The lake stretched out before him, flat and breathless, like the earth itself was trying to remember how to breathe. No birds called. No insects buzzed. Just the faint rustle of wind sliding between tall reeds, making them sway gently like old prayers trying to rise.
Dark walked along the edge.
His boots pressed softly into the damp soil, leaving behind narrow prints that the breeze would likely erase within the hour. He didn't look down at them. His eyes were elsewhere—on the subtle movements of the water, the way it curled into itself with each shifting current, forming loops that never quite finished.
There were no guards behind him.
No shadows moving in sync with his steps. No flicker of armor in the corners of his vision. For once, his presence was not trailed by silence enforced through power—it was real silence. Earned. Chosen.
His hands stayed deep in the long pockets of his coat, fingers relaxed but still aware, as if his body had never learned how to fully let go. His shoulders moved with quiet precision, every step deliberate but unburdened, and his black cloak whispered behind him like a second shadow.
There was no destination.
No carved path waiting ahead of him.
No mission.
No letter.
No agenda.
He was here because he wanted to be. And that felt rare.
He just wanted silence.
A moment away from titles. From expectations. From the weight that followed his name wherever it echoed.
But the world never let him keep it for long.
Ten meters ahead, the air began to shift.
Not the kind of shift that came from a sudden breeze or the creeping arrival of a storm. The trees did not bend. The water didn't stir. It wasn't the wind.
It wasn't temperature.
The light itself seemed to hesitate.
The space in front of him started to warp, ever so slightly, like a ripple beneath glass. It didn't ripple outward—it bent inward, folding the edges of reality toward some unseen center. The sky behind it blurred. The grass near it leaned inward as if gravity itself had chosen to favor this one trembling spot.
It was something else.
A presence, not of magic, but of misuse. Of something forcing itself in when the world hadn't opened the door. The distortion jittered like a heartbeat that couldn't find rhythm, twitching between colors—blue, white, violet, blue again.
Dark stopped walking.
His feet stilled, grounding themselves without effort. His posture didn't change, didn't flare with tension. He simply tilted his head the slightest degree to the left, more curious than concerned.
The distortion thickened.
Its core began to pulse like a vein struggling to carry something it shouldn't. And then—
It broke.
A sharp, twisted pop erupted through the clearing like time itself had been punched.
And out of the rupture came a blur.
Not an object.
A person.
She flew out headfirst, her body spinning with zero control—arms flailing, coat whipping behind her like she'd been fired out of a cannon lined with chaos.
Akira: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH—!!
She hit the ground like a bag of bones, face-first into the grass, her boots flipping upward as her back arched from the impact. Her body skidded across the clearing with a muffled thud, rolled once, and flopped still.
Face down.
Limbs twitching slightly.
No grace. No dignity. No awareness of what the hell had just happened.
Dark blinked once.
He did not move.
He didn't raise a brow.
Didn't flinch.
He simply stood there—hands still in his pockets, the wind catching the edge of his cloak—and looked down at the girl now collapsed in front of him like a failed time experiment.
His expression didn't shift. His eyes didn't narrow. His posture didn't change. But the air around him? It felt like it was judging.
She groaned against the dirt, her voice barely audible.
Akira: (muffled) I think I hit the floor... of some timeline... maybe...
She didn't lift her face. Her arms moved—slightly—and one leg gave a half-hearted twitch as if trying to declare it was still alive.
Dark exhaled slowly through his nose.
It wasn't an annoyed sigh.
It was an evaluation.
Dark: ...Who the hell are you?
Akira's body jerked like a seal trying to roll onto dry land.
She lifted her arms, planting them shakily into the grass, and attempted to push herself up. Her white hair completely masked her face—long, unkempt, and carrying enough static that it looked like she had been electrocuted through seven time loops.
She staggered to her feet.
Wobbled.
Tried to stand straight.
And immediately tripped again.
Her foot caught air, her balance abandoned her like a betrayed lover, and she fell sideways—face-first—straight into a muddy patch near the lake.
Splash.
Dark blinked again.
He didn't change expression.
He didn't even seem annoyed.
He just watched.
Like watching a goat try to fight a mirror.
Dark: ...Idiot.
Akira raised a single finger in the air like she was trying to cast a spell that required dramatic monologuing.
Akira: I am—!
