There is a moment in every tragedy when the scope of the disaster becomes truly, intimately known. It is the moment when the abstract fear of death is replaced by the specific, personal horror of loss. For the survivors of Ordon, that moment was now. The monster they believed vanquished stood before them, not as a memory, but as a reborn god of their own personal hell, and the fragile, desperate hope they had just begun to nurture was about to be brutally extinguished.
Asmodeus stood in the center of the devastation, his new, monstrous form a mockery of the morning sun. The survivors were frozen, a tableau of pure, unadulterated terror. The quest to save Link, the exodus to a new home—all of it felt like a child's fantasy in the face of this absolute, impossible reality.
It was Paya, the Sheikah, whose training allowed her to see past the terror to the truth. She watched as Asmodeus took a step, a slight, almost imperceptible falter in his movement. She saw the chaotic, unstable energy crackling around him. He was a being remade, not reborn, and the vessel was imperfect.
"He's not at full strength!" Paya's voice was a sharp, urgent cry that shattered the paralysis. "The Goron's fire… it wounded his essence! He is a phantom! He is bluffing! We can fight him!"
It was the smallest sliver of hope, but it was enough. The will of the Ordonian people, though bent and battered, was not yet broken. Rohm, his face a mask of iron resolve, tightened his grip on his unconscious son. Elwin, his crutch planted firmly in the ground, stood beside Fado and the other men, their crude farm tools held like weapons. They would sell their lives dearly.
Asmodeus let out a low, rumbling chuckle, a sound like a chorus of damned souls. "Bluffing?" he purred, a look of genuine amusement in his multi-souled eyes. "Oh, my dear, Silent One. You mistake the nature of my art. I no longer need the strength to break down doors." He raised a scarred, ashen hand. "I need only the will to snuff out the candles."
He focused on the man who stood tallest, whose voice had been a beacon of cheer in the darkness. Elwin.
"You," Asmodeus said, his voice a silken whisper that cut through the morning air. "You offer them hope. An ugly, stubborn little weed. Allow me to take it."
He did not move. He did not cast a spell. He simply… willed it. Elwin's defiant expression froze. A look of confusion, then terror, crossed his face. He let out a choked gasp as his life force, the vibrant, cheerful energy of his very soul, was ripped from his body in a stream of invisible, screaming light that only Link, in his deepest unconsciousness, could perceive. The postman's skin grew taut, his hair turned a brittle white, and his eyes, a moment ago so full of life, became dull, vacant orbs. He collapsed to the ground, a dried, withered husk, his body crumbling to dust before he even landed.
The survivors screamed. This was not a battle. This was a harvest.
Rohm, seeing this unspeakable horror, knew they could not fight. His only purpose, the only thing left in his entire, shattered world, was the boy in his arms. He turned to run.
"Ah, the father," Asmodeus's voice echoed directly behind him. The demon had moved with impossible speed, a flicker of shadow, and now stood blocking his path of escape. "The final, most poignant note in our little tragedy. A hero's journey, they say, is defined by loss." He looked down at the unconscious, helpless form of Link, a look of sublime, artistic cruelty on his monstrous face. "Let us give your son… his defining moment."
He reached out a hand, not to strike, but to simply take.
Rohm saw the intent in the demon's eyes. He knew he was about to die. His life flashed before him: his wife's smile, the first time he'd held the silent baby in his arms, the pride he'd felt watching his son stand up to a bully, to a monster, to a god. He had one second to act. One final choice.
The demon's power washed over him. He felt his strength, his life, his very being, begin to unravel. But a blacksmith's will is a thing of iron, and a father's love is a thing of unyielding steel. With the last, explosive ounce of his fading strength, Rohm did not try to save himself.
He threw his son.
With a final, desperate, primal roar, he hurled Link's unconscious body through the air, away from the demon, towards the small, terrified group of Paya and Ilia.
"TAKE HIM!" was the last command, the last plea, the last testament of Rohm, son of Ordon, father of the hero. He then collapsed, his great, strong body turning to ash and embers, his final act being to save his child.
Paya and Ilia caught Link's limp form, stumbling back from the sheer force of the throw. The remaining villagers, their minds broken by the horror they had just witnessed, were in a full, panicked rout, fleeing into the woods, their screams echoing through the valley.
Asmodeus watched them go. He was a predator who had felled the two strongest stags in the herd. He could have finished the rest. But he did not.
His new power, while immense, was finite. The act of unmaking two mortals with such powerful, defiant wills had cost him dearly. The vessel was still new, unstable. But more than that, he was an artist, not a butcher. The composition was now perfect. The hero was alive, but utterly broken. His master, his guide, and his father were all dead. His home was a ruin. And his spirit was now burdened by a failure and a loss so profound it would fester and poison him for a lifetime. This was not a slaughter. It was a masterpiece of despair.
He stood for a moment longer amidst the ruins, a triumphant, monstrous silhouette against the morning sun. Then, with a final, satisfied smile, he dissolved into a cloud of black smoke and vanished, his work finally, beautifully, done.
In the silence, Paya, Ilia, and the handful of remaining survivors stood, their world a smoldering ruin. They had survived. But at a cost so terrible, it felt like a defeat. Paya looked at the unconscious boy in their arms, then at the path leading away from the graveyard of their lives. Their quest was no longer one of hope. It was a desperate flight, a journey fueled by the ashes of all they had ever loved.