The scent of sulfur hits my nostrils a split second before the attack comes.
I spin around, my armor erupting across my skin in a cascade of crimson energy as three figures materialize in Lucifer's study. Angels—but wrong somehow, their pristine white wings stained with dark veins, their halos flickering with sickly light. Purifiers, then. Come to deliver their manufactured incident directly to us.
"Kamen Driscol," the lead figure intones, his voice carrying the false righteousness I've learned to recognize from five thousand years of combat. "By the authority of cosmic purity, you are declared a contamination requiring immediate cleansing."
I laugh, the sound harsh and metallic through my transformed vocal cords. "Contamination? That's rich, coming from angels who've clearly been dabbling in some very impure modifications themselves."
The dark veins in their wings pulse with unholy light, confirming my suspicion. These aren't just zealots—they're hypocrites who've corrupted themselves in pursuit of their so-called purity.
"Your existence is an affront to the natural order," the second angel declares, raising a blade that flickers between divine radiance and shadow. "Your students spread chaos disguised as knowledge."
"My students learn to think for themselves," I reply, my claws extending as I settle into a combat stance. "I can see why that terrifies you."
Lucifer rises gracefully from his desk, his perfect features shifting from mild annoyance to something far more dangerous. "Gentlemen," he says, his voice carrying harmonics that make reality itself seem to shiver. "You've made a rather significant tactical error."
"How so?" the lead Purifier demands, though I can smell the sudden spike of fear beneath his manufactured confidence.
"You've attacked a guest in my sanctuary," Lucifer explains, his morning star radiance beginning to blaze. "That makes this personal."
The first angel lunges at me, his corrupted blade singing through the air where my head was a moment before. I duck under his swing, my enhanced reflexes making his attack seem sluggish compared to the demons I've been killing for millennia. My claws find his throat before he can recover, tearing through whatever protection his corrupted halo provides.
"Too slow," I growl, letting his body drop as I turn to face the other two.
The second Purifier hesitates, clearly not expecting their ambush to go so poorly so quickly. That moment of doubt costs him everything—I'm across the room in a heartbeat, my fist punching through his chest with enough force to shatter the obsidian desk behind him.
The third angel tries to flee, spreading his stained wings for escape. Lucifer's laughter fills the study as tendrils of morning star fire wrap around the would-be assassin, dragging him back down to earth.
"Now, now," Lucifer purrs, his perfect smile taking on predatory dimensions. "Leaving so soon? When we have so much to discuss?"
I watch as Lucifer's flames begin to burn away the corruption in the angel's wings, revealing the pure white beneath. The process looks excruciating, and the Purifier's screams confirm it.
"Interesting," I observe, studying the purification process with academic fascination. "They've been deliberately corrupting themselves. The question is why."
"Power," the surviving angel gasps between screams. "The old ways... too weak... needed strength to cleanse the cosmos..."
"Ah," Lucifer says, his flames growing brighter. "The classic justification—becoming the monster to fight monsters. How disappointingly unoriginal."
I kneel beside the writhing angel, my transformed features inches from his face. "Who sent you? Who's really running this Purifier organization?"
His eyes, now clear of corruption, focus on me with a mixture of pain and something that might be recognition. "You... you're not what they said you were."
"What did they say I was?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"A demon wearing human skin. A hell-spawned abomination spreading chaos." He coughs, golden blood speckling his lips. "But you're still... there's still something human in your eyes."
I sit back on my heels, considering his words. Even through torture and imminent death, this angel can see something my own friends sometimes struggle to recognize—that the man they knew still exists beneath the hellforged exterior.
"The students," he continues, his voice growing weaker. "They're planning... tomorrow... during your practical demonstration..."
My armor pulses with renewed anger. "What about my students?"
"Sleeper agents... among them... will attack... make it look like your teaching... drove them to violence..."
I feel the rage building, the familiar crimson fire that five thousand years of combat has refined into a weapon. But before I can act on it, Lucifer's hand settles on my shoulder.
"Control, my friend," he advises quietly. "This one has given us valuable information. Let's not waste it in a fit of righteous fury."
I force myself to breathe, to push the hellfire back down where it belongs. The angel is right—my students are the real target. Everything else is just misdirection.
"Who are the sleeper agents?" I demand, my voice dropping to the growl that makes reality vibrate. "Names."
But the angel's eyes are already glazing over, Lucifer's purifying flames having burned away too much of what was keeping him alive. He dies with my question unanswered, taking his secrets with him.
"Well," Lucifer says, extinguishing his flames and surveying the three corpses littering his study. "That was illuminating, if somewhat destructive of my décor."
I'm already moving toward the door, my mind racing through the implications. "I need to warn my students. If there are sleeper agents among them—"
"Kamen," Lucifer's voice stops me at the threshold. "Think strategically. If you cancel tomorrow's demonstration, you confirm their narrative that cross-realm education is too dangerous. If you proceed without preparation, you hand them the incident they're trying to manufacture."
I turn back to face him, seeing the calculating intelligence that has kept him relevant through countless cosmic upheavals. "What do you suggest?"
His perfect smile returns, sharp as a blade. "We give them their incident. But not the one they're expecting."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we let their sleeper agents reveal themselves. We document their attack, their coordination, their obvious preparation. And then we show the cosmos exactly who the real threat to stability is."
I consider his proposal, weighing the risks against the potential benefits. Using my students as bait goes against every protective instinct five thousand years of combat has ingrained in me. But it also offers the chance to expose the Purifiers completely, to show everyone their true methods.
"My students could be hurt," I say, voicing my primary concern.
"They could be," Lucifer agrees. "But they're already in danger. At least this way, we'll be ready for what's coming."
I look down at my clawed hands, at the armor that's become as much a part of me as my own skin. The power I've gained comes with responsibility—not just to protect those I care about, but to ensure they have a future worth protecting.
"We'll need more than just documentation," I decide. "We'll need to neutralize the threat without giving them the violent incident they want to use against us."
"I have some ideas about that," Lucifer says, his eyes glinting with anticipation. "But first, we need to identify exactly who among your students isn't what they appear to be."
As we begin planning for tomorrow's demonstration, I feel something settling in my chest—not peace, exactly, but the calm certainty that comes from finally understanding the shape of the battle ahead. The Purifiers want to use fear and manipulation to maintain their artificial barriers.
I'm going to show them what happens when they threaten the people I've chosen to protect. And after five thousand years in Hell, I've learned exactly how to make such lessons memorable.
Tomorrow's class is going to be very educational indeed.
The night before the demonstration, I gather my most trusted allies in Lucifer's private study, which has been hastily cleaned of angelic remains. Caleif stands beside me, her fingers intertwined with mine despite the lingering sharpness of my claws. Valen pores over student records, his burning eyes narrowed in concentration. Elara checks and rechecks her weapons with practiced precision.
"Based on attendance patterns and behavioral anomalies," Valen announces, looking up from his data tablet, "I've identified seven potential infiltrators among your students."
