Bella stood in the ruins of the desolate town, her sword—the Black Oath of Victory—still planted in the scorched ground where the Witch Heart Demon had been crucified. She pulled it free with a single motion, the blackened ash from the old wooden cross fluttering in the breeze.
The wind blew through the broken streets, stirring dry leaves and dust. On either side of her, the remnants of a once-living place lay in decay: collapsed buildings, dead trees, and shattered signs of human life. The sound of shifting rubble and rustling leaves echoed faintly.
Rustle… rustle…
But it wasn't just the wind.
From every dark crevice of the abandoned town, from ruined buildings, broken branches, and the far-off graveyard, unseen eyes watched her. Malicious eyes. Hungry eyes.
The undead and the demonic were gathering.
Bella stood unmoving in their midst. Her sword was plunged into the ground once more, her hands resting on its hilt as she tilted her head to the sky. The dark clouds hung low, masking the moon. Only a narrow ray of light pierced through, casting her in a silver glow. Her golden hair fluttered gently with the wind, illuminated like strands of fire.
She was alone. Surrounded by enemies.
Yet she was unshaken.
A solitary flame in a sea of darkness.
Then—
"Hey, beautiful knight! Fancy a drink tonight?"
ROAR—
The sound of thrusters tore through the silence. A red and silver suit of armor, with a few white trims and gleaming repulsors, descended from the sky. Hovering midair, the voice that followed was unmistakably smug.
BOOM.
The armored figure touched down beside Bella with a metallic thud. The faceplate of the Iron Man suit slid open, revealing the sharp features of Tony Stark and his familiar smirk.
He glanced at her, pausing briefly.
Even Tony, who had seen and built wonders, was taken aback.
Bella looked like a knight carved from myth—ancient, battle-worn, and radiant. But beneath that timeless aura was something Tony recognized intimately: solitude. She carried the weight of countless battles in her silence.
He saw it in the way she stood, in her stillness.
Powerful. Isolated. Tireless.
She reminded him… of himself.
Before he could speak again, the sound of roaring engines filled the sky. Explosions and gunfire echoed from the outskirts of the town. Tires screeched. Footsteps pounded the earth in tight formation. Battle had arrived.
Above, a Quinjet hovered into position. Its side hatch opened, and three ropes unraveled, dropping to the ground.
One by one, the newcomers landed: Natasha Romanoff—Black Widow—graceful and deadly. Clint Barton—Hawkeye—with bow in hand. And last, Captain America himself, shield already strapped to his back.
Bella slowly opened her eyes and turned toward the group. A smile tugged at her lips—small, graceful, fleeting. But for a moment, it softened her fierce presence like a sunbeam through storm clouds.
Even the battle-hardened Avengers paused for half a second.
Captain Rogers stepped forward first, posture upright. "Goddess of Judgment. I'm Steve Rogers."
Natasha gave a nod. "Natasha Romanoff."
Barton raised a hand. "You know me. Clint."
Bella's eyes scanned them, then drifted to the red inferno not far behind—Johnny Blaze, the Ghost Rider, his flaming chains lashing wildly as he tore through the remaining undead with laughter echoing across the battlefield.
"Oh, that's Johnny," Tony said, following her gaze. "Middle-aged, plays with fire, definitely obsessed with showing how healthy his bones are."
Barton chuckled. Natasha rolled her eyes.
Captain Rogers, however, remained focused. "Just minutes ago, we detected an enormous wave of undead and demonic activity centered here. But then, everything went haywire. Our agents are still fighting."
He looked at Bella. "Can you explain what happened?"
"It was the Witch Heart Demon," Bella said, calm and direct. "He's dead."
Rogers blinked. "I see… his death must've triggered the chaos."
Her tone was flat, but final. There was no embellishment—only facts.
Tony fired a casual repulsor shot over his shoulder, disintegrating a lunging demon. "Well, that's that. Demon king's kid is dead. Guess all this leftover trash is cleanup work now."
He sighed. "And here I was, hoping for a big fight. I just finished upgrading this suit too."
Bella remained silent, unfazed.
Tony's eyes narrowed slightly as he observed her armor and weapon. "Gotta say, though… that sword? That armor? Definitely Asgardian craftsmanship. Am I right?"
Bella didn't answer.
Still, her silence didn't deter him.
He leaned slightly, grinning. "So… do I get points for guessing correctly, or—"
But she suddenly cut him off.
"You shouldn't be the one sneaking," she said, without looking at him.
Then her eyes shifted—toward the cemetery.
At the far end of the crumbling town, roughly a kilometer away, was a graveyard overrun with dead vines and cracked tombstones.
She whispered one name.
"Mephisto."
Her voice was calm. Almost conversational.
But the effect was immediate.
The Avengers froze.
Weapons came up.
Tony's helmet slammed shut. Weapon systems activated. Barton notched an arrow. Natasha tensed. Even Johnny paused mid-chain swing, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
They all turned.
And saw him.
A figure stood amidst the gravestones, as though he had always been there. He wore a black wool trench coat, a dark round hat resting atop his head. A white scarf draped neatly around his neck. He held a silver-topped cane in one hand and stood solemnly beside a moss-covered tombstone.
His face was aged but regal, with a neatly trimmed beard. He looked like a grieving English gentleman.
Harmless.
Ordinary.
But everyone present felt the wrongness instantly.
They hadn't sensed him arrive. They hadn't noticed his presence. He was just there.
And the one who had spoken his name was not mistaken.
Mephisto.
The devil. The puppeteer. The Lord of Lies.
Everyone in this war-torn ghost town had heard the name whispered before—especially those who had spent time with Johnny Blaze.
Tony whispered under his breath. "That's him…"
Bella didn't flinch. She didn't raise her sword.
She simply watched him.
Mephisto tipped his hat politely.
As if greeting an old friend.
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