Abigale moved through the dimly lit corridors of the underground temple, his footsteps echoing ominously. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and the chanting of ancient spells. Sages flanked him, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods, carrying a container that held Asmodey’s soul. Another group of sages followed, dragging Irmin’s limp, corrupted body. Irmin’s eyes were vacant, his mind shattered from the relentless torment.

The ritual chamber was a vast, circular room adorned with sigils in the ancient Khanriya language, glowing with a sinister red light. In the center was a stone altar, where Irmin’s body was bound with chains inscribed with runes. Abigale positioned himself at the head of the altar, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

The sages began the soul-removal process, chanting in unison as they surrounded Irmin’s body. The air grew colder, and the sigils on the floor pulsed with a dark energy. Asmodey’s soul container began to shake violently, reacting to the ritual’s power. Abigale watched, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

Asmodey’s voice echoed through the chamber, filled with malevolent glee. "Finally, I will have my vessel. Surtur and all he loves will be destroyed. And I will unleash the gods sealed by that fool Morax and the other Shades of the Primordial One."

Irmin’s body convulsed, and his soul was forcibly ripped from his chest. His screams of agony filled the chamber, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain. His soul hovered above his body, writhing in anguish, unable to find solace. Abigale seized the soul with a swift motion, using sealing magic to trap it within a crystal, preventing its escape.

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"Now, for the final phase," Abigale announced, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

The sages prepared the second ritual, positioning the container holding Asmodey’s soul above Irmin’s lifeless body. An Ink Man, a dark and shadowy figure, dared to ask, "Why was Irmin chosen as the vessel?"

Abigale’s eyes glinted with dark amusement. "Irmin is a clone of Nathan, which means he possesses Surtur’s power. Asmodey requires a vessel made from the blood of Artemis. Irmin’s body, created from that very blood, is perfect."

The transfer began, and Asmodey’s soul descended into Irmin’s body. Irmin’s form jerked and twisted as Asmodey’s essence invaded every cell. The process was excruciating, bones snapping and reforming, skin stretching and tearing. Asmodey’s dark laughter echoed through the chamber as he took control, his rebirth complete. Irmin’s eyes turned blacker than the darkest night, and thorns erupted from his shoulders, his new form a grotesque mockery of humanity.

Asmodey stood, flexing his new limbs, a sinister smile on his lips. "I am reborn," he declared. His voice was a deep, resonant growl, filled with malevolence. "Prepare an army, Abigale. We will bring war to the Seven Kingdoms."

Abigale bowed, eager to obey. He summoned Partial Construct Demons, beings capable of possessing humans and turning them into living weapons. The ritual chamber filled with the screams of the possessed, their bodies twisting and contorting into monstrous shapes. Blood splattered across the sigils, and the air was filled with the stench of sulfur and decay.

Abigale watched as the demons took shape, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. "The war begins now," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with an ominous promise.

Asmodey looked out over his newly formed army, his black eyes shining with the lust for destruction. "Soon, Surtur," he muttered, "soon you and everything you hold dear will burn."