Fifth Gate of Hell – Gate of Unholy Pyre

The sky above the Fifth Gate burned red. Smoke curled through the air like serpents, and fire raged across the battlefield. Dragos stood tall on the frontlines, his cape swaying behind him, his eyes narrow and calm—like thunder waiting to strike.

He raised one hand slowly.

"Go."

The command was low, barely above a whisper, but the soldiers surged forward with fire in their hearts.

They collided with the infernal tide in an eruption of chaos. Steel met claw, flesh tore, and the air shook with the sound of a thousand screams. Fire erupted everywhere—walls of flame clawed at the sky, swallowing men whole. Blood sprayed across the scorched battlefield, painting the blackened earth a cruel crimson.

Above them, dragons soared, shadows cutting through smoke and fire. Their jaws opened wide, releasing torrents of flame so bright it was like the heavens themselves were weeping fire. Infernals shrieked as they burned to ash, their bodies scattering into cinders that drifted into the wind.

The battlefield was a furnace. Ash rained down like snow, coating broken swords, severed limbs, and charred corpses. The very ground was blackened, cracked, glowing faintly with the heat of a world on fire. The air reeked of blood and smoke, a hellscape forged in battle.

From the infernal ranks, one stood taller. Human-shaped, with claws of fire and a smirk carved deep into his face. He moved like a phantom, slashing down soldiers one after another—no mercy, no pause.

BAM!

A flaming punch sent the infernal flying backwards. It dug its claws into the earth, flames flaring from its fingertips to stop itself. It looked up, eyes locking with Dragos.

"I believe you to be the pillar of this gate," it said, voice thick with heat.

Dragos stepped forward, his voice calm, heavy. "Yes. I am Dragos. The Fifth Pillar."

The infernal grinned. "Then I must introduce myself. I am Lioran."

"You should turn back, Lioran," Dragos said. "Leave with your army while you still can."

Lioran's grin widened, fire flickering from the corners of his mouth. "Sorry. That's not an option."

"Then we have no deal."

"Of course."

Without warning, an infernal lunged at Dragos from behind—but before it could strike, a massive dragon made of flame and shadow erupted from the ground, swallowing the enemy whole. Dragos's eyes lit up with a dull, golden glow.

"Make sure you chew on it properly," he muttered.

Lioran's claws ignited, growing longer, sharper. Dragos extended his hand, and a spear of crimson flame formed, spinning in his grip. The air vibrated.

They launched at each other—clash! Sparks lit the sky.

Claw against spear.

Fire against fire.

Lioran swung wildly, claws blazing. Dragos twirled his spear, deflecting with fluid grace. He knocked Lioran's arms upward, thrusting the spear toward his chest—but a head made of flame sprouted from Lioran's shoulder, clamping down on the spear with jagged, fiery teeth.

Dragos narrowed his eyes. His weapon was stuck.

Lioran's now-free claw swung toward his chest—Dragos ducked and flashed backward. But Lioran vanished in a burst of flame and reappeared behind him, both hands clenched and burning like a meteor. He smashed down on Dragos, slamming him into the ground with explosive force.

The battlefield trembled. A crater formed.

Dragos stood slowly, brushing ash off his shoulders. A claw struck him across the chest—tearing through his robes—but as the dust cleared, his skin was untouched. Instead, it was covered in thick, glimmering black scales.

The wound never touched flesh.

Lioran stepped forward to press the advantage, but Dragos raised both arms.

From the sky above, dozens of sharp scales rained down like meteors—each one glowing with power.

Lioran dodged, weaved through the storm of scales, but each one that missed dug deep into the ground, shaking the earth.

He raised his claws defensively—BOOM!

The scales exploded at once, sending a tidal wave of destruction outward. Dirt, rock, and fire blasted through the field.

The dust settled—and Lioran stood, barely, but his body had changed. Flaming bones sprouted from his limbs, ribs visible through cracks in his flesh. His aura was darker now—more primal.

He raised his hand, and spikes of fiery bone erupted from the ground beneath Dragos, but the scaled warrior leapt upward.

"Above!" Lioran shouted.

Dragos looked up—Lioran was diving down from the sky like a comet, one massive, burning fist crashing into him.

BOOM!

The ground split open. Dragos lay in a shallow crater, still.

Lioran landed, cracking his neck. "Oi, hope you ain't dead yet."

Dust drifted in the air—then a shimmer of light. Dragos rose slowly, scales covering his entire body like dragon armor.

"...Scaled Warrior," he whispered.

