Val'Karas — The Crimson Room

The Crimson Room was an abyss of blazing red, walls of obsidian etched with ancient runes that pulsed with infernal energy. Flames roared like living serpents, twisting and licking the air, casting eerie shadows that danced and writhed with a life of their own. The very atmosphere trembled with anticipation.

In the heart of this hellish chamber, three figures sat in a triangle around a burning sigil scorched deep into the floor—Y'tharion, Death, and Sin. Their presences alone seemed to warp the air, dark energy coiling like smoke around them.

Death was cloaked in a swirling shroud of shadows, leaned forward, his voice a chilling whisper that rumbled like distant thunder.

"The infernals are ready."

Y'tharion, his clawed hand resting on the hilt of his cursed blade, twisted a cruel grin.

"Then it is time. Let us pay the Royal Palace a visit."

Sin, seated with unnerving calm, his eyes glowing a faint crimson, lifted a hand. From his palm, a floating square of shifting dark data manifested, casting ghostly light on their faces.

"I agree... but before we launch the attack, there is knowledge to be gleaned. Important details that could turn the tide."

Death's hollow voice echoed with curiosity.

"And what is that?"

Sin's expression sharpened as he scrolled through the spectral data.

"Azreal. You all know of his strength. Death, you were sealed away—you did not witness his rise. But Azreal defeated a marked being named Asrah."

Y'tharion's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Are you saying... we cannot defeat him?"

"No," Sin replied smoothly. "We can. But there is a technique he wielded against Asrah— a forbidden technique. One I only discovered because of the system I marked — Sarah."

Death's voice dropped, cold and grave.

"A technique?"

Sin nodded. The image shifted, showing Azreal mid-combat, surrounded by a warping distortion of time.

"It is called Severed Universe. It allows him to absorb heat from another dimension, slowing time itself around his body. The world moves sluggishly while he strikes swiftly."

Death's cloak twitched as the implications sank in.

"So he controls time... by controlling heat? Is that how Asrah fell?"

Sin shook his head slowly, his voice low and edged with weight.

"No… she didn't fall to his flames. She fell to his other ability—The Breath of Life. A cursed blessing that keeps him alive, lets him sense the faintest shred of malice in anyone who dares oppose him."

The fire roared higher, drenching the room in a searing crimson glow.

Y'tharion's eyes narrowed, his tone sharp.

"I believe the portals are ready."

Sin gave a curt nod. "Of course… yes."

Then Death's cold voice cut through the crackling blaze like a blade of ice.

"Then it's about time."

---

Second Gate of Hell — Aria's Room

The flickering light of dying embers filtered through the cracked window, casting fragmented shadows across the cold stone walls. Aria's eyes fluttered open slowly, the ceiling unfamiliar, the world spinning faintly.

Flashes of the battle surged in her mind — the roar of flames, the clash of steel, the searing pain of defeat.

She struggled to rise, pressing a trembling hand to her temple.

"I... lost."

The door creaked open gently. A maid entered, eyes wide with concern.

"Lady Aria, you shouldn't be up. Lord Veymar ordered that you rest."

Aria tried to protest, but the maid's hands were firm yet gentle as she pushed her back onto the bed and tucked the blanket carefully around her.

"Rest," the maid urged softly.

Reluctantly, Aria closed her eyes, the weight of failure pressing on her like a shroud.

---

Veymar's Throne Room

Torches lined the towering pillars, their flames dancing against the dark stone. Veymar sat poised on his throne, his black hair like a crown of frost amid the infernal heat of war.

Suddenly, the heavy doors slammed open with a crash. A breathless guard stumbled inside, armor clanking with urgency.

"My Lord! A horde of infernals marches this way. They approach the gates!"

A slow smile crept across Veymar's lips — cold and sharp as a blade.

"It's about time."

He rose, the weight of command settling on his shoulders. His gaze swept across the hall, steel and fire burning in his eyes.

"Gather the soldiers. This is war."

His voice echoed like thunder, igniting a spark of fierce resolve in every soul present.

---

Fifth Gate of Hell

The air trembled with the heavy footsteps of approaching guards. Dragos slammed his fist against the stone wall, the reverberation shaking the very ground.

