Namil was a distant, shimmering promise as the demon spaceship sliced through the void, leaving the blood-soaked nightmare of Kazakhar far behind. Inside the cramped cabin, a fragile sense of reprieve had settled. The hum of the engines was a lullaby compared to the screams of the prison.
Exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness, finally claimed them. Adam, Julian, Astrid, Panchenko, and Tom slept in shifts, their dreams haunted by the recent past, yet touched by the faint glimmer of a future they had fought so desperately to claim. Edward, needing no sleep, stood vigil by the cockpit, his crimson eyes surveying the star-strewn canvas, a silent guardian.
Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of travel. They rationed their scavenged food and water, the taste of survival now etched into every mouthful. Tom, when not at the controls, pored over the demon ship's navigation systems, cross-referencing them with the fragments of star charts he had memorized. He explained the ship's basic functions, its stealth capabilities – remarkably advanced for a transport – and its limited offensive weaponry, mostly for fending off smaller space hazards.
The conversation, once focused on the immediate horrors, slowly shifted to the future, to the daunting task of becoming adventurers in Namil, and to Adam's impossible dream of confronting the Demon King. The gravity of that aspiration weighed heavily on them, a distant peak shrouded in storm clouds, but for the first time, it felt like a peak they could actually see.
--Planet Aetheria--
Deep within the obsidian spires of the Demon Lord's fortress, within a hall carved from solidified shadows, sat Azazel. He was a being of ancient, malevolent power. His form was imposing, truly demonic: long, elegant horns curved from his temples, his skin was the color of polished black obsidian, and his eyes, twin pools of bright, predatory red, burned with an eternal, chilling fire. He sat on a throne crafted from twisted bone and dark metal, his posture one of immense, effortless authority.
In his hand, Azazel held a shimmering hologram. Within the projection, a low-ranking demon guard, his face etched with terror, cowered before an unseen presence. The guard's voice, though digitally projected, trembled with fear.
"—my lord, Edward Bloodrose escapes, the escape was… unforeseen. Unprecedented."
Azazel's voice, a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very fabric of existence, broke the oppressive silence of the throne room. He did not raise his voice, yet the sheer power behind it caused the very air to thicken.
"How did Edward escape Kazakhar?" Azazel demanded, his red eyes burning into the holographic projection. His question was not merely information-seeking; it was a condemnation, an accusation. Kazakhar, the 'Inescapable Prison,' was a symbol of his dominion, a testament to his absolute control. Edward Bloodrose, a thorn in his side for centuries, was meant to rot there.
The holographic demon guard visibly trembled, even in its spectral form. "He… he had companions, my lord. They… they helped him escape."
Azazel's gaze sharpened, a dangerous glint in his crimson eyes. "How many companions?"
"Only five, my lord," the guard replied, his voice barely a whisper, as if each word was a self-inflicted wound.
A silence, heavier than any physical weight, descended upon the throne room. Azazel's red eyes remained fixed on the hologram, but his body grew utterly still. Then, with a sudden, terrifying lurch, the Demon Lord's grip tightened on the holographic projection. The image of the demon guard flickered violently, distorted by the raw power radiating from Azazel.
"ONLY FIVE?!" Azazel's voice was no longer a rumble; it was a thunderous roar that shook the very foundations of the castle, echoing through the dark halls. Servants and lesser demons outside the throne room instinctively cowered, anticipating the ensuing wrath. "And they escape Kazakhar? The inescapable prison?! You incompetent fools! You allowed a handful of trash to breach my greatest fortress?!"
The holographic image of the demon guard flickered wildly, the terror on its face palpable. "Forgive us, my lord! It was an anomaly! They—they discovered a hidden passage! They killed Viscount Ursa!"
Azazel waved a dismissive hand, and the hologram of the cowering guard stabilized, though its trembling continued. Ursa's death was a minor irritation, a servant easily replaced. The greater affront was the breach, the very concept of Edward Bloodrose being free.
"Who are they?" Azazel demanded, his voice now dangerously calm, a deceptive quiet before the storm. "Name them, insect."
The demon guard, relieved that the immediate, crushing fury had subsided, hastened to comply, reciting names and fragmented profiles from the prison's breached database.
"First, Adam Ashbourne, my lord," the guard began. "A slave from the Yandhaq Empire. He… he killed a lowborn demon and was subsequently sent to Kazakhar." The hologram shifted, displaying a blurred, basic profile of Adam. Azazel's gaze flickered over it, recognizing the human. A negligible threat, but an inconvenient symbol of defiance.
"Then there is Panchenko, my lord. A minor human criminal. And Astrid, a thief, incarcerated for illicit activities concerning demon property." Their profiles appeared, equally unimpressive.
The guard hesitated, then continued, a new note of apprehension in its voice. "Then there is Julian, my lord. A human. A disciple of Sword Saint Veresha."
At the mention of Veresha, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift occurred in Azazel's posture. His red eyes narrowed fractionally. Lilith had fought Veresha, once. She had been a formidable human.
The guard, sensing Azazel's heightened attention, stammered, "The one… the one Lady Lilith killed, my lord. High Seat Rank 4. It was… a prolonged duel."
Azazel's lips, thin and cruel, curved into a faint, unpleasant smile. Lilith. Always thorough. "So, the student of a dead sword-saint. More interesting."
"And lastly, my lord," the demon guard's voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, as if even speaking the name was dangerous, "Tom Aristotle. Son of Abraham Aristotle. A family of scholars, my lord. They are known to possess vast, ancient knowledge. They have studied the very mysteries of the galaxy, my lord. They delve into forgotten lore, into the deepest secrets of creation and… and demonkind." The hologram now displayed Tom's profile, more detailed than the others, accompanied by flickering images of complex schematics and ancient texts.
Azazel's red eyes burned with a cold, terrifying intensity as he stared at Tom's projected face. The faint smile vanished. Abraham Aristotle. The name resonated with a deep, unsettling familiarity from forgotten archives, whispered warnings. This was no mere criminal, no common slave. This was a direct threat. Knowledge was a far more dangerous weapon than any sword.
"Tom Aristotle, huh?" Azazel's voice was a low, dangerous growl, filled with a sudden, chilling animosity. The hologram of the demon guard began to flicker violently again, but this time, it was not merely fear; it was being consumed, dissolved by the sheer force of Azazel's fury.
"We need to kill that man," Azazel stated, the words dripping with deadly finality. The holographic demon guard screamed silently as it was obliterated into nothingness by the Demon Lord's overwhelming power.
The air in the throne room thrummed with Azazel's renewed, concentrated rage. His red eyes, no longer burning with generalized anger, now held a singular, predatory focus.
"He knows too much about demons," Azazel hissed, his voice echoing through the silence of the throne room. "Too much about the mysteries of this galaxy. Such knowledge cannot be allowed to exist outside my control."
He rose from his throne, a towering figure of obsidian and malevolence. His voice, now colder than the void, filled the silent chamber. "Dispatch my most trusted agents. No expense spared. No refuge is sacred. Find them. Especially the scholar. Bring me Edward Bloodrose, broken and kneeling. And bring me the head of Tom Aristotle."
The Demon Lord's wrath had been truly, irrevocably ignited. The galaxy was vast, but for Adam and his companions, it had just become infinitely smaller. Their escape was merely the beginning of a hunt that would span stars and systems, orchestrated by the most powerful demon in existence. Namil, a neutral haven, might offer temporary respite, but it would not hide them forever. Not from Azazel.