She slipped again.
Her heel skidded over a rock.
Akira: —wait hang on.
She flailed her arms and somehow rotated herself until she was facing the lake. One of her boots came off during the spin and landed in the water with a gentle plop.
She didn't notice.
She finally stood—legs spread apart like she was bracing for a storm. Her long white hair was matted with grass and leaves. Her jacket was halfway buttoned, one of her sleeves missing a cuff. Her pants looked like they had been patched with cloth from three different decades.
Akira raised her chin, then pointed at him like a hero introducing herself at the end of a long anime opening.
Akira: I am Akira! Time traveler extraordinaire! Former Chaos Cadet! Escaper of seven warps! Slayer of boredom! Probably!
Dark didn't move.
He didn't respond.
Didn't even breathe louder.
His face was so blank it looked like he had detached himself from the conversation entirely.
Akira stared at him for a beat.
Then blinked.
Then looked around.
Her expression shifted—curious, concerned, very mildly panicked.
Akira: Wait... is this... is this the right dimension?
She squatted down and poked the grass.
Akira: Huh. Feels real. Is this pre-apocalypse or post-apocalypse?
She looked up at Dark again.
Akira: Do dragons still exist? Are babies legal? Is the Time Council hunting anomalies right now?
Dark blinked again, slower this time.
Dark: I don't know what the hell you're talking about.
Akira: Oh! Right! Sorry. That's probably timeline-specific.
She stood back up, almost proudly.
Akira: Do you know Sojo?
That made Dark's stare sharpen—not in alarm, but in that way people look at a red flag that just caught fire.
Akira: (quickly waving her hands) AH WAIT never mind forget I said that!
She tried to backpedal.
Her foot landed wrong.
She slipped.
And with one final yelp—
She tripped backward into the lake.
The splash wasn't even grand. It was the kind that ruined silence with an awkward slap—mud and cold water rippling outward like it too was embarrassed. Akira sank with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Her legs kicked once beneath the shallow surface before she floated upward again like a soggy feather. Her arms were outstretched, her expression a dazed surrender to gravity and consequence. Bits of grass clung to her clothes. Her hair stuck to her face like wet noodles.
Dark didn't speak. He simply stood at the edge of the lake, the silver of his cloak catching the early sun like a shard of dusk. His hands remained buried in his pockets, his gaze unmoving—no anger, no humor, no shock. Just that same deadpan, narrowed stare that could make a thunder god rethink his entrance.
Akira: (floating, muttering) I landed in the wrong timeline again...
She let out a tiny groan, sat up with a sputter, and slipped again, this time face-first into the water with a tiny yelp that got swallowed instantly by her soaked coat.
Dark: ...Get up.
Akira: I'm trying!
Her voice cracked like a cartoon character mid-breakdown. She scrambled to her feet, dripping like a drowned cat, and squished her way up the slight slope with every step squeaking from the mud in her boots. When she finally reached him, she tried to strike a dignified pose.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed harder.
Dark turned and began walking.
He didn't offer her a hand.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't wait.
And somehow—she still followed.
By the time they reached the outer walls of the Dark Empire, Akira had already slipped twice, gotten distracted by a glowing bug, asked if the sky had always been blue in this era, and shouted "HELLOOOO?" into a Hollow's helmet. Dark said nothing throughout. Only when the massive twin gates groaned open ahead did his eyes shift, just slightly, acknowledging their arrival.
The inner city came alive around them.
Stone paths twisted around newly built homes. Shadows marched in organized silence along the perimeters. Fires crackled in containment pits while smiths slammed steel into shape. Children ran barefoot, chasing each other through patches of snow while Champions-in-training shouted instructions from above scaffolds.
Akira's eyes lit up like she was in an amusement park.
Akira: OHHHH this place is SO COOL!
She ran ahead with arms outstretched, spinning as she looked up at the towering Hall that loomed beyond the central district. Her wet clothes slapped around her ankles. She tripped once more on a cobblestone, then righted herself, throwing both hands up like she meant to do it.
Dark didn't bother slowing down. He moved through the Empire with a subtle nod here and a brief glance there—acknowledging, never lingering. When they reached the outer steps of the Hall, the doors opened before they touched them.
Inside, the warmth hit instantly.
