The Below was never meant to know heaven's light.
But the moment Scourge raised his spear and declared war, the angels answered not with hesitation, not with diplomacy, but with righteous fury.
When the first crack of light tore the sky of the Below wide open, even the demons froze.
A beam of silver fire speared through the ceiling of molten stone. Wings thousands burst through the breach. Spears of pure law rained downward like stars falling into a pit of nightmares.
The angels had arrived.
Their entrance ignited the first true war between heaven and hell.
From where I watched, far removed and unseen, the Below transformed instantly into a battlefield. Molten rivers hissed as divine light slammed into them. Stone cliffs cracked under the impact of armoured bodies. Demons roared with hunger and hatred. Angels descended with disciplined, merciless precision.
Chaos.
Order.
Fire.
Light.
All colliding in a realm born from Scourge's torment.
Demons surged forward in tidal waves claws outstretched, fangs bared, shadows igniting. Angels countered with immaculate formation wings locked, shields shimmering, spears piercing through darkness.
A demon general leapt across a chasm, claws dripping with fire.
An angel dropped from above, spear first.
They collided. The explosion carved a crater into the battlefield.
Even I, watching through the ether, felt the shockwave.
But the true confrontation, the one that twisted the course of war, began when Scourge stepped onto the battlefield.
Shadowfire burned from his feet. The ground FLED from his touch, cracking and retreating. Every demon bowed instinctively as he passed. Every angel stiffened, adjusting their stance.
And then the angelic general landed before him.
Wings like molten silver. Armour carved from starlight. Eyes cold as unspoken judgment.
Scourge smiled.
"General Arephon," he said, voice dripping venom. "Heaven's prized blade."
Arephon lifted his spear. "Traitor."
"Ah," Scourge whispered, "you still cling to that word. You always were unimaginative."
The angels around Arephon tightened formation.
The demons behind Scourge snarled and roared.
A war stood between them, suspended for one heartbeat.
Arephon's eyes narrowed. "You fell because you were unworthy."
Scourge's smile sharpened.
"No," he said softly. "I fell because heaven feared the truth."
"And what truth is that?"
"That I," Scourge spread his wings, shadowfire roaring behind him, "was always the better angel."
The battlefield stirred.
Every angel froze. Every demon leaned forward. Every crack in the Below seemed to hold its breath.
Arephon lowered his spear into a killing stance. "You were always a storm waiting to betray us."
"And you," Scourge answered, "were always too afraid to see where you stood."
They met in a clash that split the battlefield in half.
Spears.Wings.Shadowfire.Solar blade.
Their strikes echoed like thunder as they crashed across lava cliffs and shattered mountains. Angels and demons alike stumbled backwards, unable to get close to the violence unleashed between them.
But while war raged on the surface
Ellas struggled to survive beneath it.
Dream's banishment had flung Ellas into one of the deepest pits of the Below. He fell onto burning stone, gasping as the heat seared through his mortal skin.
He collapsed, coughing, choking on fumes.
The air itself burned. The ground radiated fire. His mortal body, frail and flawed, began to fail.
Ellas pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the tiny remnant of his spark, his sliver of golden ether, flickering like a dying candle.
"No…" he rasped. "Not yet. Not like this."
Footsteps approached through the smoke.
A demon towering, skeletal, molten, with cracks across its horns, walked out from the shadows. It did not rush him. It did not attack. It simply stared at the broken fallen god with curiosity.
"You are not Below-born," the demon rasped.
Ellas coughed up blood. "I… am more than you."
The demon tilted its head. "Not now. You smell like a dying mortal."
Ellas glared, rage burning through the pain. "I am no mortal."
The demon knelt before him.
"Then prove it."
From its chest, it pulled a medallion of black metal, etched with infernal runes, beating faintly like a heart. The moment it touched the air, the ground trembled.
The demon held it out calmly.
"A gift. A tool. A pact."
Ellas stared at it. "What does it do?"
"Power," the demon whispered. "Enough to give you rank in the Below. Enough to rise as a duke among us."
A spark of hunger lit in Ellas's eyes.
"But a warning," the demon added.
Ellas paused.
The demon leaned close, voice low.
"Every time you call upon this medallion's power… a part of whatever keeps you alive will burn."
Ellas felt his golden spark twitch painfully in his chest.
The demon continued:
"You will become either a full demon… or a fragile human. Use it enough, and you will not choose. It will choose for you."
Ellas's breath shook with anger, fear, and desire mixing inside him.
"Why give this to me?" he demanded.
The demon grinned, rows of fangs glinting.
"Because Scourge will need generals for the war to come."
The medallion pulsed.
Ellas reached out…and took it.
The moment his fingers wrapped around it, demonfire surged through his arm, twisting into his veins.
He screamed
but he did not let go.
The golden spark inside him flickered, dimmed, and strained.
But it survived.
For now.
"You are reborn," the demon whispered. "Duke Ellas if you can survive your own hunger."
Ellas rose slowly, gripping the medallion, hatred burning brighter than pain.
"I will survive," he hissed. "And I will rise higher than all of you."
The demon bowed.
"Then come, Duke. Your fellow fallen battles heaven above."
Ellas tightened his grip, feeling the medallion's curse coil around his spark.
He smiled a smile shaped by hatred.
And he climbed back toward the war.