Genevieve was still shaking as she stood beside Eyrk. Velmora stood silent, not even looking at them as she finished carving symbols into the obsidian floor with her bare fingers.
The punishment was over, but what Genevieve had seen… the eyes, the faces, the layers of that realm—no mortal should've ever glimpsed it. Not even the cursed ones.
Eyrk tried to whisper to her, but her mind was too deep in that void. She had obeyed Velmora without speaking ever since.
Then Velmora turned and spoke, finally. "You must both understand something," she said, looking only at Eyrk now. "The demonic cults are not just rituals and blood offerings. They are echoes. Incomplete memories of ancient pacts, made by creatures far older than your gods."
She walked in a slow circle around them.
"They think they worship demons. They do not. They worship the scars demons leave behind. They worship fear. But true demons? The nobles of the Abyss? They are religion incarnate. They do not beg for belief. They are belief."
Eyrk stepped forward a bit. "Could I see the Abyss? Just once? You say it's history. I want to know it."
Velmora actually laughed.
"You?" she said. "Do you know what happens when a mortal walks into the Abyss alone? You become history. Depending on who you walk in with, your soul might be traded for a whisper. Or worse… remembered."
Before Eyrk could speak again, the room darkened.
A long line of violet smoke traced itself into the air, forming a vertical blade of void. Then the tear split open. A portal.
Out stepped a figure that didn't belong.
Zar'kel, the Butcher Saint — a fallen seraph, clad in broken celestial armor that once shimmered with divine light, now dulled and cracked, hanging off him like rusted relics. His obsidian-black wings, massive and ragged, dragged across the ground behind him, scarred by holy flame, still faintly glowing at the edges like smoldering paper. No horns. No snarling maw. Just eyes that looked too human to be human and a silence that dared the world to breathe wrong.
No heat. No suffocating pressure. No bloodlust aura. He didn't feel like a demon at all.
Eyrk and Genevieve both stood frozen.
"Teaching them the right history, I hope?" Zar'kel spoke calm and hollow, voice not loud, but somehow echoing.
Velmora narrowed her eyes.
"What are you doing here, Zar'kel?"
"Our liege sent me. Said to check in on the progress of the war."
He didn't have to finish that sentence. She already knew who he meant. Diablo. No one else had the authority to send Zar'kel the Butcher Saint to the mortal realm. He never visited unless ordered. When he moved on his own, it was always for reasons horrible ones.
He turned his gaze onto the two children. Something in his stare wasn't evil… it was worse. Understanding.
"Curious," he muttered. "Maybe you should leave the boy in my care for a while. He wants to visit the Abyss? Let him walk my palace."
Eyrk stepped back. Something in him instinct or spirit recoiled. He didn't understand it, but Zar'kel's presence… it wasn't fear. It was wrongness.
Before he could speak, Velmora raised her hand.
"Leave us, Eyrk. Genevieve. You aren't ready for this."
Genevieve walked away quickly, no resistance. Her punishment had broken her, but it also taught her. And Zar'kel… was one of the things she saw in that place. A whisper in a corridor of screams.
MEANWHILE – ZHUL CLAN DISTRICT
The great feast was underway. The smell of roasted beast, fresh blood and ale filled the air. Laughs echoed like thunder. Bone drums beat like war hearts.
Seratha sat on a raised throne. Mog on her left. Lea'Zhul on her right. Hra'Zhul near them, drinking deep from a carved tusk-mug.
"We will crush the Elves beneath our heels," Mog roared. "Trample their forests and melt their bones into stew!"
All around, Thororks, Orgars, and even a few Goblins howled in agreement, slamming mugs and blades into the wooden tables.
But outside the walls… something moved.
A scout party of Elves, quiet and deadly, slipped through the tree lines. They reached the edge of the Zhul gates. They saw the fires. Heard the laughter.
They saw the patrols. They killed two.
One Elf, the sharpest among them, whispered: "There. That's where the thunder came from. Something dark… was summoned here."
They crept forward—but didn't go unnoticed.
Inside the hall, one of Seratha's lesser demon nobles, cloaked and thin, walked up behind her throne and whispered low:
"My lady. The elves. They've entered the camp."
Seratha nodded once.
"Summon the hellhounds. Let them taste elven blood."
The noble bowed and vanished.
Mog leaned forward. "Goddess Luna—is something wrong?"
Seratha smiled gently. "Yes, my child. A few elven raiders."
Mog stood in fury. "OUTRAGEOUS—"
She raised a single hand. "Sit. I've already handled it. Do not ruin the celebration."
Behind her throne, a portal opened like a ripping wound. Eight massive, six-legged hounds crawled out—flesh torn, bones exposed, eyes glowing.
Seratha looked at them and simply said:
"Outside. Eat."
The beasts roared, and leapt through the stained-glass windows.
One elf never saw it coming. A hellhound ripped his throat before his arrow even left the string. His screams tore through the feast.
The horns sounded.
The Elves knew they'd been caught. They launched the raid.
Solas, watching from the shadows, saw the dogs and felt cold realization. "Hellhounds. They summoned them. They've made contact."
He raised his hand. A transport spell began to form around the elves.
Inside the hall, blades were drawn.
Mog roared, rising from his throne. "You dare attack during our feast!? May this room be your GRAVE! SLAUGHTER THEM!!"
Elves leapt in, slicing. Blood splashed. But before long, Solas finished the spell. He called it loud:
"NOW!"
The elves, wounded but alive, vanished into a ring of blue light.
The remaining hounds howled, disappointed.
FOREST EDGE – ELF CAMP
Solas limped through the circle of returning troops. They had lost five.
But they had seen what they needed.
Hellhounds. Demons. Magic not of this world.
He turned to the others. "This… this is war."
He went to the crystal altar and summoned the Elven Council.
Then he walked to his brothers—the angelic watchmen of the mortal world.
"We must report this to Heaven," he said. "Hellhounds walk our soil. The demons have returned. We're lucky no nobles have entered yet…"
BACK IN THE ABYSS
In Korrak's castle, Vez'Ghar dragged the roasted Handorso meat into the dining hall.
Korrak sat smiling, fingers steepled, scrying flames in front of him showing the elven retreat, the feast, Seratha's rise.
He turned.
"Contact Diablo. Let him know everything is in motion."
A moment later, Diablo's presence formed—massive, shadowed, towering even above Korrak's throne, horns bent like cracked halos.
"Progress?" Diablo asked.
Korrak bowed. "The gods have revealed themselves. The elves have taken notice. The war drum has sounded."
Diablo nodded once.
"Then I will be joining you soon. My army reconstruction is nearly finished. Lady Lilith is overseeing it now. Once we march… the skies will bleed."