I examine the names he provides, my chest tightening when I see Mira Vex among them.
"Mira was the one who warned me," I point out, not wanting to believe she could be part of this.
"Which makes her either genuinely concerned or perfectly positioned to manipulate you," Lucifer counters, his perfect features betraying no emotion. "The daughter of a spymaster would know how to play both sides."
The armor beneath my skin pulses with frustration. After five thousand years of combat, I've become adept at identifying enemies—but these are my students. People I'm supposed to protect, not suspect.
"We can't assume guilt without evidence," Caleif says, squeezing my hand gently. "But we can be prepared for anything."
Elara nods, sliding a blade into her boot. "I'll position myself at the back of the classroom. If anyone makes a suspicious move, I'll be on them before they can follow through."
"And I'll monitor the emotional signatures of everyone present," Valen adds. "Any spike in aggression or fear will be immediately apparent."
I listen to their plans, grateful for their support but still troubled by the fundamental problem—using my students as bait violates everything I believe about a teacher's responsibility.
"There's another option," I say finally, my voice carrying that hellish growl that no amount of effort can completely eliminate. "I could simply not show up. Let the sleeper agents reveal themselves when their target isn't present."
"And what message would that send?" Lucifer challenges. "That you're afraid? That you can be driven into hiding by threats? Everything you've built is based on courage, Kamen—the courage to challenge artificial barriers, to question cosmic authority, to stand firm when others retreat."
He's right, and I hate it. The same stubbornness that kept me alive through five thousand years of Hell won't let me hide now, even when strategic retreat might be the wiser course.
"Fine," I concede. "But we do this my way. No student gets hurt—not even the infiltrators. If they've been manipulated by the Purifiers, they're victims as much as perpetrators."
Lucifer's perfect eyebrow arches slightly. "Even after what they're planning to do to you?"
"Especially then," I insist. "Five thousand years in the Pit taught me the difference between justice and vengeance. I won't punish students for being pawns in a game they didn't choose to play."
The morning of the demonstration arrives with a tension that hangs in the air like smoke. I can smell it as I approach the classroom—fear, anticipation, determination, all mingling into a potent cocktail that makes my enhanced senses tingle with warning.
The room falls silent as I enter, every eye tracking my movements with varying degrees of fascination and apprehension. I scan the faces, paying particular attention to the seven names on Valen's list. They appear normal enough—nervous, perhaps, but no more so than students facing a controversial demonstration should be.
Mira sits in the front row, her expression open and eager. If she's planning betrayal, she's hiding it well.
"Today," I begin, my voice carrying that metallic undertone that still feels strange on my tongue, "we move from theory to practice. You've learned how the barriers between realms function—now I'll show you how they can be navigated without Guardian permission."
A murmur runs through the class—excitement mixed with trepidation. I notice several students shifting uncomfortably, including three from Valen's list.
"Before we begin," I continue, moving to the center of the room, "I want to address something important. There are forces in the cosmos who don't want you to have this knowledge. Who believe certain information should remain restricted, certain barriers should remain uncrossed."
I pause, looking directly at each suspected infiltrator in turn. "These forces believe they're protecting cosmic stability. What they're actually protecting is their own power—their ability to control what passes between realms, who benefits from cross-realm interaction, who gets to decide what knowledge is 'dangerous' and what is 'acceptable.'"
The tension in the room spikes, several students exchanging nervous glances. I can sense Elara at the back, her hand resting casually near her concealed weapon. Valen stands to the side, his burning eyes scanning the emotional signatures of everyone present.
"Today's demonstration will show you something these forces don't want you to see—that the barriers between realms are constructs, not natural formations. That they can be navigated with understanding rather than permission. That you have the right to move freely through a cosmos that belongs to all beings, not just those who claim authority over it."
I move to the demonstration table, where I've prepared the materials needed to create a small, controlled doorway between realms. Nothing dangerous—just a window, really, allowing students to see directly into a carefully selected section of Hell's outer reaches.
As I begin the demonstration, I keep my senses alert for any sign of the attack we're expecting. The first part proceeds smoothly—I show how certain frequencies of energy can resonate with the barrier structure, creating temporary weaknesses that can be expanded into functional doorways.
The students watch with rapt attention, even the suspected infiltrators seeming genuinely fascinated by the practical application of what they've been learning theoretically. Perhaps Valen's analysis was wrong. Perhaps the attack will come from outside, not from within.
Then I reach the critical moment—the point where the doorway begins to form, where the barrier between realms thins to transparency. This is where any attack would be most effective, where a disruption could cause the most dramatic and potentially dangerous failure.
"Now, observe carefully," I say, my hands moving through the precise gestures required to stabilize the forming portal. "The key is to maintain perfect balance between—"
It happens so fast that even my enhanced reflexes barely register the sequence. Three students move simultaneously—Mira and two others from Valen's list. But instead of attacking me as expected, they lunge toward other students, grabbing them and attempting to shove them toward the forming portal.
"NOW!" Mira shouts, her young face transformed by a fanaticism I've seen too often in Hell. "Show them what happens when barriers fall!"
I abandon the demonstration instantly, letting the half-formed portal collapse as I launch myself across the room. Five thousand years of combat has made my movements almost too fast for normal perception—I'm between Mira and her intended victim before she can complete her push.
"Enough," I growl, my armor fully manifesting as I separate them with carefully controlled strength. Around the room, Elara and Valen are doing the same with the other attackers, preventing what would have been a calculated tragedy.
"You don't understand!" Mira shouts, struggling against my grip. "They need to see! They need to understand what happens when the barriers fall completely!"
The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. This wasn't an attack on me—it was an attempt to create victims, to push innocent students through an unstable portal as "proof" of the dangers of cross-realm education.
"Everyone remain calm," I command, my voice cutting through the panic beginning to spread through the classroom. "The demonstration is over. The portal is closed. You're safe."
The three attackers are quickly restrained, their faces showing not fear or remorse, but the righteous indignation of true believers. They genuinely think they're saving the cosmos from some terrible contamination.
"You're making a mistake," Mira says, her eyes burning with conviction as Elara secures her hands. "The barriers exist for a reason. Without them, everything bleeds together. Nothing remains pure."
"Purity is a myth," I tell her, my transformed features inches from her face. "Everything in the cosmos is connected. The barriers don't prevent contamination—they prevent understanding."
As the other students are led to safety, I study the three captured infiltrators. They're young—too young to have developed such extreme views on their own. Someone has shaped them, molded their natural fear of the unknown into something weaponized.
"Who sent you?" I ask Mira directly, keeping my voice level despite the rage simmering beneath my skin. "Who convinced you that murdering your fellow students was justified?"
"No one sent us," she replies, her chin lifted in defiance. "We found the truth ourselves. We saw what happens when barriers fail, when realms bleed together. We saw what you became."
I blink, caught off guard by her words. "What I became?"