"Those damn infernals are coming," he growled.

Drakos bowed sharply.

"Orders, my Lord?"

Dragos turned, his eyes blazing.

"Gather every soldier. No one breaches this gate. We protect it with our lives."

The warriors scrambled to their positions, weapons gleaming and ready. The scent of blood and brimstone thickened.

---

Fourth Gate of Hell — Serpentine Gardens

Amid lush, twisted foliage burning with eerie green flames, Selmora stood atop a spire, the fire entwining around her like a living cloak. Her eyes gleamed with cruel delight.

"So they've come," she whispered, voice silky and deadly.

Nyssara, her second, bowed low.

"Yes, my Lady."

Selmora licked her lips, a predator savoring the hunt.

"I hope the human infernals are among them. I want to hear them scream."

The green flames flared as her laughter echoed, chilling and sinister.

---

Third Gate of Hell

On the ramparts of a fortress carved from blackened stone, Xaltheon stood sentinel. His sharp gaze pierced the horizon.

"Reinforce the gates! Form battle formations!" His voice cut through the clamor like a blade.

"We will not falter. Not today!"

"Yes, My lord!" The soldiers roared in reply, steel clashing as they prepared for the onslaught.

---

First Gate of Hell

Stretching lazily, Malphas cracked his neck, a wicked grin splitting his face.

"Infernals, huh? Finally."

Morgath stood beside him, calm and ready.

"What are your orders?"

Malphas' eyes gleamed with bloodlust.

"Send them out. Let's give them a welcome party."

He raised his hands, dark energy crackling into jagged bolts.

---

Final Gate of Hell

Hulk's massive frame was rigid, every muscle tense with anticipation.

A guard burst through the doors, breathless and alarmed.

"Lord Hulk! The infernals are moving toward the gate!"

"Already?" Hulk's voice was low, fierce.

"Gather the soldiers. I will inform Lord Azreal."

He moved like a storm, charging through the corridors toward the Lava Lake.

---

Lava Lake — Azreal's Domain

Molten lava bubbled and hissed as Azreal emerged, his body cloaked in searing flame. Drops of molten rock dripped from his form, sizzling where they hit the cracked earth.

Hulk dropped to one knee before him.

"My Lord."

Azreal nodded, his voice cold but commanding.

"They've come. I know."

His heavy robe billowed as he stepped fully onto the scorched ground, the heat warping the air around him.

"Inform the Pillars. It is time for battle."

He raised his hand. A dark gate shimmered into existence before him.

---

Royal Palace — Azreal's Room

Azreal stood before a mirror, buttoning the coat of his battle attire. His eyes were sharp, alert.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered near the window — an assassin, blade drawn.

In a heartbeat, Azreal's hand shot out, grabbing the attacker by the neck. From his palm, molten lava erupted, engulfing the assassin in flames that melted flesh and bone alike.

When the fire died, only ash remained.

Azreal's gaze softened slightly as he regarded the pile of bones.

"I suppose the maids will have to clean this up."

He turned and strode out of the room, cloak swirling behind him, ready to face the storm.

---

Val'Karas — The Crimson Room

Back in the heart of Val'Karas, Sin moved pieces across a map, the shapes representing the five gates of hell and the infernal armies advancing on each.

Death watched, a cruel smile on his lips.

"Then... let the battle begin."

Y'tharion rose, the flames reflecting in his cold eyes.

"This war will be remembered for ages."

Sin's crimson eyes gleamed as the infernal forces prepared to strike, a storm of blood and fire about to engulf the realms.

Final Gate of Hell — Battlefield

The sky groaned with pressure. Clouds twisted into a crimson vortex as the ground cracked with anticipation. The wasteland stretched wide, broken by jagged rock formations and pools of molten lava. The heat was suffocating, yet the soldiers of Hell stood resolute. The final gate had opened — and war had begun.

Hulk, General of the Final Gate, stood at the front with his elite guards behind him, all clad in dark obsidian armor, enchanted with runes of flame resistance. The rumble of footsteps grew louder as thousands of infernals approached, the ground trembling with their arrival.

