The battlefield was a nightmare brought to life. Bodies of Sundew and Shadowban soldiers littered the blood-soaked earth, their lifeless forms stacked in grotesque mounds. The clash of weapons and the cries of the dying had long since faded, replaced by an eerie silence. The land itself seemed to mourn, its once verdant plains now darkened with ash and the unholy ichor of war. Above, the sky was a deep crimson, as if stained by the carnage below, and an unnatural wind howled across the desolation.
Amidst the chaos stood Zarman, an imposing figure wreathed in shadows. His dark robes billowed around him, untouched by the wind, and his eyes burned with an unholy light. In his hands, he carved sigils into the air, each stroke leaving behind a trail of crackling, blood-red energy. His voice, low and guttural, uttered incantations in an ancient language long forgotten by humanity. Around him, the blood of the fallen began to converge, flowing unnaturally towards him and forming a vast, intricate circle etched into the ground.
The sigils flared brighter as the spell neared completion. Zarman's lips twisted into a wicked smile as he surveyed his handiwork. The circle pulsed with dark energy, and the air itself seemed to thrum with malevolence. Just then, a shimmer appeared in the space beside him, coalescing into the form of Xeruo. The figure was spectral, his image flickering like a shadow caught in the flames. Despite the insubstantiality, Xeruo's presence radiated menace.
"Zarman," Xeruo’s voice was cold and sharp, cutting through the oppressive silence. "Is it done? Is the plan finally in motion?"
Zarman didn’t look at him. His focus remained on the glowing circle before him. "Almost," he hissed, his voice carrying the weight of an ancient storm. "The blood of these fools shall forge the bond. Watch and witness the gateway to Hell itself."
As if in response to his words, the blood circle flared with a blinding crimson light. The ground beneath it began to tremble, cracks spidering outward as an otherworldly force tore at the fabric of reality. The stench of sulfur and decay filled the air, and a deafening roar erupted as the circle collapsed inward, creating a vortex of darkness and flame. The portal to Hell had opened.
The first demon emerged, a hulking, grotesque creature with jagged horns and molten skin. Its guttural growl echoed across the battlefield, followed by countless others. They poured out in an unending tide—clawed beasts, winged horrors, and nightmarish entities that defied description. Their arrival darkened the already crimson sky, and the temperature plummeted, the chill laced with the promise of death.
Far away, the surge of demonic energy rippled across the world. It was not just felt—it was sensed, a visceral wrongness that reverberated in the hearts of all who lived. In a hidden sanctuary, the enigmatic Master and his Disciple paused their meditation, their eyes snapping open simultaneously. The Master’s gaze was grave, his voice a soft murmur. "It has begun."
Elsewhere, Groviko, the lone warrior, stood atop a cliff, his massive blade resting against his shoulder. He felt the shift in the air, the cold seeping into his very bones. His lips curled into a grimace as he tightened his grip on his weapon. "So, the gates have been opened," he muttered. "It seems the time for waiting is over."
In their respective domains, the Eight Rulers of the elemental planes sensed the disturbance. They were ancient beings, each embodying a primal force, and the rift between Hell and Earth was like a dagger plunged into the delicate balance they upheld. One by one, they turned their attention to the mortal plane, their expressions a mix of anger, fear, excitement, and determination.
In the deepest recesses of the spirit world, King Yama sat on his obsidian throne. His piercing gaze seemed to see through the veils of reality, observing the chaos unfolding in the mortal realm. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "The balance has been shattered… The gates have opened."
Back on the battlefield, Xeruo’s projection flickered as he watched the scene unfold with mounting excitement. The demons swarmed around Zarman, who stood unmoving, a dark conductor orchestrating an infernal symphony. Xeruo’s lips curled into a wide, manic grin, and a low chuckle escaped him, growing louder and more unhinged with each passing moment.
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"Yes!" Xeruo’s laughter rang out, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a twisted melody. "YES! Let the world burn! Let them all drown in the fire of my design!"