"Look at yourself," she spits, disgust evident in her young face. "Part human, part demon, part something else entirely. A hybrid abomination. Living proof of what happens when barriers fall."
The irony is almost painful. My transformation—the result of five thousand years in Hell—being used as justification for maintaining the very barriers that allowed such punishment to occur.
"You've been manipulated," I tell her, not unkindly despite her attempted murder. "Someone has taken your natural fear of the unknown and twisted it into hatred."
"You're wrong," she insists, but I can see doubt flickering in her eyes for the first time. "We're protecting the natural order."
"There's nothing natural about these barriers," I reply, gesturing to where the demonstration portal had been forming. "They're constructs, created and maintained by beings with vested interests in keeping realms separate. In keeping knowledge controlled."
Before she can respond, Lucifer enters the classroom, his perfect features arranged in an expression of grave concern that I know is largely for show. He surveys the captured infiltrators with calculated interest.
"Well," he says, his voice carrying just the right note of disappointed authority, "it seems we have a rather serious situation. Attempted murder in a classroom—not the sort of education we encourage at this sanctuary."
Mira's eyes widen as she recognizes him, the full implications of her actions finally seeming to register. "We weren't trying to kill anyone," she protests, though her voice lacks conviction. "Just... show everyone the danger."
"By shoving innocent students through an unstable portal?" I challenge. "Where exactly did you think they would end up?"
She looks away, unable to meet my gaze. "It would have been controlled. They would have been retrieved... eventually."
"After they'd suffered enough to serve as examples," Lucifer concludes, his perfect smile never reaching his eyes. "How very pragmatic of you. Sacrificing a few for your greater cause."
As the infiltrators are led away for more thorough questioning, I feel a profound weariness settling in my transformed bones. Not physical exhaustion—the Pit burned that weakness out of me centuries ago—but a deeper, spiritual fatigue. These were my students. People I was supposed to guide, to protect, to help grow beyond artificial limitations.
Instead, they've become weapons in a cosmic conflict they barely understand.
"You're brooding again," Caleif observes, appearing at my side as the classroom empties. "It's becoming a persistent habit."
"They're so young," I say, watching Mira's defiant face as she's escorted out. "Too young to have developed such hatred on their own."
"Which makes them perfect tools for manipulation," I finish, feeling the armor beneath my skin pulse with suppressed anger. "Someone found their fears and shaped them into weapons."
Caleif's hand finds mine, her touch grounding me as always. "The question is who. And why they're targeting your students specifically instead of coming after you directly."
I consider her words, thinking back to the Purifier angels who attacked Lucifer's study. They came for me openly, with blades and righteous fury. But this—this is something more insidious. Using my own students against each other, turning my classroom into a battleground.
"Because direct confrontation failed," I realize, the pieces clicking into place. "They can't break me through force—five thousand years in Hell proved that. So they're trying to break what I care about instead."
The thought sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with temperature. My students, my work, the connections I've spent centuries building—all of it vulnerable in ways I never was, even in the Pit.
"They're escalating," Valen observes, approaching us with his data tablet in hand. "First the angels in Lucifer's study, now infiltrators among the students. Each attempt more sophisticated than the last."
I nod, my mind already racing ahead to what might come next. "What did you learn from questioning the other two?"
"Similar indoctrination to Mira's, but with interesting variations," he reports, his burning eyes scanning his notes. "Each one was recruited through different channels—online forums, study groups, even a campus religious organization. But the underlying message was consistent: cross-realm contact leads to contamination and chaos."
"Professional work," I grudgingly admit. "They've been planning this for months, possibly years. Building a network of true believers who genuinely think they're saving the cosmos."
Lucifer rejoins us, his perfect features arranged in thoughtful contemplation. "I've had some rather illuminating conversations with our captured zealots. It seems they've been promised quite a lot in exchange for their service—advanced placement in 'pure' educational institutions, guaranteed positions in post-purification government structures."
"Post-purification?" I repeat, not liking the sound of that at all.
"They believe they're part of a larger movement," he explains, his voice dropping to ensure privacy. "One that will eventually restructure cosmic society along what they call 'natural lines'—strict separation between realms, limited interaction, knowledge compartmentalized according to species and origin."
The implications hit me like a physical blow. This isn't just about shutting down my academy or discrediting cross-realm education. It's about fundamentally altering the structure of the cosmos itself, undoing centuries of progress toward unity and understanding.
"How many others are there?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"Unknown," Lucifer admits. "But based on the sophistication of their recruitment and indoctrination processes, I'd estimate we're looking at a movement with significant resources and reach across all three realms."
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of five thousand years pressing down on me. I thought my time in Hell was about surviving cosmic punishment, about refusing to break under impossible pressure. But maybe it was preparation for this—for a conflict that threatens everything I've ever believed in.
"We need more information," I decide, opening my eyes to meet each of their gazes in turn. "About their leadership, their ultimate goals, their timeline. And we need to protect the students who weren't compromised."
"Agreed," Caleif says, her voice carrying a determination that makes my transformed heart skip a beat. "But we also need to be smart about this. They've shown they're willing to sacrifice innocents to achieve their goals. We can't give them any more opportunities."
I look around the empty classroom, at the scorch marks where my demonstration portal began to form, at the overturned chairs from the brief struggle. This should have been a place of learning, of growth, of minds expanding beyond artificial limitations. Instead, it's become a battlefield.
"Tomorrow, we resume classes," I announce, feeling something crystallize in my chest—not just determination, but purpose refined by adversity. "Modified curriculum, enhanced security, but we continue. Because the moment we let fear stop us from teaching, they win."
"The students will be terrified," Valen points out. "Half of them just watched their classmates try to murder the other half."
"Then we teach them how to recognize manipulation," I reply, my voice carrying the authority of someone who's survived the unsurvivable. "How to question what they're told, how to think critically about authority figures who claim to know what's best for them."
I move toward the door, my armored form casting long shadows in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. "The Purifiers want to use fear as a weapon. Fine. I'll show my students what real courage looks like—not the absence of fear, but the choice to act despite it."
As we leave the classroom, I feel something I haven't experienced since my return from Hell—not just anger or determination, but a sense of righteous purpose that transcends personal grievance. The Purifiers have made this about more than just me, more than just my work.
They've made it about the fundamental right of every being to learn, to grow, to connect across artificial barriers. And after five thousand years of defending that principle with my life, I'm not about to stop now.
Tomorrow's class will be different. Smaller, perhaps. More cautious, certainly. But it will happen. Because some things are worth fighting for, even when—especially when—the odds seem impossible.
The cosmos belongs to everyone, not just those who claim the authority to divide it. And I'm going to spend whatever time I have left making sure my students understand that truth, no matter who tries to stop me. 'I wonder what the other places are like, I always thought there were only 3 different realms, but a thousand? That's too much. I wonder if the Norse mythology is one of them, actually; come to think of it, I wonder if each religion have a realm. It would be weird if there would be only Heaven and Hell.' I think to myself as I scratch the back of my head.
