[A/N: ehy everyone, thank you for your support! This fanfic made literally 5 times the views of my other stories(in 24h), needless to say that from now on this fanfic will have the priority in publishing, but also stay on guard for the middle of September, where my other fanfic will restart, anyway let us return to the story}
"Shit, shit, shit!" Valor's thoughts pounded as loud as his wingbeats.
He was tearing through the skies of Malbolge, climbing toward the upper circles. The mortal realm was calling, but unlike Hell's lower layers, he couldn't just phase-shift out of here. Too far, too many wards. Which left the old-fashioned option: raw speed.
His devil form blazed in full display, camouflage discarded. Four curved crimson horns crowned his head, eyes burning blue like cracked diamonds. Red-feathered wings cut through the furnace air, each stroke melting the very heat around them, while his long silver hair streamed like liquid moonlight.
He was panicking—he could admit that much. And when panic struck? There was only one thing left to do.
"System," he snarled through gritted teeth, "show me my stats!"
panicking he checked his system:
[⚙️ System Output — Stat Sheet: Valor Sin
📡 System Online. Booting Infernal Diagnostics™.
Warning: parental supervision not included.
👤Normal Form: Base (Human)
Strength: 22 [+6]
Dexterity: 24 [+7]
Constitution: 22 [+6]
Intelligence: 18 [+4]
Wisdom: 20 [+5]
Charisma: 24 [+7]
Translation: your brain still lags behind your cheekbones.
🌀 Movement
Base Speed: Mach 2 (2,232 ft/s)
Burst Dash: Mach 3 (3,348 ft/s)
Flight: Yes. Very dramatic.
You're basically a fighter jet in leather boots. Try not to break the sound barrier indoors.
🛡️ Features
Regeneration: You can heal yourself in seconds for minor wounds and an average of 1 hour for lost limb
Premonition: Baby's first cosmic intuition.
Infernal Heritage: Friends in low places and nepotism!.
🔥 Legendary Actions
Hellfire Slash: Cuts and cooks like some anime we don't mention for copyright reasons.
Premonition Dodge: Nope.
Jetstream Burst: Punch so fast you make thunder. Cool kid move.
Weaknesses (Recommended for Patch v2.0):
Radiant damage burns(when it with this regeneration straight up stops).
Pride → 99% vulnerability to bad decisions.
Lust → statistically certain future problems.
😈 Current Form: Devil (Prince of Malbolge){warning, using this form taxes user greatly, if using this form outside of hell for more than ten minutes without a contract, the user will be resummoned to his hellish estate}
Strength: 26 [+8]
Dexterity: 26 [+8]
Constitution: 24 [+7]
Intelligence: 20 [+5]
Wisdom: 22 [+6]
Charisma: 26 [+8]
In this form, you're every parent's worst nightmare and every bard's worst temptation. Congratulations.
🌀 Movement
Base Speed: Mach 3 (3,348 ft/s)
Burst (Crimson Jetstream): Mach 4.5 (5,022 ft/s).
Translation: You don't "walk."
🛡️ Features
Hyper Regeneration: you can regenerate limbs in seconds vital organs in hours
Hell Aura: Everyone around you gets free barbecue.
True Premonition: Rewrite reality once per year. Cheater.( As the user gets stronger the ability will have less and less drawbacks){recommending not using this ability until user is higher level, if used this ability will incur in grave mana degeneration/drain, as well as a permanent debuff to the user's stat points}
immune to hellish magic
🔥 Legendary Actions
Hellfire Slash: Cuts and cooks like some anime we don't mention for copyright reasons.
Hellfire Tempest: Dragon breath, but hotter.
Dread Step: Nightcrawler, but sassier.
Crimson Jetstream: Sonic boom straight to the face.
Sonic Dive: Hulk smash, but infernal.
Weaknesses (Yes, you still have them):
Radiant damage(when hit with this regeneration straight up stops): you glow, then you go ow.
Overconfidence: basically your middle name.
Mother issues: …I'm not touching that.