Leona was the first to greet them. Her crimson coat tossed over one shoulder, a cup of tea in hand, her eyes sharpened by curiosity as she took in the disheveled girl dripping onto the floor.
Leona: ...Is that thing yours?
Dark: No.
Akira: I'm a time accident!
Leona blinked once.
Tier entered next, eyebrows already raised, chewing on a steamed bun like he expected drama and was not disappointed.
Tier: She looks like someone folded a magician and a drunk alchemist together.
Akira: Thank you!
Cron entered with a soft chuckle behind them, hands in his coat pockets as always, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned Akira from head to toe.
Cron: She looks unstable.
Akira: I'm extremely unstable!
Leona: She says that proudly...
Gilmuar followed last, calm and quiet as always, but his gaze lingered on her with a little more care—analyzing not the girl, but what might've brought her here.
Gilmuar: Is she dangerous?
Akira: Depends on the moon phase!
Dark exhaled.
And in that moment, his gaze drifted sideways.
His voice, low and layered with something far older than command, came out with a single word.
Dark: Okiru.
The air shattered.
The ground cracked.
No warning. No rumble. Just fracture, like glass under pressure suddenly giving out.
From those cracks, they rose.
Vel was first.
His body surfaced in silence, shoulder-first, like he was pulling himself out of the world's skin. Frost bloomed around his emergence, spiderwebbing across the dirt and stone in jagged bursts. His cloak hung heavy behind him, his silver hair unmoving, as if gravity itself refused to insult him. Eyes like frozen time. His presence? Sovereignty without kindness. Cold. Measured. Unshakable.
Then—
Clum.
He rose like a tower, shoulder plates grinding together, smoke bleeding out from his armor's seams. When his foot hit the ground, it didn't just land. It declared. Dust shot outward in a circular wave. No expression. No words. Only pressure. Only that primal weight—like something too large for this plane had been forced into a body of flesh.
Beside him, Malik and Raz erupted together—dual spirals of twisted black energy and red lightning.
Malik's claws were already sharpened, twitching with the need to tear, the need to move. His gaze jumped between every soul in the area like he was calculating who'd break fastest.
Raz cracked his neck slowly, every inch of movement sparking erratic bursts of static around him. He didn't laugh this time.
He smiled.
The type of smile that should've been buried beneath chains and centuries.
Syv appeared without form at first—just shadows splitting off from other shadows. Then a boot. A hand. A half-shrouded mask. His face was unreadable, cloaked in a half-scowl, half-murderous calm. The tip of his sword pierced the ground behind him, humming like it remembered things the world wasn't allowed to know.
One flickered in like a glitch—phased in sideways, upright, spinning midair before landing soundlessly. His body realigned, armor settling on his form like metal breathing. He didn't speak, but the air shifted around him like it wanted to avoid touching his skin.
Brak came next, rising slow. Not slow because he was sluggish.
Slow because the world feared what would happen if he moved too fast.
He stood tall, arms crossed, breath low and calculated. His skin was cracked obsidian, his eyes etched with ancient flame. The aura around him pulsed like a dying star—violent and calm at once. People looked at him and remembered nightmares they hadn't even lived through.
Eight of them now.
And then—
The wind paused.
Like something was holding it still.
From the deepest point in the circle, where shadow met earth without merging—he emerged.
Not dragged. Not summoned.
Biro stepped forward.
His movement was clean. Measured. Each footfall calculated like a general counting the seconds before a war. His figure was tall, sculpted like a humanoid forged from dusk and discipline. He wore no helmet. His skin was pale gray, cracked with faint, glowing scars—wounds that never healed, not because they couldn't... but because they were reminders.
Just a blank calm that felt wrong in how serene it was. As if he'd already weighed the value of every soul present and found none of them worth excitement.
He walked into the circle.
And without being told—
Every Champion turned and knelt.
Even Raz and Malik, whose egos never bowed easily.
Even Clum, who'd never lowered his head to a god. But only Dark.
Biro stood still in the center of them all.
Then lowered to one knee with perfect grace, one arm crossing his chest. Not out of emotion.
But out of oath.
That calm, unblinking stare never shifted.
Then, just above them all—the air split apart again, no longer fragile like glass, but like a faultline giving way to the inevitable.
Igor appeared from the shadows of the Summoning Veil.
