To a being of pure will, a physical form is a mere convenience. A vessel. For the Royal Demon Asmodeus, his previous form had been a tool of seduction and subtle influence, an elegant costume for the ancient horror that lay beneath. This new form, forged in the vengeful fire of a Goron's soul and tempered by the stolen, screaming essences of his own court, was a tool of raw, undeniable terror. It was… unsubtle. And this, more than anything, displeased him greatly.
He stood in the silent, empty throne room of the Umbral Court, observing his new body. His skin, once smooth and aristocratic, was now the color and texture of scarred, volcanic ash. The lines of his face were twisted, a permanent echo of the Goron's final, defiant agony. When he moved, a chorus of faint, sorrowful whispers—the last vestiges of the Succubi he had consumed—trailed behind him like a funeral shroud. The power he now commanded was immense, a chaotic, multi-souled storm raging within him. But it was the power of a cudgel, not a scalpel.
He felt cheated. The battle for Ordon had been a near-perfect symphony of despair. The methodical advance of his knights, the slow crushing of the villagers' hope, the final, exquisite moment of the hero's defeat—it had all been proceeding according to his design. He had been moments away from the final, perfect brushstroke: the silent, heartbroken death of the chosen one.
And the Goron had ruined it.
The brute's sacrifice had been a loud, messy, percussive intrusion. It was an act of hope. An act of defiance. A final, screaming note of love in his carefully composed opera of sorrow. It had robbed Asmodeus of his victory, turning his perfectly crafted masterpiece into a chaotic, unfinished mess. It had left a flaw in the canvas.
An artist, a true artist, cannot abide a flawed masterpiece. The work must be corrected. The dissonant note of hope must be silenced.
He closed his new, monstrous eyes. He could still feel the connection to the mortal realm, a metaphysical scar left on the fabric of reality by the sheer force of Korgon's self-destruction. And through that scar, he could feel a faint, flickering light. The boy. The hero's spirit, though wounded and weak, had not been extinguished. And where that light persisted, hope could regrow.
The task, therefore, was not yet complete.
He would not send another legion. This required a personal touch. The final stroke must be delivered by the master's own hand. He focused his immense, new power, not on the complex art of a portal, but on a far more direct and brutal method. Where a lesser demon required a key, Asmodeus, now engorged on a dozen stolen souls, simply required a destination. He looked upon the memory of Ordon, the scar on the world, and with the full force of his multi-souled will, he pushed.
In the grey, sorrowful dawn of Ordon Valley, a fragile, desperate plan had given the survivors a reason to move. The village was a graveyard of memories, but the quest to take Link to the Faron Spring was a single, flickering candle against the darkness of their grief.
The two groups were in the midst of their final, heartbreaking farewells. Rohm, Paya, Ilia, and Elwin stood grimly by the makeshift stretcher that held Link's still, silent form. Impa was gathering the remaining handful of villagers—the baker, Fado, and a few others with their children—for their slow, sorrowful exodus. They were a people unhomed, their future an unknown path. But they were alive. They had a direction. They had hope.
And then, the sky broke.
The gentle, grey morning light was ripped away as if it were a cheap cloth. Directly above the valley, a swirling, silent vortex of pure blackness tore open in the heavens, a wound in the very fabric of reality. It did not thunder; it screamed, a high, thin sound that was a chorus of a dozen agonizing, familiar voices.
The survivors looked up, their faces turning from grief to sheer, soul-crushing terror. From the center of the vortex, a figure descended, not with the grace of a god, but with the dead weight of a falling corpse.
He landed in the center of the square, his impact cracking the glassy floor of Korgon's crater. It was him. Asmodeus. But he was hideously transformed, a monstrous being of ash and scarred rock, his form crackling with the stolen, violet energy of the souls he had consumed.
He stood and surveyed the scene. He saw the refugees about to flee. He saw the small party of guardians preparing for their quest. He saw the unconscious boy on the stretcher, his light all but extinguished. He saw their new, fragile hope.
The survivors were frozen, paralyzed by an absolute terror beyond anything they had felt during the battle. They had survived the army. They had survived the Blood Moon. They had witnessed an impossible, heroic sacrifice. And it had all been for nothing. Their enemy, the artist of their sorrow, had returned, more powerful and more terrible than before.
Asmodeus looked at the small, desperate fellowship, at the flicker of defiance in Rohm's eyes, at the protective stance of Paya. He smiled, a terrible, cracked grin on his monstrous new face that was the most obscene thing the villagers had ever witnessed.
The artist had returned to his ruined canvas. Not to destroy it. But to add the final, perfect, finishing stroke: the utter and complete annihilation of hope.