Across the globe, civilization teetered on the brink of oblivion.
Cities once bustling with life were now overrun by denizens of Hell. Demons, witches, warlocks, and grotesque hell-beasts roamed freely through streets, skies, and underground networks, tearing through the fabric of humanity with a hunger that had no end. They ravaged not only bodies, but souls—corrupting, transforming, and enslaving those they encountered. Many humans, consumed by despair or temptation, had willingly surrendered their will and became monsters themselves—living extensions of Hell's malice.
Yet amidst the chaos, nine stood in defiance.
Chosen by the Divine, anointed in power, and forged through agony, they had become the last wall between mankind and the abyss. They wandered the broken world without praise or recognition, slaughtering denizens in silence. Their deeds were whispered of in hushed reverence. Governments knew of their existence. Survivors revered them. But they neither answered to the world nor bowed to its applause.
They were known only as: Hell's 9.
Two years had passed since the second-ranked demons were defeated, and in that time, the world had changed beyond recognition.
In the aftermath of supernatural war, a new global regime had emerged. A singular figure had risen from obscurity—a man known only as The Anthesis. A year earlier, he had stepped onto the world stage, cloaked in peace and charisma, and offered salvation to a broken world. Nations collapsed before him like falling dominoes, drawn to the unity he promised. Conflict and division faded under his leadership. Civil wars ceased. Treaties were signed. A one-world government was born.
To the masses, he was a hero. A miracle. A messiah.
But to the wise, to the faithful, and to the remnant who understood the deeper war at hand… he was something far more sinister.
One of his earliest decrees was the implementation of the Inferno Seal—a digital, arcane mark that every citizen was required to receive. With the seal came access to food, water, electricity, healthcare, and movement between regions. Without it, one was cast out—denied all means of survival, left to rot in the shadows of society.
Many accepted the seal eagerly. To them, it was progress. Peace. But a growing number refused, recognizing the true cost of such allegiance. The Anthesis, they declared, was not merely a man—but a vessel. He was the beast of prophecy. The forerunner of damnation.
The Inferno Seal, they knew, was no economic convenience—it was a branding of the soul.
Ancient prophecies, long ignored and dismissed, had spoken clearly. In the last days, a ruler would rise who performed miracles, brought unity, and demanded loyalty through a mark. And now, those prophecies were playing out in the open. The Anthesis healed the sick, commanded storms, and even claimed to resurrect the dead. The world bowed to him, blind to the truth:
They were worshipping the devil.
Those who refused the seal paid dearly. They were driven into exile, hunted like criminals, stripped of all earthly comfort. But they endured—for they believed that the Divine would return. And when He did, the war would no longer be spiritual, but cosmic.
The line had been drawn. Comfort or conviction. Survival or salvation. The world would have to choose.
On the outskirts of the ruined city of Belray, a crumbling chapel stood like a broken tooth jutting from the earth. The roof was fractured, its stained-glass windows shattered. Rain dripped through holes in the ceiling, tapping softly against the rotting wooden floor.
Inside, a crowd of the faithful huddled together, wrapped in blankets and trembling from more than just cold. Fear, hunger, and hope clung to every breath as they sat in the shadows of old pews.
At the front stood a lone figure in priestly garb—Father Sean. His hair was white, his robe torn, but his voice rang out with unwavering fire.
"It was foretold," he declared, his voice rising above the storm outside. "In the final days, the Anthesis would rise… and now, he has. Do not accept the seal! Do not trade your soul for bread and shelter. What does it profit a man to gain the world, but lose his soul?"
Tears streaked the faces of those who listened. Hands gripped crosses. Silent prayers filled the space.
Unseen by all, perched silently on a high beam near the rafters, crouched Damon. His eyes were calm, his presence unseen, but his senses were sharp and ever watching.
He had not come for prayer.
As a warrior of Hell's 9, Damon's role was not to interfere in human faith or politics. He did not rally or preach. His mission was simple:
Protect humanity from the denizens of Hell.
And just then, something triggered deep in his being. A sudden flare of zail pierced the edges of his senses—a powerful signature, erupting on the city's outskirts.
In an instant, he vanished.
Far away in a mountainous region cloaked in dark clouds, another figure prepared for a different reckoning.
Arold, once disgraced by Lamia, now stood on a jagged cliff, his cloak whipping in the wind. His eyes were resolute, his shame transformed into quiet fury.
Approaching him were three third-ranked demons—Safrod, Diablo, and Fitz—smirking like wolves circling a wounded deer.
"Well, if it isn't the traitorous third-ranker himself," Safrod jeered.
"AHAHAHA! I heard Lamia took you out in one hit!" Diablo roared with laughter.
Fitz added with a sneer, "While your comrades were out saving the world, you were busy bleeding on the floor. Pathetic."
Arold flushed with quiet anger, a bead of sweat trailing down his face. But he did not deny the truth.
"I won't argue," he said. "That was humiliating. But that was then. This… is now."
Their laughter intensified.
"You think you can take on two demons and a hell-beast by yourself?" Diablo mocked.
"Lamia must've cracked your skull harder than we thought," Safrod grinned.
"She didn't hit my head," Arold growled. "I was stabbed—with a poison dagger. I nearly died."
"Still sounds like an excuse," Fitz said, waving him off.
But Arold was no longer listening. His hand slammed into the ground, and the mountain trembled. A glowing dome of energy erupted around them—a Veol Barrier, locking them in a sealed battleground where no outside force could interfere.
Fitz's grin faded. "A Veol Barrier? You've trapped yourself."
"We'll see," Arold whispered. Then louder: "Divine Seal—activate!"
His body exploded with zail. Power surged through his limbs. Lightning danced along his skin. The earth shuddered beneath him.
And before any of the demons could move, he struck.
A brutal punch collapsed Fitz's abdomen.
An uppercut shattered Diablo's jaw, launching him into the air.
A spiral kick crashed into Safrod's face, sending teeth and blood flying.
All three demons were hurled into the cliffs, broken and reeling.
They roared in fury and struck back. Fitz summoned bolts of lightning. Safrod's body bristled with razor-sharp scales, which he fired like missiles. Diablo's eyes turned green and seared beams of hellfire from their sockets.
The mountain shook under the power of their retaliation. Dust and flame engulfed the battlefield.
When it cleared… Arold stood untouched.
His silhouette emerged from the smoke, calm and still.
The demons fell to their knees. The bravado was gone—replaced by panic.
"Mercy!" they cried. "Please, mercy!"
Arold gave no answer.
He moved like a blade of light, and in a single moment, all three heads rolled across the dirt—severed cleanly. Their twisted essences twisted upward, fading into red mist as silence reclaimed the mountaintop.
Elsewhere, in a wide barren field littered with demon corpses, Damon stood alone. His sword dripped black blood. His expression was as calm as the quiet around him. Without a word, he turned away.
Back in the mountains, Arold stood over the corpses of his enemies. The Veol Barrier faded.
He looked at his hand, still crackling with energy.
"…By the looks of it," he muttered to himself, "I didn't even need the Divine Seal. What a waste."
The wind howled around him as he walked away, leaving only silence in his wake.