His figure drifted downward in complete silence, limbs motionless, his long shadow slicing across the stone. The air pressed in tighter, like the world itself was holding its breath. His greatsword, Gis Killerr, rested across his back, humming with a low, living resonance—like it could hear every heartbeat around it and was unimpressed.
Igor's feet touched the earth with no impact, no sound, but everything around them shifted—snow lifted, leaves scattered, and even the birds above changed direction.
He stood still.
Not as a man.
But as a verdict.
Akira blinked once.
Her lips parted.
But no sound came out.
Her breath caught. Her knees buckled a little, but she caught herself before falling.
This wasn't pressure.
It was presence.
And not just his.
Because in unison—as if cued by something deeper than instinct—all ten Champions turned away from her, from each other, and dropped to one knee, heads bowed in perfect synchronization. Their shadows stretched outward like black flames, writhing in worship.
Even Biro, whose silence could break mountains, whose calm could silence gods—even he went down lower than before, his head tilted to the ground, one hand clenched to his chest.
And Igor?
He knelt last.
Not slower.
Just... deliberate.
As if time itself paused to let him do it right.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
And that silence...
Dark stepped forward once.
Boots against stone.
No sound echoed.
He looked at them all. No smile. No pride. Just that unshaken, ever-cold stare beneath his hood.
Then—
They all spoke.
At once.
Not yelling.
Not whispering.
Just... speaking.
Champions: Emperor.
The word struck the air like a silent explosion—no sound, yet somehow louder than thunder.
The wind scattered again. The lake rippled once more. The Empire itself seemed to breathe.
Dark didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He just looked over them all like a king who didn't need a throne.
Then finally—his voice, low and sharp, slid through the air.
Dark: Get up.
They stood in perfect sync. Ten beings of absolute terror—monsters, men, legends, all under one banner.
Akira was frozen.
Still in her messy boots.
Still covered in mud.
Akira: (softly) ...Okay, wow.
Dark: (cold) You okay?
Akira didn't answer immediately.
She raised one hand and pointed, eyes wide.
Akira: So like... these guys? All yours?
Dark: They're not mine.
Dark turned slightly, letting his cloak shift as his presence brushed against her.
Dark: They're my Shadow Champion. They cooperate willingly and get to choose for themselves whether they want to do what I asked them to do or not, they can refuse but it might come with consequences.
She blinked twice.
Akira: ...Okay, but like, are any of them stupid like me-
A heavy THUNK hit the ground next to her—Biro's footstep.
She flinched so hard she spun around.
Biro didn't even look at her.
But the pressure alone made her knees lock again.
Akira: (quietly) Noted. No flirting.
Dark: (calmly) Good choice.
She nodded rapidly.
Akira: Can I sit down?
Dark: No.
Akira: Cool, I'll just faint here then.
Dark didn't look back. He just started walking toward the Empire walls.
The Champions turned with him like gravity was following him, not the other way around.
Akira stumbled forward, boots squeaking, hurrying to keep up.
Akira: This is fine. I'm fine. I just met a man who probably killed my future husband with one look but it's fine. Everything's fine. Strong man, it's fine, I won't die I won't die I'm going to live. Yes yes. Live.
Dark: (glancing back) You talk too much.
Akira: I breathe too much, apparently.
She said it with a shrug, voice light, unbothered—like she'd heard that kind of thing all her life and still came out smiling. Her boots squished as she walked beside him, one step too close, like she didn't understand—or didn't care—about personal space.
The silence returned, but it didn't feel heavy. Not yet. Just... trying to find shape.
Akira: (after a beat) So, is there a cafeteria? Or like... a torture chamber that doubles as a kitchen? Empires always have weird layouts.
Dark didn't respond.
Akira: (grinning) That's a yes.
They rounded a corner, passing two Hollows stationed at the archway leading deeper into the Hall. The armored figures didn't move. Didn't acknowledge. But Akira still waved at them with both hands.
Akira: Hi! You guys look like tax collectors and serial killers had babies!
One of the Hollows tilted its head by a fraction of a degree. She gasped dramatically.
Akira: Oh my god, they like me!
Dark: (dryly) Don't flatter yourself, these Hollows have no souls, if I wanted them to like you I could do so and right now?
Dark: They think you're stupid.
Akira put a hand over her heart, stumbling back a step like she'd been dramatically praised.