The thought distracts me momentarily, but I force myself to focus. Cosmic metaphysics can wait—I have more immediate concerns.
"Gather the uncompromised students for tomorrow," I tell Valen. "But first, we need to secure the sanctuary. If they've infiltrated my classroom, they could be anywhere."
I move through the corridors with renewed purpose, my enhanced senses scanning for anything unusual. The sanctuary feels different now—no longer just a haven but a fortress under siege. Students whisper as I pass, their fear and confusion hitting me in waves that my heightened perception can't ignore.
"Professor Driscol!" A voice calls from behind me. I turn to see one of my more promising students—Alexia, a young angel with an aptitude for barrier theory. "Is it true? Were they really going to...push people through the portal?"
I study her face, looking for any sign of deception. Five thousand years in Hell has made me paranoid, but her concern seems genuine.
"Yes," I admit, seeing no point in hiding the truth. "They believed they were serving a greater cause."
She shudders, her wings drawing closer to her body in an instinctive protective gesture. "How could they think that? We're supposed to be learning together, not...hurting each other."
"That's exactly what frightens them," I explain, my voice softening as much as my transformed vocal cords allow. "The idea that beings from different realms can learn together, can understand each other. It threatens those who maintain power through division."
Alexia considers this, her young face serious. "Will you still teach us? After what happened?"
"With enhanced security and a modified curriculum," I assure her. "Knowledge doesn't become less valuable because some fear it."
She nods, relief evident in her posture. "Most of us still want to learn. We're scared, but...we trust you."
The weight of that trust settles on my shoulders—heavier in some ways than the burden of five thousand years of combat. "I won't let anything happen to any of you," I promise, meaning every word.
As she hurries away, I continue toward the sanctuary's main security hub where Elara is coordinating our response. The corridor ahead suddenly fills with a blinding light, and I instinctively drop into a combat stance, my armor fully manifesting.
"Calm yourself, architect," a familiar voice resonates through the air. "I come with information, not threats."
The Creator materializes before me, His radiance dimmed to merely uncomfortable levels rather than blinding. I straighten, though I don't dismiss my armor entirely.
"You have news about the Purifiers," I say. It's not a question.
He nods, His cosmic features settling into an expression of grave concern. "Their reach extends further than you realize. This is not merely a fringe movement—it has supporters at the highest levels of cosmic administration."
"Including among the Guardians," I guess, pieces clicking into place.
"Some, yes," He confirms. "Though not all. There are those who still believe in balance rather than segregation."
I absorb this information, calculating its implications. "Then we're fighting not just zealots, but cosmic authorities with legitimate power."
"Which is why I've come," the Creator says, His voice dropping lower. "To warn you that they're preparing for something significant. The classroom incident was merely a test—a way to gauge your reactions, your defenses."
My armor pulses with renewed energy as anger surges through me. "They used my students as test subjects?"
"They see casualties as acceptable in pursuit of their goals," He replies grimly. "Purification, to them, justifies any cost."
"What are they planning?" I demand, my patience wearing thin.
The Creator's expression becomes even more serious. "A coordinated attack on multiple cross-realm educational institutions. Not just your sanctuary, but similar facilities across all three realms. They intend to create a unified incident that will justify immediate, cosmos-wide restrictions on cross-realm education."
The scope of the threat takes my breath away. This isn't just about me or my work—it's about systematically dismantling centuries of progress toward cosmic unity.
"When?" I ask, already calculating countermeasures.
"Soon. Within days." His radiance flickers slightly. "I cannot intervene directly without triggering cosmic protocols that would cause more harm than good. But I can provide information, and I can ensure certain authorities look the other way at critical moments."
I study His face, looking for any sign of deception or manipulation. "Why tell me this? Why not go to Lucifer, or other beings with more established power?"
"Because you've proven something important," He says simply. "Five thousand years in Hell didn't break you—it transformed you into something new. Something that understands both the value of cosmic unity and the cost of defending it."
I absorb His words, feeling their weight settle alongside the armor that's become part of me. "What would you have me do?"
"What you've always done," He replies. "Teach. Connect. Build bridges where others want walls. But be prepared to defend those bridges when the attack comes."
With that, He begins to fade, His radiance diminishing. "One more thing, architect," He adds, His voice growing distant. "You wonder about other realms beyond the three you know. The answer is yes—they exist. Thousands of them, each with its own rules, its own beings, its own version of truth. That's why the barriers must be navigated, not enforced. The cosmos is far larger than even you have imagined."
As He vanishes completely, I stand alone in the corridor, processing both His warning and His revelation. Thousands of realms, not just three. The implications are staggering—and explain why the Purifiers are so desperate to maintain strict separation. If beings knew how vast the cosmos truly is, how many different ways of existing are possible...
I shake myself from philosophical contemplation. There's no time for abstract thinking—not with a coordinated attack looming. I need to warn Lucifer, to prepare our defenses, to ensure my students are protected.
Most importantly, I need to continue teaching. Because the Creator is right—knowledge is our most powerful weapon against those who would divide the cosmos along artificial lines.
I hurry toward the security hub with renewed urgency, my transformed body moving with the fluid grace five thousand years of combat has ingrained in me. The Purifiers want to use fear to justify isolation. I'll use understanding to build connections they can't sever.
Let them come. After surviving Hell itself, I'm not afraid of zealots who hide behind cosmic authority. And I'll be damned if I let them use my students as pawns in their game of cosmic segregation.
This fight isn't just about protecting what I've built—it's about defending the fundamental right of every being to learn, to grow, to connect across artificial barriers. And after five thousand years of defending that principle with my life, I'm not about to stop now.
The cosmos belongs to everyone, not just those who claim the authority to divide it. And I'm going to make sure everyone knows it, no matter who tries to stop me. A loud boom stops me in my tracks as I look around quickly to see what's happening and run to the window and feel my anger rise to heights that haven't been reached in a really long time.
Purifiers are in the courtyard attacking students. Rage billows inside mixed with my anger as I burst from the window and wall as a Purifier strikes Elara down beheading her as she shields two students.
The sound that rips from my throat isn't human—it's something forged in five thousand years of endless combat, a roar that makes reality itself seem to recoil. My armor erupts across my entire body in a cascade of crimson energy so intense it cracks the sanctuary walls as I launch myself through the shattered window.
I don't fall—I descend like a meteor of pure fury, my transformed body cutting through the air with lethal precision. The Purifier who killed Elara doesn't even have time to turn before my claws tear through his chest, separating his upper body from his lower with a violence that sends his corrupted blood spraying across the courtyard stones.
"ELARA!" I scream, dropping to my knees beside her still form. Her green eyes stare sightlessly at the desert sky, her hand still gripping the weapon she died wielding. The two students she protected—barely more than children—huddle behind her corpse, their faces painted with terror and her blood.
