Azaroth Nimbus did not stop running.
The scorched valley still trembled behind him—stone cracked, air warped, and the faint echo of that mocking voice clung to his ears like smoke. His boots hit the shattered ground in rapid, thunderous strides as he forced himself forward, refusing to look back. He didn't want to risk seeing even the imprint of Azhorael lingering in the shadows.
His breath came sharp, furious, shaken—an unfamiliar thing for him. Fear was a stranger; he hated the way it crawled under his skin, hated the way it made his pulse hammer. But he couldn't suppress it. Not after that encounter. Not after the way the air had folded around him like a hand around his throat, all while that cosmic fool taunted him with a grin.
Azaroth burst through the obsidian gate to Sareth's throne chamber, slamming one knee into the ground as he skidded to a stop.
The chamber was vast walls carved with demonic spires, firelight casting jagged shadows, a throne of living darkness pulsing at the far end. Even the air seemed to bow around the ruler who sat upon it.
Sareth lifted his head slightly. Eyes like burning voids pinned Azaroth in place.
"…You enter in quite the rush," the Demon Ruler murmured, voice deep enough to shake the floor. "Explain."
Azaroth swallowed.
He had faced armies without blinking. He had torn apart ancient guardians. He had stood in the heart of a solar storm and laughed.
But now?
Even his words trembled.
"My lord… he's back."
Sareth didn't speak—didn't even blink. But the flames in the chamber curled inward, dimming as if the whole fortress inhaled at once.
"Who?"
Azaroth forced the words out.
"Azhorael. Fate. The Architect. The Untouchable One. Whatever name you choose… he returned."
The moment the name left his mouth, the room changed.
The fire on the walls guttered out entirely, plunging the chamber into a void-like stillness. The shadows thickened into weight. Sareth leaned forward slowly, fingers curling over the armrest of his throne as if gripping reality itself.
"…Tell me everything."
Azaroth bowed his head, voice cracking despite his effort to remain composed.
"I confronted Kael and Lira. They were seconds from death—broken, defenseless. Victory was certain. Their souls were practically in my grasp. But then—"
He stopped, jaw clenching.
A shudder tore through him.
"—the world bent. That's the only way I can describe it. Time slipped. Space buckled. And then he walked out of nothing. Laughing. Talking to himself. Tossing reality around like it was a toy."
He grit his teeth, fury mixing with humiliation.
"He mocked me, my lord. Mocked you. Mocked every demon, every law, every realm—spoke as if existence was beneath him!" Azaroth slammed a fist against the floor, cracking it. "And then he told me not to touch 'his creation.'"
Sareth's head tilted.
"…His creation?"
"Yes," Azaroth hissed. "Kael. He called Kael his. And without even trying—without effort—he moved them. Teleported them. Warped them. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't even move."
Silence.
For a long, suffocating moment, Sareth did not speak.
Then—
A single, slow exhale.
Not fear. Not anger.
Recognition.
"I warned the realms," Sareth murmured, almost to himself. "I told them the day would come when the Sleeping Hand would stir. When the one who shaped possibilities would wander again."
His eyes burned brighter.
"And now he walks freely."
Azaroth grit his teeth. "My lord… what do we do? If he chooses to side with Kael—"
"He does not 'choose,'" Sareth interrupted. "Azhorael follows whims, not loyalties. The moment he is bored, he will vanish again."
"But until then?" Azaroth pressed.
Sareth rose from the throne.
It was slow. Heavy. Monumental.
The shadows tightened around his form, warping like a living storm as his full presence filled the chamber.
"We prepare," Sareth said.
"For the only being in existence that even we must fear."
Azaroth bowed his head.
"But hear me, Azaroth," Sareth continued. His voice deepened, echoing like a god speaking from inside a collapsing star. "You will not fight him. You will not provoke him. You will not even speak his name unless spoken to."
Azaroth nodded quickly. "Understood."
Sareth's gaze darkened further.
"And if he approaches you again…" A long pause. "…you will kneel."
Azaroth flinched.
"But—my lord—"
Sareth's voice cut through him.
"There are wars we can win.
Battles we can dominate.
Realms we can burn.
But that entity… cannot be fought."
His next words were a whisper that chilled the chamber.
"He is not above us. He is beyond us."
Azaroth lowered his head, shame and fear twisting his gut.
"I failed you."
"No," Sareth said simply. "You survived him. That alone places you among the strongest in this realm."
Azaroth exhaled shakily.
Sareth turned away, cloak of shadows sweeping behind him.
"Gather the other generals," he commanded. "The era we planned for… has changed."
Azaroth stood, regaining his composure, though his heart still pounded.
"Yes, my lord. Immediately."
"And Azaroth."
He froze.
"Do not let your pride cloud your judgment again."
"…Yes."
Azaroth bowed once more, then strode from the chamber.
But as soon as the doors sealed behind him, his composure cracked again.
Azhorael.
Fate.
The wandering force of cosmic absurdity and terrifying power.
He was back.
And because of that…
The entire world had just been pushed into a new future.
One even Sareth could not fully predict.