The Anthesis entered the International Quarters with a stride honed by authority. Security agents moved with silent precision at his flanks. The broadcast systems were already live—satellite links humming, networks locked in. Every screen across the globe had tuned in.
He stood at the podium, sharp-suited and unreadable. The room hushed. Billions watched.
He began.
"Over the past two years, I have given the world the Inferno Seal—a mark not of oppression, but of unity, progress, and peace."
His voice rang crisp through the chamber, through millions of speakers and televisions.
"It has been adopted by the overwhelming majority of Earth's population—a symbol of our shared future.
"And yet, a stubborn minority among you continue to resist.
"You claim moral superiority. But by refusing the Seal, you are not only rejecting prosperity—you are declaring yourselves enemies of global peace."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"When I took leadership, the world was under siege. Chaos reigned. Monstrous forces threatened our very existence.
"Through sacrifice and innovation, we pushed them back.
"With advanced technologies—powered by the remnants of the beasts we conquered—we built a safer world. A world where humanity could finally thrive.
"I have given everything to ensure your safety, your survival… your future.
"And still, some of you chant in the streets, invoking the name of your so-called Divine, singing hymns, disrupting the very order that keeps you alive.
"You call it worship. I call it interference. Disruption. Division."
A hush fell heavier than silence.
"Let me be clear," he said. "If this resistance continues, I will not hesitate to take the necessary steps to preserve peace and protect order.
"This is not a threat.
"It is a final warning."
He stared into the cameras.
"Accept the Inferno Seal. Embrace the unity we have built together.
"Together, we move forward."
And with that, he stepped away.
Across the globe, screens dimmed.
In homes, cafés, makeshift shelters—wherever the Seal had not yet reached—viewers sat in stunned silence. A cold unease crept into their bones. Fear, quiet but suffocating, pooled behind their ribs.
Far away, in the Caribbean, on a jagged piece of land long since scrubbed from maps, a broken-down mansion stood weathered but intact. Time had forgotten the structure, but it had found new purpose. For two years, it had become home to Hell's 9—the elite demon cohort whose loyalty belonged not to the Anthesis, nor any mortal power, but to something older… and deeper. The Divine and His people.
In the lounge, tall glass windows cast fractured light across faded rugs and sun-bleached furniture. Sindel stood by the window, arms folded as she watched the ocean churn beneath cloudy skies.
"This Anthesis…" she murmured. "He might be trouble."
On the couch nearby, Syril, a lithe feline-like demon with sleek fur and a lazy slouch, was busy licking ice cream from his claws. His long tail flicked with disinterest.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, not looking up.
"He's going to bring chaos to the Divine's people," she said, turning to face him. "The ones who haven't accepted his deal."
Syril scoffed, his tongue curling lazily around a melting drop of vanilla.
"And how does that affect us?" he muttered. "Let's get this straight, Sindel—our mission is to protect all of mankind. Not meddle in their politics. If they choose to suffer, that's their choice."
Sindel exhaled slowly. "Yeah… you're right. I just—some of them are starving. Sick. Homeless. It feels wrong not to help."
He laughed then, sharp and mocking. "What? Don't tell me you've grown attached to these people."
"Reminder: they didn't make the first cut. That's why they're here—at the edge of the world. They made their bed. They deserve what they're going through."
Syril stood, stretching his limbs, each movement smooth and feline. His claws clicked against the floor.
"Enough of this crap. Go cool your head in the pool, like you always do. Might do you some good."
Without waiting for a reply, he padded upstairs, tail curling behind him.
Sindel remained at the window, her jaw tight. After a long moment, she turned and headed for the pool, hoping the water might settle the gnawing discomfort in her chest.
Elsewhere in the mansion, Damon lay twisted in his sheets, trapped in sleep that gave no rest. Images flickered behind closed eyelids—visions fragmented by noise and memory. A battlefield. Shouts. Warriors in old-world armor. Steel against steel. Fire in the sky. Blood staining grass. And then—one final scream of war.
He jolted upright, breath sharp and ragged.
The room was dark.
Sliding out of bed, he stepped onto the balcony and looked over the sunlit shore. The sea lapped gently at the edge of the island.
"Why am I having these dreams now?" he asked the wind.
No answer came—only the hush of the tide.
While some rested, the rest of Hell's 9 fought elsewhere in the world.
In the burning silence of the Sahara, Dustin stood alone on sun-seared dunes as two colossal sand-beasts erupted from beneath the earth. They lunged—snarling, skeletal things of dust and fang.
Without blinking, Dustin let his shadow ripple across the sand. It stretched, warping into a jagged spear of pure darkness. He thrust once—clean, fast, surgical.
Both monsters fell in silence, bodies disintegrating into ash.
He exhaled. "It's just endless with these guys."
With a beat of his wings, he vanished into the wind.
Travelers who had been hiding beneath cloth-covered pits emerged slowly, shaken but alive. They whispered blessings to the wind where Dustin had vanished.
Across other continents, the rest of the Nine continued their grim work.
Ariel, with sharp green eyes and tousled brown hair, activated her Veol Barrier—an iridescent dome trapping a swarm of demons. With a whispered note, she released a sonic blast that disintegrated every last one of them in a flash of soundless light.
Yeldor, tall and cold-eyed with hair like midnight ink, summoned a roaring tornado of flame. Fourth-ranked/Lowest ranked demons howled as they were ripped into the blaze, screaming until the wind swallowed them whole.
Arold—the childlike demon with a grin too wide—swung an enormous hammer with reckless strength, reducing hellspawn to shattered stone and scattered bones.
Maga barely moved. Calm, coiled, sharp-eyed—she reversed her opponents' attacks with a simple flick of her hand. Each demon perished by the very power they had tried to wield against her.
Osmos gave no second chances. His eyes were old and unyielding, and the demons he faced never walked away.
By nightfall, the members returned to the mansion, one by one, fatigue hanging from their shoulders.
Dustin, dust-streaked and grimy, dropped onto the couch with a sigh. "Going around killing endless low-level demons sure is fun."
Arold plopped onto the rug with a dramatic groan. "I took out three third-ranks last time. Guess I was lucky."
Maga leaned against the wall. "I had a mix today—fourths and thirds. They don't seem to be learning."
Ariel yawned and stretched. "Whatever the rank, we're keeping the humans safe. Anyway, I'm gonna take a bath."
Arold wrinkled his nose. "Pfft. We're demons. We don't need baths."
Ariel shot him a glare. "Ew. You're disgusting."
"Whatever," he said, standing. "I'm heading to my room to play what the humans call video games."
Maga gave a tired nod. "I'm calling it a night. I doubt more of them will come—we've shaken them up pretty good."
Osmos simply said, "Indeed."
Dustin, suddenly remembering something, sat up straighter.
"I'm going to enjoy the ice cream I've been saving for the past week."
He strode to the fridge, opened it—
And froze.
It was empty.
Silence.
Then… a drip. Melted ice cream, trailing off the edge of the couch. A smear of claw marks.
Dustin's voice turned deadly.
"Curse you, Syril."