The air was a storm of noise: the thunderous echo of gunfire, the wet screams of men, and the raw, animalistic snarl of a war fought to the death.
Inside the sterile, blood-splattered war room, only silence reigned. Arthur Wayne, the king of Hell's Paradise, stood frozen, his pistol locked on the one man who defied him—Fernando Fiorini. Their eyes were twin points of lethal light, their enmity a suffocating presence in the room.
Then, the floorboards groaned.
Albert Avellino, A man Arthur had raised, his shadow, his most trusted lieutenant, stepped through the doorway. The rain outside seemed to follow him, glistening on the black barrel of the gun he now leveled. Not at the enemy, but at the friend.
Albert's face was a mask of cold, terrifying resolve. He fired.
Arthur's body jerked, his own weapon clattering across the floor.
Fernando's maniacal laugh tore through the silence. "I WON! I WON, YOU WEAK FOOL!"
Albert didn't flinch. He simply shifted his aim with the casual grace of a bored butcher. BLAM!
Fernando gasped, clutching his chest, his eyes widening in shock. "W-Why did you shoot me?"
Albert's smile was the coldest thing in the room. "Loyalty? To you? Arthur was the closest thing I had to a father, and I killed him without blinking. The world's two thrones are empty now. Two crowns, waiting for one head. Imagine the power, Fernando. Imagine absolute dominion.
He moved, his footsteps soft and deadly. From his inner jacket, he drew a massive, polished butcher knife, its edge glinting under the dim ceiling light. He pressed the cold steel to Fernando's throat, bending low to whisper the final, chilling truth into his ear:
"That power belongs to me."
The sound that followed was wet and sickening. The body slumped.
Albert turned to Arthur, the gun raised for the final bullet.
Arthur gasped for breath, blood bubbling on his lips, but a strange, terrifying calm settled in his eyes.
"A day will come, Albert," he strained, fighting the crushing darkness. "A day will come when you are in this place, and your death stands before you." He coughed, spitting a bloom of crimson onto the floor. "You will beg for mercy, but you will find only rage in his eyes. And you won't fear the death... you won't fear the reaper..."
Arthur's last breath was a smile, a terrifying rictus of prophecy.
"YOU WILL FEAR THE DEVIL WHO BRINGS HIM!"
Albert laughed, a sharp, dismissive sound. "A great prophecy for a dead man. But poor choice of words, as they are your last."
BLAM!