Akira: That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me!
Dark didn't even glance her way as they passed through another long corridor, lined with firelight and smooth obsidian brick. The place pulsed with quiet life—an empire still finding its rhythm.
Akira slowed her steps just enough to take it in.
She didn't talk for once.
Just walked beside him with her eyes scanning every corner—every torch, every stone, every silent soldier watching from the upper balconies.
Then she whispered, not loud, not playful. Just... soft.
Akira: This place really is so different than my universe, I like it here.
Dark paused mid-step. Barely. But he noticed that.
Akira noticed him noticing.
She gave a little smile, small and weirdly sincere.
Akira: Sorry that sounded really serious I'll go back to making bad jokes.
Dark: ...Don't.
Akira blinked.
Akira: Huh?
Dark: (calmly) You don't need to pretend here. Be who you are.
She looked at him for a second longer than usual. No joke. No noise. Just that small flicker of something real behind her bright tone.
Akira: ...Okay.
A moment passed.
Then her stomach growled so loud it echoed down the hall.
Akira: ...Okay, but also, is there food?
Dark finally stopped walking.
Turned his head.
Dark: Do you ever run out of energy?
——-
Akira: Only when I sleep or die—one of those. Why?...
Dark: Nothing. Got a bit curious, that's all.
The wind fell silent.
Then the sky bled.
Crimson tore across the blue like an old god slashing open the heavens. In a blink, day collapsed into dusk, and dusk into something deeper. The clouds didn't move. They evaporated. The sun vanished without descent.
Akira froze mid-step.
Her eyes drifted upward as the world dimmed unnaturally, unnervingly, unnaturally fast. The red above wasn't sunset. It was presence.
But Dark didn't look up.
He smiled. Not fully. Just the corner of his lip lifting. The kind of smirk that came before something old woke up again.
Akira: Wh-What is it? What's happening...?
Dark: He is coming.
Akira: He?... Who—?
Before her voice could finish, the sky shattered.
A shape descended.
No noise. Just the visual of impact trailing downward, breaking the atmosphere like glass. The space above them warped violently—then, without warning—
BOOM.
He landed.
Astaroth struck the earth like a meteor baptized in flame. The entire empire quaked. Cracks tore through the ground like lightning. Buildings burst apart. The hall behind them split open at the seams.
And then—
Everything rebuilt.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
Stone reassembled itself. Pillars reformed in reverse dust spirals. The crater healed shut, the sky stitched clean—but stayed red.
Astaroth straightened. Brushed his shoulder off.
His eyes burned like coals never meant to die.
Astaroth: Greetings, fellow comrade. Future Seventh Emperor... Dark.
Astaroth: And the current Emperor of the Multiverse. 'Tis a pleasure to stand upon thy soil once more.
Dark's eyes narrowed just slightly beneath his hood. He nodded once, the weight behind the gesture enough to silence a battlefield.
Dark: Astaroth. Throne of Embers. Emperor of Hell.
Dark: Welcome to my Empire.
Akira stared between them, her mouth halfway open.
Akira: Huh?... Since when do you speak like that—?
Dark: You know nothing about me, Akira.
Then Astaroth turned his gaze toward her.
No words. No breath.
Just a glance.
And in 0.001 nanoseconds—
It hit.
Her soul cracked.
Akira dropped to her knees as if gravity tripled around her. Her body trembled violently, like every atom of her existence was being dragged in different directions.
Her mouth opened—no sound.
Her eyes filled with tears without understanding why.
And then she screamed.
Akira: MAKE IT STOP—PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP!!
She curled into herself, face soaked with terror, hands clawing at her head like she could dig out the visions.
Dark's head turned slowly.
His eyes stayed low, shadowed beneath his hood, unreadable.
Then his hand clenched into a fist.
The air thickened.
Dark: (quietly) You're hurting one of mine.
Astaroth did not answer.
Dark lifted his gaze—finally—locking eyes with the infernal Emperor.
Dark: You dare touch a single atom of someone who stands beside me... of my family?
The moment held.
Then—
CRACK.
Astaroth took a single step forward, raising his hand as if to touch Dark's head with the familiarity of an ancient.
But before his fingers could move—
SLICE.
His arm was gone.
Not cut. Not burned.
Erased.