Then he vanished.

BAM! A punch to Lioran's gut.

Before the infernal could recover—BAM! BAM! BAM!—Dragos appeared and disappeared, launching a storm of punches so fast they drew burning streaks in the air.

Each hit rattled the bones in Lioran's body, despite the flame armor.

"He's faster than before," Lioran thought, coughing blood. "I can't keep up—I'll lose if I don't—"

"Bone Skewers!"

He roared, and his body became a shield of flaming bones, jagged and menacing. Dragos halted, eyes narrowing.

Lioran chuckled. "What now? You can't touch me if I'm covered in this."

BAM!

Another punch.

Lioran flew back like a broken toy, crashing through boulders.

Dragos stepped forward. "What makes you think I can't punch you just because you're covered in bones? My scales are tougher."

Lioran rose, panting. He dashed forward with a scream—but Dragos met him halfway, drove a fist straight into his stomach. Lioran's body folded into a U-shape.

WHAM! Dragos smashed him into the ground, cracking the battlefield.

Blood poured from Lioran's mouth as he staggered back.

Dragos raised his hands. "Soul Weapon…"

Flames surged from his arms, swirling with power.

"TIGRE VORDE."

Two dragon-shaped gauntlets formed around his fists—glowing red, flickering with heat and spirit energy.

He punched the air—BOOM! A massive shockwave blasted forward. Lioran raised his arms to block but was pushed back.

Dragos appeared behind him—BOOM! Another punch.

Then another.

And another.

He surrounded Lioran with shockwaves, caging him in an invisible storm. The ground cracked. Air split. Flames twisted. Lioran screamed as his body was crushed between the waves.

SPLASH.

Blood. Flesh. Bone.

The shockwaves collapsed, and Lioran was no more.

Dragos stood in the silence, the gauntlets fading into golden ash. He breathed out steam, like a dragon after battle.

He turned to the soldiers still fighting. "...Fifth Gate. Secured."

---

Third Gate of Hell – Gate of Blighted Chains

The battlefield of the Third Gate was madness itself.

Flames roared across the sky, raining down like an infernal storm. The earth cracked under the weight of explosions. Screams of soldiers—both human and infernal—echoed in the chaos. Steel clashed against claw, blade against fang.

But at the very center of the storm stood two figures—opposites, yet bound by destiny.

A woman, tall and viciously elegant. Her body humanoid, but her eyes burned with molten orange fire. Her hair writhed into endless vines of flame and thorns, alive like serpents ready to devour. She was Mireya, a creature of destruction and beauty.

Before her stood Xaltheon, the Second Pillar. Cloaked in flowing black shadows, his towering frame radiated calm authority. His gaze—icy, unshaken—never left hers.

"You're Mireya, correct?" His voice was steady, low, like steel dragged across stone.

The infernal smirked, lips curling with arrogance. "Want to beg, Second Pillar?"

"Don't flatter yourself." His eyes glowed faintly, dangerous.

The ground shuddered—then erupted.

Chains of darkness burst upward like spears, ripping through the soil with impossible speed, homing in on her from every angle.

Mireya moved with dazzling grace. Her steps barely kissed the ground as she ran along one of the chains, spinning into the air. Flaming vines sharpened into thorns and lashed toward him, blazing like whips of fire.

Xaltheon didn't even blink. The chains moved on their own, weaving around him in a storm, blocking and deflecting every strike. Sparks and embers scattered with each clash.

One chain suddenly coiled around her ankle, snapping shut like a trap. Mireya's smirk faltered—then her world turned upside down.

The chain yanked with brutal force, slamming her body into the ground with a thunderous CRASH. Dust exploded outward, the battlefield quaking.

Before she could recover, dozens more chains lashed at her like vipers. She roared, her vines coiling together into a massive flaming blade, and with a sweeping slash, she severed the chain holding her leg. Sparks exploded as she rolled aside, dodging the incoming barrage.

She rose in a blur, charging at Xaltheon with her burning vine-blade. But the black storm around him never faltered—the chains refused to let her close. They snapped, lunged, constricted—forcing her to carve a path through them with desperate precision.

More chains erupted behind Xaltheon, stabbing down like divine judgment. Mireya twisted through them, each dodge more frantic, each slash dripping with savage grace. She danced amid death itself.

Then—SNAP.

Xaltheon raised his fingers. The battlefield froze for a breath.

Every chain that had missed before stabbed into the ground, glowing symbols igniting along their length. They shot upward again, encircling Mireya in a spiraling prison. Within moments, she was locked inside a sphere of layered, twisting chains that pulsed with dark energy.