"Hold the line!" Hulk roared, his voice booming like a war drum.

Suddenly, a brilliant gate shimmered into existence beside him — burning symbols etched into the air in spirals. From the blinding light stepped Azreal, wreathed in steam and smoke, his long coat trailing behind him like a living shadow.

The infernal guards dropped to one knee instantly.

Azreal raised a hand, silencing them all. "Where are they?"

Hulk pointed to the eastern horizon. "Approaching, my Lord. Led by Ravik Thornhelm. Human infernal. Ranked First of the Crimson Breed."

Azreal's eyes narrowed, gleaming crimson. "Then this… should be far enough."

He lifted one hand, palm open.

"Blue."

In his hand, a small swirling orb of blue flame spun rapidly, shrieking with unstable energy. It shifted — transforming into a radiant arrow of spiraling fire and condensed light. Azreal slowly pulled his fingers back, drawing an invisible bowstring.

"Let's thin their numbers."

He released.

The arrow screamed across the wasteland.

BOOOOOOM!!!

The blast cut through the battlefield, but it wasn't fire or heat that struck. Where it hit, soldiers collapsed instantly, their bodies frozen mid-step before crumpling. Arms and legs fell limp as if gravity itself had betrayed them. Eyes widened, mouths opened in silent screams — then nothing. The life within them, the very flow of their eseence had been erased.

Those on the periphery didn't escape unscathed. One soldier swung his sword, only for it to hang in the air, suspended unnaturally. His arm refused to move further, joints locked in place. Another tried to charge, feet pounding the dirt, but each step faltered — his legs no longer obeyed. Limbs twitched erratically, movements stuttering, jerking like broken puppets.

Even Hulk, who had raised an arm instinctively, staggered. His body shivered, the muscles around his chest and shoulders seizing uncontrollably. The invisible weight of erased phenomena pressed down on him, his training and instincts rendered useless.

All around, the army slowed, confused and terrified. Their formations broke as comrades simply vanished from action, leaving gaps where soldiers once ran and fought. Some tripped over fallen bodies, their senses betraying them, reactions dulled by the subtle, creeping influence of the blue flames.

When the haze cleared, the battlefield was quiet — unnervingly so. Half the army lay motionless, lifeless yet unburnt, while the others staggered, struggling to regain control of their bodies. Every action, every instinct, had been challenged by an unseen force.

Through this carnage, one figure emerged unscathed—towering, unbroken, a predator amidst the chaos: Ravik Thornhelm.

His chest rose like a boulder with each breath. His cracked, obsidian skin glimmered like molten stone. Twin gauntlets of flame clung to his arms, casting flickering shadows over his form. Behind him, the Cinderborn marched, grotesque hybrids of flame and bone, and the Demon Infernals followed, wielding jagged obsidian halberds that seemed to drink the surrounding heat.

"Ready the Infernator," Hulk commanded.

The hell guards responded in perfect synchrony. With a collective chant, they poured infernal energy into the monstrous weapon. Five rotating segments spun within a framework of burning rings, the entire construct vibrating with lethal potential. Sparks flew, fire licked the edges of the cannon, and the air itself seemed to hum in anticipation.

"One hundred percent charge," a guard confirmed, his voice trembling under the magnitude of the energy.

Azreal's eyes scanned the remaining infernal army, unflinching. "Fire," he said, voice like ice over flame.

The Infernator roared to life. A deafening explosion erupted as the weapon discharged. Waves of flame and superheated wind blasted outward, scorching everything in their path. Infernals were torn apart, bodies reduced to ashes before they even realized the danger. Ground melted and cracked, molten rivers carving paths through the battlefield. Smoke and fire twisted upward, forming pillars of heat that blotted out the sun.

The blast didn't discriminate. Weapons melted in their holders' hands, armor liquefied under the intense heat, and structures were leveled to nothing but blackened ruins. Those who survived the initial wave staggered backward, scorched, panting, bodies trembling under the lingering firestorm. The battlefield had become a furnace, a testament to the Infernator's destructive power.

Azreal's voice was calm, almost casual.

"Go."