A clean, soundless dismemberment that defied explanation. There was no wind, no flash, no trace of the strike. Just absence—pure and perfect.
Astaroth didn't flinch. His limb regrew instantly, threads of embers swirling as flesh reformed.
Astaroth: (thinking) A kill aura? Nay... something more evolved. That which strikes before intent is even born...
Dark didn't blink.
Dark: I've grown since Hell. Since Kaelion. Since then.
Astaroth paused, then—without a hint of pride—let the silence stretch.
Then his gaze lowered to Akira, still shaking, whispering.
Akira: Monster... You're a monster...
Astaroth: Misread, child.
Astaroth: I am no beast. Should I choose to act as one, you would know it by the collapse of all you love.
Akira: ...No thank you.
Then it came.
The change.
The pressure.
Not from Astaroth.
From Dark.
The lights dimmed. Shadows pulled toward him as if the Empire itself feared being too close. His aura wasn't energy. It was instinct. Ancient dread.
And with it came something new—
Fear Feed.
Leona, watching from the balcony, whispered the term under her breath.
Leona: Fear Feed...
Cron heard it. His eyes widened slightly.
Cron: Wait... is that what this is?
Leona nodded slowly, her voice razor-sharp and hushed.
Leona: It's not just spiritual pressure. It's a manifestation of absolute predation. It doesn't just make you afraid—it turns your fear into a fuel source for him. He doesn't radiate energy. He feeds on the fear he causes and uses it as power.
Cron: (murmuring) That's... that's like warfare evolution...
Leona: No. That's Domination. Imagine a soul so resolved in its right to rule, even fear itself kneels before it.
Down below, Akira tried to breathe.
She couldn't.
Not because of magic. Not because of weight.
But because everything inside her wanted to surrender.
Astaroth narrowed his eyes, feeling it too.
Astaroth: (thinking) This boy... nay—this monarch... hath begun to walk the path of those who rewrite fear into weaponry. 'Tis not pressure. It is proclamation.
Dark raised a hand.
Didn't swing it.
Didn't flare energy.
Just... raised it.
Astaroth, one of the Six Emperors, took a respectful half-step back.
Dark: Let her be.
Astaroth: Very well.
In the next instant, the pressure receded.
Akira gasped violently and collapsed onto the floor, gripping her chest, eyes still wide but no longer seeing anything.
Dark stepped forward.
He didn't check if she was okay.
He knew she was.
His eyes remained on Astaroth.
Dark: You came to visit. So talk.
Astaroth smiled faintly, the embers in his throat swirling.
Astaroth: Aye. Let us converse, Emperor to Emperor.
He stepped forward—not with thunderous dominance, but with a slow and heavy calm, like a storm choosing to walk instead of rage. His eyes swept over the landscape once more, no longer with the weight of judgment, but with a rare softness buried deep behind his infernal gaze.
Astaroth: Hm... this place. 'Twas not like this before.
He gestured subtly to the walls, to the towers still under construction, to the scattered silhouettes of people working in the distance. No fanfare. No guards in golden cloaks. Just villagers and survivors hauling timber, shaping stone, planting roots into wounded soil.
Astaroth: What standeth before me... is not conquest. It is not the throne room of a god nor the dominion of a tyrant. It is... something else.
He paused beside Dark, letting the wind slip between them.
Astaroth: Tell me, Dark. What art thou building here?
Dark didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed ahead, on the cracked stone pathways that still bore traces of old blood, now walked by children who'd never learned fear.
Dark: I didn't build it.
Astaroth: No?
Dark: This land belonged to the Assassins. Their empire fell. The survivors... they made something new out of it. Homes. Barns. Workshops. They used the bones of what was to carve out what might be.
Astaroth: So... this is not thy vision?
Dark's gaze lowered slightly.
Dark: It's theirs.
Astaroth tilted his head.
Astaroth: And yet... thy name is etched into every breath of this place.
Dark: Because I protect it.
He turned, finally meeting Astaroth's gaze with a quiet steadiness. There was no heat in his words. No pride. Just a kind of relentless conviction carved into stone.
Dark: They're not soldiers. Not shadows. Not demons. Just people. People who had everything taken and still chose to start again. If they want to expand, they will. If they want walls, they'll build them. If they want peace, I'll make sure nothing touches them.