"Seven-Layered Chains," he intoned.

Mireya only smiled. Her body dissolved into vines, scattering like a swarm of petals—then reformed behind him. Her blade hissed downward, ready to cleave his spine.

But the chains reacted faster. One pierced her leg. Another, her throat. The rest slashed in perfect unison. SLICES. Her body fell in pieces to the ground, twitching.

And still, she smiled.

Her torn flesh writhed, vines surging from the stumps. In moments, her body knit back together, standing whole once again.

"So… you can swap places with your vines." Xaltheon's tone was cold, clinical.

Mireya licked her lips, but her eyes narrowed. She stayed her blade. Her mind whirled, analyzing.

His chains… they move on their own. They're not controlled. Autonomous, alive. The only time he commanded them directly was that sealing technique. Attacking head-on… is suicide.

She shot upward, vines bursting beneath her feet like coiling springs, launching her into the air.

If I want to win, I need to overwhelm him from range.

With a roar, she thrust her hands forward. Thousands of flaming vines erupted, streaking toward Xaltheon like a swarm of burning spears.

But his chains met them, slashing and tearing. Vine after vine shredded, the battlefield raining ash and charred petals.

"If this continues," Xaltheon said coolly, eyes never leaving hers, "you'll run out of vines. I suggest you rethink your strategy, Mireya."

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" she screamed, fury igniting her aura. "SHUT UP!"

The ground split open, disgorging an endless tide of vines. A storm of fire and thorns surged forward, swallowing the world in burning chaos.

Xaltheon's chains answered, a black ocean rising against her infernal tide. The battlefield became a war of writhing serpents—vine against chain, fire against shadow.

Then—her plan unfolded.

As the chains shredded her vines, a single opening appeared. In a flash, Mireya appeared at his back, vines snapping around his arms, binding him.

She laughed, her voice venomous. "Got you. Now you can't move. Even if your chains strike, I can't guarantee your body survives. What would you like to say before you die, Second Pillar?"

Her mocking laughter echoed.

Xaltheon slowly turned his head, his eyes burning with calm disdain. "…Foolish infernal."

His gaze flared. "Soul Weapon…"

The battlefield erupted. Golden energy burst forth like a newborn sun.

"Zerach'Lun!"

His black chains transfigured into radiant divine chains of light, each tipped with a gleaming kunai blade. They whirled around him in a storm of holy fire, coiling his arms like golden armor.

Mireya's smirk collapsed. Her vines touched the golden chains—and ignited instantly, burning away in shrieks of agony.

"What—what is this?!" she gasped.

The golden chains coiled not around her body—but around something deeper. Her soul. They glowed inside her chest, binding her very fire essence.

Xaltheon stepped toward her slowly, each step heavy, inevitable. "It does not bind the body. It binds the soul."

"No!" She screamed, aura blazing violently.

"Don't move," he said coldly. "But then again… you infernals rarely think."

STAB.

The golden chain pierced through her chest—through her fire soul itself. Blood gushed as her body convulsed, her blazing eyes dimming.

She collapsed, lifeless.

Xaltheon exhaled softly, letting the storm fade. "I forgot to mention… the moment you attempt to use magic, the chains activate. Instant death."

The battlefield was still raging in the distance, but here—silence.

His golden chains dissolved into motes of dust, glittering as they vanished. Xaltheon turned his eyes toward the burning horizon.

"The Third Gate," he whispered, his cloak trailing as he walked forward. "…Secured."

---

Final Gate of Hell – Outside the Gate

Azreal walked calmly through the battlefield. Flames flickered. Smoke rose high.

Hulk approached him, breathing heavily. "Still infernals… but just small ones. We've got it."

Azreal nodded. "Good."

He took a step forward—SHNK!

A blade pierced his chest.

Blood dripped down.

His eyes widened. Hulk's face twisted in horror.

They turned—a cloaked figure stood behind them.

No aura. No presence.

"Who… are you?" Azreal gasped, blood in his throat.

The figure said nothing.

Hulk roared and charged—but the figure raised a hand.

BOOM.

A wave of energy blasted Hulk away like a ragdoll.

The blade twisted deeper.

Azreal fell to one knee, coughing blood.

"I said… who are you…?"

The figure slowly raised its hood—eyes like pitch, and a smile not of this world.

The Final gate of hell just got worse. Who is this new enemy. Will Azreal die at his hands?

---

(To be continued…)

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