Like a tide of wrath, Hulk and Hell's army surged forward. The ground trembled beneath their charge, a rolling quake that shattered stones and rattled the air. Dust and ash rose in a choking cloud, curling around their armored forms like smoke from a funeral pyre.

Steel met flesh in bursts of grinding metal and snapping bone. Flame collided with magic, painting the battlefield in streaks of fire and arcs of blinding light. Screams of agony and defiance echoed, bouncing across the scarred land, punctuated by the deep roar of explosions.

The battlefield became a living nightmare. Blades shimmered like liquid fire, slicing through swirling ash and embers, while bodies fell in waves, scattering molten cinders across the scarred, blackened ground. The air itself vibrated under the intensity, each strike and counterstrike sending tremors through the obsidian terrain.

Explosions ripped through the infernal sky, tearing jagged fissures of fire and smoke that pulsed with malevolent energy. Rivers of molten rock and magma surged in unpredictable flows, carving channels through the battlefield as the infernals pressed forward, relentless and unyielding. Every step forward left scorched impressions, every swing of a weapon seared the air and ground alike.

It was no longer a battle—it was a storm of infernal carnage, a war that had swallowed even the essence of the world itself. The screams of the fallen were drowned beneath the roar of destruction.

Amidst the hellish symphony— Azreal and Ravik walked calmly toward each other, as if the world around them was unworthy of notice.

"Lord Azreal." Ravik's voice was low, gravelly. "It's an honor. I am Ravik. First of the Crimson Breed."

Without warning, four infernals leapt from behind Ravik — their weapons raised.

Ssshhk! Ssshhk!

Flaming spears impaled them mid-air, launched by Azreal's hell guards. The bodies dropped, smoking and silent.

Azreal didn't break stride.

"You're one of the human infernals. So you've come to die."

Ravik smirked. "We came to conquer. But… if it ends with killing a legend, I'm happy to start here."

He punched.

The air split. The wind howled. The earth beneath them cracked.

But Azreal caught the punch.

With one hand.

The ground ruptured beneath them in a wide circle, unable to bear the force. Ravik's eyes widened in disbelief.

"He… caught that?"

Azreal's palm began to glow — red-hot.

BOOOOM!

A pillar of searing flame erupted point-blank into Ravik's chest. The impact hurled him backward like a meteor, sending him flying across the battlefield. He crashed into a jagged hill of blackened stone, the mountain itself splitting from the force.

The field fell silent for a second. Then—

Ravik stood.

Bruised. Bleeding. Cracks running through his infernal skin. But standing.

He wiped blood from his mouth and grinned. "Not bad."

Azreal appeared behind him in a blur.

Fwoosh.

A sword of blue flame spiraled into existence from his hand — cold and Without hesitation, Azreal drove it through Ravik's back.

Ravik's eyes widened in horror. "What… is happening to me?!"

"My body… my limbs… I can't move… it's… slipping away…" he thought, panic rising as his fire soul faltered. "No… this can't be…! I can't even summon a spark."

The blue flames spread like a tide over him, unraveling the very phenomena that sustained his infernal existence. His form flared and twisted, screams caught and swallowed by the cold, empty fire. Within seconds, Ravik crumbled to ash — not burned, not charred, but erased, leaving no trace of his body or essence behind.

Azreal didn't look back. He walked away, boots crunching against the scorched battlefield, leaving a silence broken only by the faint, icy shimmer of blue flame lingering in the air.

---

Second Gate of Hell — Battlefield

Smoke blanketed the horizon like a funeral shroud. The ground was scorched black, riddled with craters and rivers of magma. Bodies — both infernal and invader — littered the ground. The cries of the wounded filled the air.

At the center of it all stood Veymar, clad in majestic infernal armor lined with red crystal. His sword — a jagged obsidian blade with a flaming edge — pulsed with fury. Flames danced around him in a whirlwind, a storm of heat and rage.

Opposite him stood a human infernal with crimson eyes and jagged horns, crackling with red lightning.

"We shall conquer the second gate , Veymar!" the creature roared.

"I would love to see you try ."

They clashed.

Sword met claw. Fire clashed with lightning. Each blow shattered the ground.

"The war has begun".

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