The battlefield was finally quiet.
Smoke still clung to the ground, rolling over the bodies of men and monsters. The Devil lay in the dirt, chained in light that burned when he moved. Once, his roar could shake the earth. Now it was nothing but a rasp.
For the first time in years, the armies cheered. Swords raised. Shields clashed. A cry of victory rose and spread until the hills shook with it. Messengers rode out, bells rang in villages that had only known fear. The war was done. The Devil was beaten.
Even the heroes, broken armor hanging off them, wounds still bleeding, let themselves breathe again.
Then the air changed.
It started small. A shiver. A weight in the gut. A silence that wasn't right. The soldiers felt it before they understood it. The cheering slowed. Then stopped. Eyes went back to the Devil.
He was afraid. The Devil was literally shivering.
The monster who had destroyed kingdoms now shook like a child. His eyes widened. His claws dragged trenches in the dirt, not to escape, but to push himself back.
"You—you don't know what you've done!"
His shadow was moving. First it looked like a trick of firelight. Then it stretched. Darker, longer. It peeled away like ink on the ground. The heroes, the soldiers now alert lifted their wepons as a figure began to rise out of it, slow and steady, like someone climbing out of deep water.
"No—not you! Anybody but you!" The Devil screamed.
The armies backed off. Even the heroes gripped their weapons tighter.
The figure walked out of the shadow. Not fast. Not loud. Just steady and graceful steps, as if he had all the time in the world. Each step pressed on the air, made the ground feel heavier. He wasn't big like the Devil, but he bent the space around him.
He stepped into the light. The battlefield froze. He was handsome,annoyingly so, sharp features, a mouth that looked close to a smirk. But his eyes were pure black, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. The only flaw to his beauty—or maybe it enhanced his beauty — was the scar that circled his neck like an old rope burn, as if someone had tried to silence him forever and failed.
He bowed slightly, slow and mocking, but smooth— like a gentleman in his own twisted way.
"Thank you," he said, voice smooth but cold. He straightened, grin sharp. "Really. You shouldn't have."
One hero raised his sword. Another whispered, "Why is he smiling?"
The man glanced their way, amused. "Don't mind me," he said, tilting his head. The scar caught the last of the light. "I'm just enjoying the moment. Not every day someone fight so hard to set me free."
The Devil fought his chains, shaking his head, broken words spilling out. Wishing he was anywhere but there. No one cared. All eyes stayed on the man. Maybe because of his beauty or maybe it was because of his mistery and oddity.
The heroes now in their fighting stances, weapons raised, were ready to attack the man. One spat, "Another monster?"
The man didn't answer. He looked at the Devil a moment longer, then back at the heroes. His grin deepened, his perfectly arranged teeth now visible, but there was nothing kind in it.
"Gather your armies," he said softly. "Protect what you love."
The words landed heavy. No one moved.
He paused, eyes narrowing. Then he spoke again.
"You have twenty-four hours."
The grin stayed for a beat, then slipped away. His face hardened, his voice dropped. The air now thick with his aura.
"After that, everything burns."
And with a flick of his hand the world tore.The battlefield, the Devil, the shadow—gone. The heroes staggered, now standing at their fortress on the hill. Banners flapped in the wind. Bells rang faint in the distance. Their soldiers stood in shock, the victory cut off.
But his words stayed.
You have twenty-four hours.
And in their bones, they knew it was true. The clock was already ticking.