As his laughter echoed, Zarman raised his hands high, the sigils around him flaring one last time before dissipating. The portal surged wider, its edges crackling with chaotic energy. More demons spilled forth, their sheer numbers blotting out the horizon. Zarman turned to face Xeruo, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows of his hood.
"The bridge is forged," Zarman said, his tone calm yet laced with an undertone of triumph. "Now begins the true reckoning."
Xeruo’s laughter only grew louder, reverberating into the depths of Hell itself. The tide of demons surged forward, spreading out across the battlefield and beyond, their guttural cries signaling the beginning of a new age—an age of darkness and ruin.
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The air itself seemed alive with chaos as the disciple stepped into the vast expanse of the Limbo Circle. A sea of horrors stretched endlessly in all directions—a writhing mass of demons and monsters of every imaginable form. Young and ancient, weak and titanic, they swarmed in a frenzied tide, their grotesque forms illuminated by the blood-red glow of the infernal skies.
Some crawled on countless limbs, their jagged claws scraping against the ground. Others loomed above the horde, towering behemoths with glowing eyes and maws that dripped with malevolence. Winged fiends beat their tattered, bat-like wings as they fought to stay aloft above the crowd, their guttural screeches blending into an overwhelming cacophony of despair.
The disciple’s breath hitched as their eyes darted from one abomination to another. Shapeless horrors writhed in grotesque mockeries of life. Armored titans with molten skin bellowed orders to lesser creatures, while shadowy figures darted between them, their movements unnaturally smooth. Everywhere, claws and teeth snapped, weapons clashed, and monstrous roars filled the burning skies.
And at the center of it all was the portal—a glowing, swirling nexus of pale light, a beacon of salvation amidst the madness. But it was no refuge; instead, it drew the hordes like moths to a flame, every demon clambering over another to be the first to breach its threshold.
The disciple froze, the enormity of the scene rendering them motionless. “Master... how can we possibly—”
“Stay close,” the master said, their voice calm yet unnervingly firm, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Without warning, the master stepped forward. Though their figure remained composed, the very air around them shifted. A suffocating pressure swept outward, causing the closest demons to falter and recoil instinctively. The disciple staggered slightly, the sheer weight of the master’s presence pressing down on their chest. It wasn’t just raw power—it was refined, absolute dominance, the kind that belonged to only the highest tiers of existence.
The horde hesitated. Even the more ancient demons—ones who had existed for eons in the depths of hell—seemed momentarily uncertain. Their primal instincts screamed at them to flee.
The master unsheathed their blade with a sound like a low thunderclap. The weapon, glowing faintly with an otherworldly energy, radiated an aura that seemed to cut through reality itself. It wasn’t just a tool; it was a relic of annihilation, its presence alone enough to cause weaker demons to wither.
The disciple barely had time to process this shift before it happened.
With one swing, the master unleashed a cataclysmic arc of energy. The air screamed as the blade carved through the masses with unimaginable precision and force. A wave of destruction swept through the horde, tearing apart everything in its path. A million demons—no, more—were cleaved apart in an instant.
Time seemed to freeze. Bodies disintegrated, shadows dissolved, and the earth itself cracked under the sheer weight of the attack. The lingering energy from the swing hummed in the air, vibrating at a frequency that made even the strongest demons falter.
Silence fell for a heartbeat. The surviving demons stared, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. The disciple’s mouth went dry as they glanced at their master. This wasn’t strength—it was transcendence. No mere mortal could command such devastating power.
The master stood amidst the devastation, their blade faintly aglow, their presence towering like an unyielding monolith.
“Go,” the master said softly, their tone carrying a finality that brooked no argument.
Before the demons could process what had happened or discern who wielded such overwhelming might, the master and disciple darted towards the portal. With a final, fleeting glance at the stunned horde, they plunged through the glowing gateway, leaving Limbo behind.
The portal snapped shut, its pale light vanishing. And the demons, realizing what had occurred, erupted into chaos once more. Some began to whisper, their guttural voices trembling: “A sovereign?” “No... a calamity...” But it was too late—the master and disciple were gone.