The rage that consumes me isn't the controlled fury I learned to harness in Hell. This is something primal, something that transcends reason or strategy. Elara—practical, steadfast Elara who never judged what I'd become—is gone. Cut down protecting innocents while I stood in a corridor discussing cosmic philosophy.
I rise slowly, my armor now covering every inch of my body, spikes extending from my joints like the weapons I've become. The remaining Purifiers in the courtyard—at least a dozen of them—turn to face me with expressions ranging from satisfaction to sudden, stark terror.
"You want to see contamination?" I growl, my voice carrying harmonics that shouldn't exist in normal space. "Let me show you what five thousand years of Hell actually looks like."
I move through them like death itself, my enhanced speed making their attacks seem sluggish, pathetic. These aren't the skilled demons I fought in the Pit—these are zealots drunk on righteousness and unprepared for the reality of what they've awakened.
My claws find throats, my fists cave in skulls, my armored form tears through their corrupted wings like paper. Each kill sends a surge of savage satisfaction through me, but it's not enough. It will never be enough to balance the scales of what they've taken.
"Professor!" One of the students Elara died protecting calls out to me, his young voice cutting through the red haze of my fury. "Behind you!"
I spin to see another wave of Purifiers emerging from the sanctuary's main entrance, their leader—a massive angel with wings stained black—pointing directly at me.
"Kamen Driscol," he intones, his voice carrying false authority. "By the power vested in us by cosmic purity, you are sentenced to immediate termination."
I laugh, the sound echoing across the courtyard like breaking glass. "Cosmic purity? You murdered one of the most honorable beings I've ever known. You used children as weapons. You dare speak to me of purity?"
The leader's corrupted halo flickers with sickly light. "She was contaminated by association with your abomination. Her death cleanses the cosmos of—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. I'm across the courtyard in a heartbeat, my claws buried in his throat before he can complete his blasphemy. I lift him off the ground, watching his eyes widen as he realizes the magnitude of his error.
"Her name was Elara Marlowe," I snarl, my face inches from his. "She was worth a thousand of you. And you're going to die knowing that your precious purification accomplished nothing except creating more of what you fear."
I tear his head from his shoulders, letting his body drop as I turn to face the remaining Purifiers. They're backing away now, their righteousness crumbling in the face of what they've unleashed.
"You're not getting away, I'll kill every single one of you! You've done something that should never have been done!" I roar out as I heave in and out foaming at the mouth.
The remaining Purifiers scatter like leaves before a hurricane, but I'm faster than wind, more relentless than storm. My armor blazes with hellfire as I chase them across the courtyard, each step cracking the ancient stones beneath my feet. They think they can flee after what they've done—after they've taken Elara from me, from the students she died protecting.
I catch the first one at the sanctuary's eastern wall, my claws punching through his back and emerging from his chest in a spray of corrupted ichor. He screams something about divine justice, but I silence him by crushing his windpipe with my free hand.
"Divine justice?" I snarl, dropping his twitching corpse. "This is what justice looks like."
Two more try to take flight, their stained wings beating frantically as they attempt to escape into the desert sky. I launch myself after them, my transformed body cutting through the air with predatory grace. The first one I catch mid-flight, my claws shearing through his wings before I drag him back to earth with bone-crushing force.
The second makes it perhaps fifty feet before I tackle him, both of us slamming into the sanctuary's roof with enough impact to shatter tiles. He tries to crawl away, leaving a trail of golden blood across the clay surface.
"Please," he gasps, his corruption-stained face twisted with terror. "We were just following orders—"
"Elara was just protecting children," I cut him off, my voice dropping to the growl that makes reality vibrate. "Did she get mercy? Did those students get a chance to plead for their lives?"
I don't wait for his answer. My fist caves in his skull, sending brain matter and bone fragments across the roof tiles. The satisfaction is immediate but hollow—each kill only emphasizes what I've lost, what can never be brought back.
Below in the courtyard, I can hear Lucifer's voice calling my name, but it sounds distant, unimportant. What matters is the scent of more Purifiers hiding somewhere in the sanctuary. My enhanced senses pick up their fear, their desperation, their futile attempts to conceal themselves.
I drop back into the courtyard, landing beside Elara's body with a grace that belies the rage consuming me. Her blood has already begun to pool beneath her, staining the stones we walked together just hours ago. The two students she protected are gone—evacuated, I hope, though part of me knows some wounds can't be healed by simple survival.
"Kamen," Lucifer approaches carefully, his perfect features arranged in an expression of genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry. She fought bravely—"
"She fought alone," I interrupt, my voice cracking with emotions I thought five thousand years of Hell had burned out of me. "While I was discussing cosmic philosophy with the Creator, she was here dying to protect children."
"You couldn't have known—"
"I should have!" The words tear from my throat with enough force to crack nearby windows. "I should have been here. I should have protected her. I should have—"
I cut myself off, realizing that grief is a luxury I can't afford. Not while Purifiers might still be hunting my students. Not while the threat remains active.
"How many got away?" I ask, forcing my voice back to something resembling control.
"Unknown," Lucifer admits. "But this was clearly a coordinated assault. Multiple entry points, precise timing, specific targets."
I scan the courtyard, my enhanced vision picking out details normal sight would miss. Scorch marks from angelic weapons. Claw marks from demonic claws—not mine, but similar. Blood from at least three different species.
"This wasn't just Purifiers," I realize, pieces clicking into place. "This was a full coalition. Angels, demons, even some mortal agents."
"Which means they have more resources than we anticipated," Lucifer concludes grimly. "And this attack was just the beginning."
I kneel beside Elara's body again, my clawed hand hovering over her still face. She looks peaceful, despite the violence of her death. At rest in a way I haven't been since before the Pit, in a way I may never be again.
"I'm going to find whoever ordered this," I tell her, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm going to make them pay for what they've taken from us."
Standing, I turn to face Lucifer, feeling something crystallize in my chest—not just rage, but purpose refined by loss. "Gather the surviving students. Get them somewhere safe. And find out everything you can about this coalition."
"Where are you going?" he asks, though I suspect he already knows.
"Hunting," I reply, my armor pulsing with anticipation. "The Purifiers wanted to see what happens when barriers fall, when realms bleed together. I'm going to show them exactly what five thousand years of Hell can accomplish when it has a specific target."
I move toward the sanctuary's main entrance, my enhanced senses already picking up the trails of those who fled. They think distance will protect them. They think their righteousness will shield them. They think their cause justifies what they've done.
They're about to learn how wrong they are.
"Kamen," Lucifer calls after me. "Don't lose yourself in this. Elara wouldn't want—"
"Elara is dead," I cut him off, not turning around. "What she would want doesn't matter anymore. What matters is ensuring this never happens again."
I pause at the threshold, looking back at the courtyard where my friend's blood still stains the stones. "Tell the students that classes are suspended indefinitely. Tell them that their professor has some very important lessons to teach—just not to them."
The desert night swallows me as I leave the sanctuary behind, my transformed senses tracking the fleeing Purifiers across sand and stone. They have perhaps an hour's head start, maybe less. Against normal pursuit, that might be enough.
