Hell's air seemed more turbulent than usual, the ever-present miasma churning and roiling like a living entity stirring deep in its slumber.
Sizzling and crackles of superheated air sprinkled the thick, sulfurous haze; distorting the landscape into a nightmare of shifting shadows, dancing flames, and menacing blurred figures.
The ground beneath trembled with the weight of violent conflicts: each tremor a reminder of the chaos that had temporarily, suddenly, got a hold of this region.
Roars and carnage shook the air, as a song of violence echoed across the basin from beyond.
Kaelgor stood at the center of the storm.
His imposing, tall, black-clad body was a pillar of cold, unyielding power.
He was unharmed, untouched, his black steeled armor shimmering dully in the hellish light; not a single scratch or dent marring its cold surface.
He had been fighting for minutes, had been cutting a path through the endless horde of enemies, and yet he bore no marks of the struggle.
It was a testament to his strength, his skill, his absolute dominance over the lesser beings who dared to oppose him.
To those who thought were his equal.
He lazily threw an arm to the side, a casual, almost dismissive gesture that sent a wave of demonic energy rippling outward.
The surrounding air shimmered and flickered with the manifestation of his will, and the demons that had been pressing forward stumbled back. Their actions, their courage, faltering for a split second in the face of his overwhelming presence and confidence.
Before him, Malgrim had an expression of horror etched onto his gaunt, insectile face.
One of his good arms clutched the stump of where one of his arms had been. The cut was clean, brutal, and had been delivered with surgical precision.
Dark green blood pulsed from the wound, staining the cracked earth beneath him.
Another arm hung limply at his side, the bones shattered, the muscles torn; now only a useless appendage that only added to his growing sense of despair.
Two battered, yet still usable arms held broken and chipped daggers, their edges dulled, their power spent, their integrity doubted in the ordeal to come.
Tears riddled the black carapace armor that protected his body, each serration proof to the ferocity of Kaelgor's assault.
Dark green blood flowed freely from his wounds, pooling around his feet, mixing with the ash and dust of the battlefield.
His four green eyes, once so cold and calculating, were now wide with fear, darting frantically as he searched for an escape that did not exist.
For the past several minutes, he hadn't been fighting: he had been surviving!
If not for the sacrifice of numerous peak-tier demons, who had thrown themselves into Kaelgor's path to take the killing blows in his place, he would have already died.
His army was decimated, his forces scattered, his pride and confidence in tatters.
He had been a fool to think he could challenge Kaelgor, to believe that his careful preparations and his numerical advantage would be enough to overcome the century-old devil's overwhelming power.
By this point, various devil signatures had already surrounded them.
They hung at the edges of the battle, their auras a silent, menacing presence, their intentions clear.
They were vultures, waiting for the moment when Kaelgor's strength faltered, when the two peak-tiers had worn each other down enough that they could swoop in and claim the prize.
The law fragment, burning within Kaelgor's chest, was a temptation that no devil could resist.
Even those of different paths would kill to obtain such a treasure.
At the side Kaelgor's eyes burned with rage, not at the vultures, not at the chaos, but at Malgrim.
He had been delayed by the skinny, multi-armed devil; trapped by his interference.
Although he had been on the winning side in his engagement, and although he had moved kilometers away from the basin and towards his fortress, he was still held back in the end.
Every second he spent fighting Malgrim was a second his enemies grew closer, a second the law fragment's light drew more predators, a second his chance of escape slipped further from his grasp.
The loss of his demons was minimal.
His berserkers, clad in their abyssal steel, had weathered the storm with surprising resilience. Still, many were tired, their stamina drained, their bodies battered.
And although demons were significantly weaker than devils, enough of them could slowly chip away at his stamina, at his flesh.
After all, it was their main method of taking down angels that were stronger than them.
A slow, grinding attrition that wore their enemies down through sheer weight of numbers. A living, breathing, death machine that ground its foes to dust.