Eldritch, Divine and draconic magic do double damage]
Although the mana degenaration debuff would be bad, he could not let Gotham crash into cinders, he had just bought an apartment there, and while(probably because of that) crime ridden, the city was home to one of the better criminology universities,
he mentally activated true premonition, at this, space seemed to warp, distances intelligible, eyes now tired, he could feel himself becoming weaker
______________________________________________________________________________________________
The world stank of copper and scorched wool. Heat shimmered up from the cracked street where the portal had torn reality apart. Beneath the fire and ash was something older—sulfur, hunger, the breath of a place that had never known civility.
Diana moved with the same economy she always did: precise, unyielding, without waste. The lance in her hand burned with a cold, merciless light. Her shield swallowed fire and blades as though they were no more than rain. At her hip, the lasso hung patient and heavy, like a verdict waiting.
The first wave came shrieking. Thralls—hollow-eyed, slack-jawed, their movements jagged and rabid—spilled through the breach, trampling one another in their haste. Behind them lumbered heavier things: bodies stretched into wrong proportions, teeth knotted into limbs, armor fused like shattered shields, flesh stitched with rot and fire.
Endless, but witless. They pressed forward like the tide.
Superboy stood where she had placed him, braced against the shell of a car. He hurled it like a pebble, then drove into the horde with fists that sent demons spinning end over end. Every strike shook the city. Blunt. Brutal. Indispensable.
On the edges, Kid Flash blurred yellow between pavement and sky. He ripped civilians out of choke points, mothers and children vanishing into safety with a speed so violent it became tender.
But they kept returning.
That was the true horror—not the demons, but the civilians. Their eyes glowed faint in the helllight, pupils blown wide, faces slack with hunger not their own. The rift called to them. Sulfur turned sweet, rot made perfume. They pressed against barricades, hands outstretched, desperate to step into flame. Even as the horde spilled outward, the people leaned inward, pilgrims drawn to a shrine.
Diana's teeth ground as she turned aside a claw meant for her throat. Protecting the helpless was instinct. Restraining them felt like betrayal. Yet if they reached the breach, they would become fuel for whatever waited beyond.
"Wally." Her comm voice was clipped, exact. "Back. Now."
"I'm trying! But they—" He streaked past, hauling a man who had dropped to all fours, clawing toward the portal with bloodied nails. "They're not listening, Diana! It's like they want in—"
"They do." Zatanna's voice cracked through, sharp from the rooftop above. Her hands carved glowing sigils into the night, each one burning her skin as it held. "The aura's leaking through. It's pulling them like a tide. I can try to hold the rift closed—but the civilians are feeding it just by pressing closer."
Diana slammed her shield into a demon's chest, flinging it back. "Seal them. Dome. Ward. Anything."
"I'm trying!" Zatanna's voice faltered; sweat darkened her hairline as runes bled light. "I can pen them in, but it won't last if more keep coming."
Another thrall hurled itself against Diana's shield. She braced, feeling the strain down her spine. Behind her, civilians screamed as though the battle were spectacle, then pushed harder against Kid Flash's barricade. Some begged. Others laughed—giddy, ravenous.
There was no fear in their faces. Only longing.
"Superboy. Anchor the line."
He grunted, planting himself like a wall.
"Kid Flash, corral them."
"I can't fight demons and babysit—"
"That is an order."
His hiss of breath snapped across the comms, then the blur of yellow tore into the mob. Wally ricocheted through, sweeping bodies into alleys, slamming them down hard enough to bruise but not kill. His voice was a constant shout: "Move! Stay back!" But more kept pressing, mouths open, desperate for the sweet poison in the air.
For Diana, it was not the demons that threatened to break her line. It was the people.
Every second became a choice: which strike to make lethal, which body to shove instead of save.
Then the tide shifted.
The horde faltered, clustering at the edge of the street. Their movements froze, as if arrested mid-surge. The civilians howled louder, clawing at the air. A keening leaked from the portal—and cut off, sudden as a knife.
Diana's grip whitened on her lance. Things that stop are never neutral. They wait.
Headlights bloomed down the avenue, a second sunrise: armored trucks, riot vans, helicopters low to the ground. Reinforcements. The crowd rippled at the sound. Police in riot gear spilled out, shields locking in chains. Medics unrolled stretchers. National Guard units raised barriers. They were late. But they were here.