But I'm not normal pursuit. I'm five thousand years of combat experience wrapped in hellforged armor and driven by a grief that transcends rational thought. I'm what happens when you take someone who refused to break in Hell and give them a reason to unleash everything they learned there.
The Purifiers wanted to purify the cosmos of contamination. Fine. I'll start by purifying it of them.
One by one, until every last zealot who participated in this massacre understands exactly what they've awakened. Until the cosmos learns that some prices are too high to pay, some lines too sacred to cross.
Elara died protecting innocents. I'll honor her memory by ensuring no other teacher, no other student, ever faces the same fate.
The hunt begins now.
The desert wind carries their scent—fear, corruption, and the metallic tang of spilled blood. My enhanced senses lock onto their trail like a predator following wounded prey. Three distinct paths diverge from the sanctuary: one heading toward the mortal realm border, another toward the demon territories, and a third that simply... stops, as if they vanished into thin air.
Teleportation. Cowards.
I choose the mortal realm trail first—it's the freshest, and my nose tells me at least four Purifiers fled in that direction. My transformed body moves across the sand with inhuman speed, each stride covering impossible distances as the armor channels power I've spent five millennia learning to harness.
The rage burns steady and cold now, no longer the explosive fury that consumed me in the courtyard. This is something more dangerous—calculated wrath with a specific purpose. Each step takes me further from the sanctuary, further from Elara's body, but closer to the justice she'll never see.
The first Purifier I catch is barely two miles out, stumbling through a rocky outcropping with one wing hanging at an unnatural angle. He must have been injured in the initial assault—or perhaps during his panicked flight. Either way, his labored breathing makes him easy to track.
I drop from the rocks above him without sound, my claws finding his throat before he can cry out. His eyes widen in terror as he recognizes what's hunting him.
"Please," he gasps, his corrupted halo flickering weakly. "I was just following orders—"
"So were the demons in Hell," I reply, my voice carrying the growl that makes reality itself seem to recoil. "It didn't save them either."
I could kill him quickly—a mercy I've learned to appreciate after watching thousands die in the Pit. But mercy is for those who show it to others. This zealot participated in Elara's murder, in the attack on innocent students.
Instead, I let him feel exactly what those students felt—the terror of facing something beyond their ability to fight, the helplessness of knowing death is coming and being powerless to stop it.
When I finally end his suffering, it's not from compassion. It's because I need to catch the others before they reach whatever safe house they're fleeing toward.
The second trail leads me deeper into the desert, toward an abandoned mining settlement that's been empty for decades. My enhanced vision picks out the heat signatures of three figures huddled in what was once the town's church—how fitting that they'd seek sanctuary in a place of worship.
I don't bother with stealth this time. Let them hear me coming. Let them feel the weight of approaching judgment.
The church door explodes inward as I crash through it, my armored form filling the doorway like a vision from their worst nightmares. The three Purifiers inside scramble for weapons, but five thousand years of combat has taught me to read opponents before they act.
The first one lunges with a blade wreathed in corrupted divine energy. I sidestep his clumsy attack and grab his wrist, twisting until I hear bone snap. His scream echoes off the church walls as I tear the weapon from his grip and drive it through his chest.
"Blasphemer!" the second one shouts, raising his hands to call down some kind of divine punishment. "You defile sacred ground with your presence!"
I laugh, the sound harsh and metallic through my transformed vocal cords. "Sacred ground? You turned a classroom into a slaughterhouse. You murdered a teacher who died protecting children. If anyone's defiling sacred ground, it's you."
My claws find his throat before he can complete whatever prayer he was attempting. The third Purifier—younger than the others, barely more than a fledgling—backs against the altar with tears streaming down his face.
"I didn't want to do it," he sobs, his wings trembling with terror. "They said it was necessary, that contamination had to be cleansed, but I never wanted to hurt anyone."
I study his face, seeing genuine remorse beneath the fear. This one is different from the others—corrupted by indoctrination rather than genuine malice. In another life, he might have been one of my students.
"What's your name?" I ask, my voice softer but still carrying that hellish undertone.
"Gabriel," he whispers. "Gabriel Lightbringer."
"Gabriel," I repeat, tasting the irony. "Tell me who gave the order to attack the sanctuary. Who planned this massacre."
He looks around the ruined church, at the bodies of his companions, at the blood pooling on the stone floor. "I don't know names," he admits. "We were given instructions through intermediaries, told only what we needed to know for our specific mission."
"Then tell me what you do know," I growl, taking a step closer. "Because your life depends on being useful."
For the next few minutes, he spills everything—the recruitment process, the indoctrination sessions, the promise of positions in the new cosmic order once the purification is complete. It's more organized than I expected, more insidious.
"The attack on your sanctuary was just the beginning," he concludes, his voice barely above a whisper. "There are simultaneous strikes planned across all three realms. Every major center of cross-realm education will be hit within the next twenty-four hours."
The scope of the threat hits me like a physical blow. Not just my work, but centuries of progress toward cosmic unity—all of it under coordinated assault.
"How many others are involved?" I demand.
"Hundreds," Gabriel admits. "Maybe thousands. They've been recruiting for years, building cells in every major population center."
I absorb this information, calculating the implications. Even with my enhanced abilities, I can't be everywhere at once. I can't protect every teacher, every student, every bridge between realms that these zealots want to destroy.
But I can send a message. I can make the cost of their purification so high that others think twice before following their example.
"You're going to deliver a message for me," I tell Gabriel, my claws extending as I lean closer. "To whoever gave you your orders, whoever's really running this purification campaign."
He nods frantically, desperate to live even if it means betraying his cause.
"Tell them that Kamen Driscol is coming," I continue, my voice dropping to the growl that makes stone crack. "Tell them that every teacher they kill, every student they harm, every sanctuary they destroy—I'll repay tenfold. Tell them that five thousand years in Hell taught me patience, but murdering my friend taught me its limits."
I grab him by the front of his robes, lifting him off the ground despite his struggles. "Most importantly, tell them that their purification ends now. Not because some cosmic authority commands it, but because I refuse to let it continue."
I hurl him through the church's stained glass window, watching him tumble across the sand outside. He'll live—barely—but he'll carry my message and the memory of this night for whatever remains of his existence.
The third trail leads me back toward demon territory, winding through canyons and rocky defiles that would challenge normal pursuit. But I'm not normal pursuit. I'm something forged in hellfire and tempered by absolute refusal to surrender.
The scent grows stronger as I approach a hidden cave system—multiple Purifiers, at least six, along with something else. Something that makes my enhanced senses recoil in recognition.
Brimstone. Sulfur. The distinctive signature of high-ranking demons.
I pause at the cave entrance, analyzing what I'm sensing. The Purifiers are inside, but they're not alone. They're meeting with someone—or something—that belongs to the same realm that tormented me for five millennia.
