouth. Flames spilled from inside his body like a furnace had been lit inside his soul.

He clawed at his throat.

"No—no, please—!"

His flesh turned black.

Then to ash.

And he was gone.

The smoke faded. The battlefield was silent.

Malphas lowered his sword.

"You should've stayed dead."

---

Second Gate of Hell

The battlefield was a graveyard of molten stone and shattered mountains. Smoke curled into the red sky, and flames flickered across the cracked, ruined land.

Veymar rested against a broken stone pillar, blood dripping from his forehead. His armor was scorched, cracked in places, one gauntlet missing. His chest heaved with shallow breaths. Blood soaked the rock behind him—some of it his, some of it not.

Across the field, Blight lay unmoving, his massive cleaver stabbed into the ground beside him. His body was still. Silent.

Vorn stepped through the smoke, fire crackling across his knuckles. His black armor shimmered with heat, his cape torn, burned at the edges. His eyes blazed with fury as he walked slowly, each step echoing with weight.

He looked down at Veymar with disgust.

"You were all talk after all," he said coldly.

Veymar looked up, blood running into his eyes. He said nothing.

Vorn turned his back and began walking away, flames swirling around his fists like vipers.

"The Second Pillar has fallen."

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