They would not solve this. But they would buy time.
"Hold the line," Diana told the captain, voice iron. "Don't engage thralls unless attacked. Focus on civilians. Herd them into sectors, use the alleys."
He nodded, eyes grim, finally a man with orders.
Kid Flash snapped into the new rhythm, his grin gone hard. Zatanna's spells fell over Wally and Conner like threads of glittering armor—wards to slow exhaustion, tethers to yank civilians back.
"Strength," she muttered, weaving runes into Superboy's skin. "Not for you, big boy—for him." The sigils flared when he flexed, steel groaning under new weight.
With Zatanna patching them and reinforcements clearing civilians, Wally and Conner became blades in the tide. Wally danced, corralling civilians into alleys with dizzying precision. Conner smashed through demons like a boulder, hurling broken bodies into the waiting shields of riot police.
Then the portal exhaled.
A figure stepped forward, and the air bent around him. Tall, armored in basalt ridged with veins of flame, crowned with bone shattered into a jagged diadem. Where a face should be were many—screaming, weeping, wailing in chorus.
He moved with calm that came only after choosing slaughter. The horde straightened, unified, their will tethered to his. He raised one hand, and hundreds bowed. The street hushed like a blade held to a throat.
Diana felt it. The shift in the air. He stank of old iron and broken oaths. His movements were precise—no brawn wasted. He was not chaos. He was strategy made flesh.
She stepped forward. To hesitate would be surrender.
They met in the avenue's center. His first strike was an arc of black meant to end myths. Her shield rang as she caught it, teeth jarring, then her lance sang upward, sparks skipping across his armor. The plates did not bend—they remembered.
He laughed, wrong in pitch, and loosed shards of bone. Her shield spun, deflecting three and flinging them back into his own. She pivoted, lasso warm against her hip, ready.
"Who commands you?" she demanded, voice a weapon, not a question. The lasso strained for truth.
He answered with will. The avenue warped, her memories tasted of ash. He was not just commander—he was ritual given shape.
She struck, relentless. Steel to bone, shield to flame. He met her with claws that sought to tear the world itself. She twisted his force back, driving him into a heap of thralls.
"Diana!" Nightwing's voice cut in, the sound of an engine roaring under him. "I'm going for the suit." His bike thundered away.
Zatanna's spells wrapped their duel, chains on his shadows, nets tightening when he tried to breathe sorcery. Each thread cost her, and Diana could taste her exhaustion.
The commander sought stalemate. Ritual. A slow burn until the portal sang its final song. Diana refused. She sprang, lance piercing a seam in his plates. Flesh hissed. He roared, teeth rattling in skulls not his own.
Her shield caught his counter, her knees buckling under the force. The lasso snapped out, coiling around a face-plate. She yanked. The horde shivered as if their strings had been pulled.
"You do not command free will," she told him, voice low, lance at his throat. "Not while I draw breath."
The portal thinned behind him, violet light slicing the dark. Ritual complete or nearly so. The air bent like a bowstring about to snap.
"Nightwing," she called, "we need you to fight, go and take one of Batmans suits!"
Static. Then: "Understood." Silence.
She flung the commander back. His armor sang like struck metal, a seam hissing blood that was not blood. He staggered, surprised by pain. For a heartbeat, she had him.
But abyssal commanders rehearsed ruin. He dragged his claws across pavement, and a dozen thralls rose anew, bodies knitted together in grotesque formations.
Diana inhaled fire. The battle was no longer duel but barter—blows for seconds, seconds for lives.
Above, Zatanna seared another rune into the street. Superboy and Kid Flash ripped through another wall of bodies. Reinforcements pressed civilians back.
Nightwing's voice returned: "Ninety seconds to suit arrival."
Ninety seconds. A lifetime. A blink.
Diana planted her shield, lance steady. She met the commander's charge head-on, the world narrowing to iron, string, and resolve. She would buy those seconds. She would hold until the contingency arrived.
Her arm did not waver. Her strike was a promise.