The irony is bitter. Demons and angels, working together to maintain the barriers that keep their realms separate. United in their fear of what happens when those barriers fall.
I slip into the cave system with predatory silence, my armor adapting to minimize any sound or energy signature. The voices grow clearer as I approach the main chamber.
"—told you the architect would be problematic," a voice like grinding stone says. "His transformation makes him unpredictable."
"He's just one being," another voice replies—angelic, but corrupted. "Powerful, perhaps, but still limited by physical form."
"You didn't see what he did to our advance team," a third voice interjects. "He tore through them like they were nothing. Five thousand years in the Pit changed him into something we didn't anticipate."
I reach the edge of the chamber and peer around the corner. Six Purifiers stand in a circle around a figure I recognize from my time in Hell—Belphegor, a demon prince who specializes in corrupting noble intentions into destructive zealotry.
"The plan remains unchanged," Belphegor declares, his massive form dominating the space. "Simultaneous strikes across all three realms, coordinated to maximize psychological impact. By dawn, cross-realm education will be seen as the threat it truly is."
"And if Driscol interferes?" one of the angels asks.
"Then we eliminate him," Belphegor replies with casual brutality. "His students, his allies, everyone he cares about. Make his transformation meaningless by removing everything that gives it purpose."
The rage that's been burning cold in my chest suddenly blazes white-hot. They're not just targeting educational institutions—they're targeting everyone I care about. Caleif, Lucifer, my remaining students—all of them marked for death because of their association with me.
I step into the chamber, my armor flaring to full manifestation as I announce my presence. "Belphegor," I growl, my voice echoing off the cave walls. "I should have known you'd be involved in this."
The demon prince turns with a smile that reveals teeth like broken glass. "Kamen Driscol. You're looking... different since we last met."
"Five thousand years will do that," I reply, my claws extending as I assess the opposition. "But you look exactly the same—still corrupting others to do your dirty work."
"Corruption?" Belphegor laughs, the sound like breaking bones. "I prefer to think of it as... clarification. These angels have simply learned to see the truth about cross-realm contamination."
I look at the Purifiers surrounding him, seeing how their corruption mirrors his influence. "You've been feeding them lies about cosmic purity while poisoning them with your own essence. Classic demon manipulation."
"Results matter more than methods," he replies, his massive form shifting as he prepares for combat. "And the result will be a cosmos properly segregated, properly controlled."
"By you," I conclude, understanding finally dawning. "This isn't about purity—it's about power. You want the realms divided so you can rule your piece without interference."
His smile widens. "I always said you were too intelligent for your own good. It's what made you so dangerous to the established order."
The Purifiers around him begin to spread out, trying to surround me. But I've fought in spaces far more confined than this cave, against opponents far more skilled than these corrupted zealots.
"You made one mistake," I tell Belphegor as I settle into a combat stance. "You killed my friend. You turned this from a philosophical disagreement into something personal."
"And what exactly do you think you can accomplish against all of us?" he taunts. "You're outnumbered, and unlike the mindless demons you fought in the Pit, we're organized."
I smile, feeling the familiar anticipation of combat singing through my transformed body. "I'm going to show you how wrong you are." I say with a sickening wide smile on my face.
The first Purifier lunges at me with a blade wreathed in corrupted divine energy, but I'm already moving. Five thousand years of combat has taught me to read attacks before they're fully committed. I sidestep his clumsy thrust and grab his wrist, the bones snapping like dry twigs under my enhanced grip.
His scream echoes off the cave walls as I tear the weapon from his grasp and drive it through his chest in one fluid motion. The corrupted energy flickers and dies as his life fades, leaving only the metallic scent of spilled blood.
"Too slow," I growl, turning to face the next attacker.
Two more come at me simultaneously—better coordinated than the first, but still pathetically inadequate compared to the demons I've been killing for millennia. I catch the first by the throat, my claws punching through his corrupted flesh as I use his body as a shield against the second's attack.
The blade meant for me pierces his ally instead, and I reward the killer's shock by tearing his head from his shoulders with my free hand. Three down, three to go.
Belphegor watches with calculating interest as I dispatch his minions, making no move to intervene. He's studying me, looking for weaknesses, patterns he can exploit. Good. Let him think he's learning something useful.
The remaining Purifiers attack together, trying to overwhelm me with numbers. But I've faced worse odds in spaces far more confined than this cave. I flow between their attacks like water, my armor deflecting their blades while my claws find gaps in their defenses.
The fourth one dies when I grab his wing and use it to slam him into the cave wall with enough force to crack stone. The fifth tries to flee, but I'm on him before he can take three steps, my fist punching through his back and emerging from his chest in a spray of corrupted ichor.
The last one—barely more than a fledgling—drops his weapon and raises his hands in surrender. "Please," he gasps, his corrupted halo flickering weakly. "I yield!"
I pause, studying his face. There's genuine terror there, but also something else—recognition of what he's become, what he's been manipulated into doing.
"You yield?" I repeat, my voice carrying that hellish growl. "Did the students in my sanctuary get a chance to yield? Did Elara?"
Before he can answer, Belphegor's massive form moves with surprising speed. His claws rake across my back, tearing through armor and flesh with enough force to send me stumbling forward. The pain is immediate and intense, but it's nothing compared to what I've endured.
"Enough games," the demon prince snarls, his true power finally manifesting. "Time to end this charade."
I spin to face him, feeling the wounds on my back already beginning to heal. "Finally ready to fight your own battles instead of hiding behind corrupted pawns?"
"I prefer to think of it as... delegation," he replies, his massive form beginning to shift and expand. "But some tasks require a personal touch."
He lunges at me with speed that would have been impossible to follow before my transformation. But five thousand years of combat has made me something beyond normal reflexes. I meet his charge head-on, our collision sending shockwaves through the cave that bring down chunks of rock from the ceiling.
His claws find my armor, scraping across the hellforged metal with sparks that illuminate the darkness. I respond by driving my fist into his solar plexus, the impact creating a crater in his chest that immediately begins to regenerate.
"You're stronger than I expected," he admits, his voice strained but still carrying that note of casual arrogance. "The Pit did more than just corrupt you—it evolved you."
"Evolved is one word for it," I reply, ducking under his next swing and raking my claws across his ribs. "Refined might be more accurate."
We circle each other in the confined space, two predators looking for openings. He's powerful—more so than most of the demons I faced in Hell—but he's also overconfident. He thinks his size and strength give him an advantage.
He's about to learn how wrong he is.
I feint left, then dart right, my claws finding the gap between his armor plates. The wound I open sprays sulfurous blood across the cave wall, and his roar of pain is music to my ears.
"You're bleeding," I observe, my voice carrying mock concern. "That's not very pure of you."
"Purity was never the point," he snarls, his wounds already beginning to close. "Control was. Order was. The barriers between realms exist for a reason—to prevent abominations like you from spreading."
"Abominations like me?" I laugh, the sound harsh and metallic. "You're the one corrupting angels, manipulating zealots, orchestrating massacres. If anyone's an abomination here, it's you."