Kaelgor's mind raced, considering his options.
Go back to the basin?
Take a risk in obtaining Adam's support?
He knew the strength of Adam's nexus, had seen its power firsthand.
But he also understood that if Adam didn't let him in, if the newborn devil decided to keep his barrier closed and leave him to the wolves, then he would be trapped.
Surrounded, and ultimately killed.
But staying away, here, was no better solution.
He couldn't see a path to life in the situation.
The law fragment was like glue; stuck onto his very soul.
He could only smile bitterly, the expression hidden beneath his helmet, as he realized the depth of his folly.
He had thought he had seen through Lord Gorael, had believed that he could outmaneuver the Arch Devil and obtain the most benefits himself.
He had chosen a winning hand, or so he had thought.
In the end, all of his scheming and decisions didn't amount to much.
He was still a pawn, still a tool, still a piece to be moved and discarded at the whim of his betters.
"Alas~"
He let out a deep, steam-filled breath, the sound a mixture of exhaustion and resignation.
"Thump!"
"Thump!"
"Thump!"
He lumbered forward, his massive four-meter-tall body slapping away any demons that stood before him with casual, contemptuous ease.
He had allowed himself a mere second to vent his emotions, to wallow in the bitter taste of his own failure, but now it was time to act.
It was time to kill Malgrim!
The devil had prevented his escape, had cost him precious time that he could not afford to lose. Kaelgor hated him for that!
Hated the smug, calculating look that had been on his face when he had first blocked his path.
He would end him, would tear his soul from his broken body and consume it, use his death to appease his wounded pride.
Now Kaelgor could also sense several, if not dozens, of devil signatures observing from the shadows.
The smirks of schadenfreude and greed-lusted eyes were palpable through the settling dust. Silently mocking as they watched his struggle with cold, detached amusement.
Getting rid of Malgrim wouldn't change the events that would follow, wouldn't stop the fiends that was even now converging on his position.
But at least he could vent his rage upon the fool who had obstructed his path.
At least he could remind them all that he was still a force to be reckoned with, a devil who would not go quietly into the abyss.
Malgrim, feeling that death was looming, could only coldly look back towards the hidden figures observing from the shadows.
His four green eyes, once so sharp and calculating, now held a begrudging, resigned acceptance.
The devils lurking at the edges of the battlefield, their forms barely visible through the swirling miasma, watched on mockingly.
They didn't say a word, but their intent was clear: they wouldn't let Malgrim escape alive.
Kaelgor's infamy was well known throughout the several surrounding territories.
He was easily one of the top three strongest beings around their section of hell. Within hundreds of miles, Kaelgor was one of the oldest devils.
Those long years and battle-hardened experiences naturally made him among the strongest.
His name was spoken with a mixture of fear and respect, a legend that had been forged in countless battles and cemented through a century of survival.
Trapped in the first layer, not many were his match.
At least not any who were near.
Letting Malgrim wear him out, force him to show his hand, was something they all longed to see. Even simply killing him was also good, as removing a peak-tier devil from the fight was always a win.
As death, the lumbering steel-clad devil, moved towards him steadily, Malgrim refocused his thoughts and gathered his subordinates.
His mind slowed and his pupils narrowed. The odds of survival, variables, and forced, yet innate calmness transformed into a single conclusion: he would most likely die.
All courses of action, whether they be begging or fighting, scheme or promises, could no longer deter the determination of the beast before him.
Death was all but certain.
Oddly enough, he assessed the notion with uncanny calmness; as if he were understanding the entirety of this event, yet not tying it to his being.
Seemingly, simply, stating a fact.
It was just that way: life was easier when no other solutions were allowed.
When one knew exactly what to do.
It erased all need for constant excuses or frantic thoughts.
It narrowed everything to a singular road.
Can't turn left, nor right.
Up and down weren't an option, while turning back was no longer available.
So.
He will go forward.
He will fight and survive.
Or die trying.