I launch myself at him again, but this time he's ready. His massive hand catches me mid-flight, his claws digging into my armor as he slams me into the cave wall. Rock explodes around the impact site, and I feel several ribs crack under the pressure.
"You think you're some kind of hero," he growls, his face inches from mine. "But you're just another weapon, forged in Hell and pointed at targets you don't understand."
"Maybe," I admit, grabbing his wrist with both hands. "But I'm a weapon that chooses its own targets."
I twist sharply, using his own momentum against him to break his grip and send him sprawling. Before he can recover, I'm on him, my claws finding his throat as I pin him to the cave floor.
"This is for Elara," I snarl, my voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries more menace than any roar. "This is for every student you've terrorized, every teacher you've killed, every bridge between realms you've tried to burn."
I raise my other hand, claws extended, ready to end this. But something stops me—a sound from deeper in the cave system. Voices. Multiple voices, getting closer.
Belphegor's laugh is wet with his own blood. "Did you think... this was all of us? This was just... the advance team."
The sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the tunnels—dozens of them, maybe more. Reinforcements, arriving just as I'm about to finish their leader.
I look down at Belphegor, a wide smile appears on my face. "Good, they get to see how their boss dies."
I tighten my grip on Belphegor's throat, feeling his pulse flutter against my claws like a trapped bird. The sound of approaching reinforcements echoes through the cave tunnels, but I don't care. Let them come. Let them see what happens when you cross someone who's spent five millennia learning to kill things that think they're immortal.
"You're insane," Belphegor gasps, his eyes wide with something I haven't seen in them before—genuine fear. "They'll tear you apart."
"They can try," I reply, my voice carrying that metallic growl that makes the cave walls vibrate. "But first, you're going to tell me exactly how many sanctuaries you're planning to hit. How many teachers you're planning to murder."
His laugh turns into a cough as my claws dig deeper. "Go to Hell."
"Already been," I say, leaning closer until my transformed features fill his vision. "Spent five thousand years there, actually. Want to know what I learned?"
I don't wait for his answer. My free hand grabs his wing, and I begin to twist. The sound of breaking bone mingles with his screams as I methodically destroy the appendage that allows him to fly, to escape, to run from the consequences of his actions.
"I learned that pain is just information," I continue conversationally, even as he writhes beneath me. "And right now, you're going to give me all the information I need."
"The... the academies," he gasps between screams. "Seven of them... across all three realms. Simultaneous strikes at... at dawn."
"Which academies?" I demand, applying more pressure to his throat.
He rattles off a list of names, locations, target times. Each one represents hundreds of students, dozens of teachers, centuries of work building bridges between realms. All of it marked for destruction by zealots who fear what they don't understand.
The footsteps are getting closer now. I can hear voices, smell the distinctive signatures of more Purifiers and their demonic allies. At least twenty, maybe more. Under normal circumstances, I'd be concerned about the odds.
But these aren't normal circumstances. These are the circumstances that killed Elara. That threatened my students. That seek to destroy everything I've spent my existence building.
I stand, hauling Belphegor up with me by his throat. His feet dangle off the ground as I hold him like a shield between myself and the cave entrance.
"When your friends arrive," I tell him, my voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries more menace than any roar, "you're going to tell them to call off the attacks. All of them."
"They won't... listen to me," he chokes out.
"Then you're going to die in front of them," I reply with casual brutality. "And they'll learn what happens when you threaten the people I protect."
The first wave of reinforcements rounds the corner—six Purifiers with weapons drawn, their corrupted halos flickering with sickly light. They freeze when they see their leader dangling from my claws like a broken doll.
"Release him," the lead Purifier commands, raising a blade wreathed in corrupted divine energy. "Release him and we might let you live."
I laugh, the sound echoing off the cave walls like breaking glass. "You might let me live? That's adorable. Do you know what I am?"
"A contaminated abomination," another Purifier spits. "A corruption that needs to be cleansed."
"I'm someone who survived five thousand years in Hell," I correct them, my armor flaring with crimson energy. "I'm someone who came back stronger instead of broken. I'm someone who just learned that you murdered my friend."
I squeeze Belphegor's throat tighter, feeling cartilage crack under my grip. "Most importantly, I'm someone who's done pretending to be civilized."
The lead Purifier takes a step forward, his weapon raised. "Last warning. Release him now."
Instead, I drive my claws deeper into Belphegor's throat, feeling them pierce through to the other side. His eyes widen in shock as his own blood begins to flow down my arm.
"No," I say simply. "Last warning for you. Call off the attacks on the academies, or I'll kill every last one of you."
The Purifiers exchange glances, uncertainty flickering across their faces. They came here expecting to find their leader in control, planning the next phase of their purification campaign. Instead, they find him dying in the grip of something they clearly didn't expect to face.
"You're bluffing," one of them says, though his voice lacks conviction. "You can't take all of us."
"Can't I?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Would you like to find out?"
The cave fills with the sound of more approaching footsteps. More reinforcements, drawn by the commotion. I can smell them now—a mixture of corrupted angels and demons, all united in their hatred of what I represent.
Perfect. The more who see this, the better.
I tear Belphegor's throat out in one smooth motion, letting his body drop to the cave floor as his blood paints the walls. The Purifiers stare in shock at their leader's corpse, their carefully constructed confidence crumbling.
"Now," I say, my voice carrying the authority of someone who's just proven they're willing to do whatever it takes, "who wants to discuss calling off those attacks?"
The lead Purifier raises his weapon with shaking hands. "You... you monster. You killed him in cold blood."
"Cold blood?" I repeat, my armor pulsing with the heat of barely contained rage. "There's nothing cold about this. This is justice, served at exactly the right temperature."
I take a step toward them, my claws still dripping with Belphegor's blood. "He ordered the death of an innocent teacher. He planned to murder hundreds of students. He wanted to destroy centuries of progress toward cosmic unity. His blood isn't cold—it's exactly as hot as his crimes deserve."
More Purifiers pour into the chamber, their numbers swelling to at least fifteen. They form a rough circle around me, weapons raised, faces set with the kind of righteous determination that makes zealots so dangerous.
"You're surrounded," one of them calls out. "Surrender now and we might make your death quick."
I look around at them, these corrupted angels and their demonic allies, and feel something I haven't experienced since my early days in the Pit—pure, uncomplicated joy. Not the complex satisfaction of teaching or the deep contentment of time with Caleif, but the simple pleasure of facing enemies who deserve exactly what they're about to receive.
"Surrounded?" I ask, my transformed features arranging themselves into something that might have been a smile once. "You mean trapped in here with me?"
The first one lunges before I finish speaking, his blade seeking my heart with desperate precision. I catch it between my claws, the metal screaming as I crush it into useless fragments. My other hand finds his throat, and I lift him off the ground with casual ease.
"Thank you," I tell him as his feet kick uselessly in the air. "I was wondering who wanted to die first."