He paused.
Dark: That's my empire.
Astaroth studied him for a long breath, the flames behind his eyes reflecting the quiet fires scattered through the far end of the Empire—smiths hammering steel, food being passed hand to hand, laughter rising like smoke from a group of orphans dancing in the snow.
Astaroth: Strange...
Dark waited.
Astaroth: In all the Hells I have ruled, in all the kingdoms I've crushed or preserved... never have I seen a sovereign who refuses to rule.
He turned again, arms behind his back as he walked a few steps down the obsidian-lit corridor.
Astaroth: No royal court. No banners raised to thine name. No taxation. No executions. And yet... I feel no rebellion in these streets. No resentment. Only silence.
Dark: That's the point.
Astaroth looked back.
Dark: I don't want loyalty built on fear.
Astaroth: And yet thou callest thyself Emperor?
Dark: Not for the title. For the world I'll make by the time I reach it.
The corner of Astaroth's lip twitched upward. Almost a smirk.
Astaroth: Very well said.
He paced forward again, this time slower, more thoughtful. As if the weight of centuries rested behind every footfall.
Astaroth: It would seem... I arrived at the right moment.
Dark said nothing.
Astaroth: For there is something within thee, something born not from power or crown, but from that which was etched into thy blood long ago.
He paused.
Astaroth: The demonic mark.
Dark's jaw tensed.
The silence between him and Astaroth wasn't tense—it was calculated. But something clawed at the back of his memory. A whisper from a past he hadn't dared revisit in months. Something that wasn't a thought. It was a voice. His voice—but not his.
A voice that rose from his throat after death.
When he was gone—truly gone. When Ningin had split his body apart and burned the last flickers of life from his soul.
He remembered the darkness. Not just the absence of light—but the absence of time. The absence of self. That place where death had rules he couldn't bend.
And then—
A sound.
No, a word. No, not even that. It was something before words. Something ancient, forgotten, forbidden.
Zu'gu thu'ra'kai.
Or something close to that. It wasn't meant to be understood. It wasn't meant to be spoken. Just felt.
He didn't breathe after hearing it. He just—existed again.
He gasped awake on the battlefield with ash in his lungs and a voice not his own leaking from his throat. It had been One. He stood over him, bleeding, damaged, but smiling like death had been nothing more than an awkward interruption.
Dark's first word wasn't a word. It was a sound—a guttural hum like two worlds scraping against each other. His voice had changed permanently after that.
Deeper.
Richer.
Wrong.
But controlled—because he made it his. He tamed the growl. Now, unless he let it slip, most wouldn't even notice the echo layered under his speech. That low, infernal undertone that reminded even gods to watch their step.
Astaroth didn't look at him during the memory—but he felt it. The Emperor of Hell always did.
Astaroth: Thou carry remnants of what should never have survived. I wonder, does it still whisper when thy soul is quiet?
Dark didn't answer.
But his shadow deepened behind him.
Astaroth: Curious... truly. And thou hast not pursued it?
Dark: I didn't need to.
Astaroth: Most men would drown in power so ancient. Yet here thou art. Mortal still. Mostly.
A brief smile ghosted Astaroth's lips as he turned to face the horizon again.
Astaroth: Thy empire... it pulses like a heart still learning how to beat. Not fully grown. But not weak either.
He looked down upon it. The reformed ruins of the Assassin Empire, now rebuilt in black stone and warm torchlight. The farms. The homes. The outlines of future towers. Small barracks still under development. Every brick touched by survivors—not architects.
Astaroth: Wilt thou expand it with military might? With gold? With fear?
Dark: With people.
Astaroth raised a brow.
Dark: This place isn't mine alone. It's ours. I won't build temples for my name. No thrones above others. If they want more... they'll build more.
He turned slightly, watching the light flicker across the growing settlement.
Dark: And when they do, it'll mean something. It'll last.
Astaroth nodded once—slow, approving.
Astaroth: So be it. Then I shall return again. Perhaps next time, to see thy capital reach the edge of sight.
Dark: Bring less dramatic entrances next time.
Astaroth chuckled under his breath.
Astaroth: No promises, little brother of fire.
The words hung in the air like heat above dry stone—casual, amused, and filled with a warning no less real for how softly it was spoken.
Then he tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing—not in malice, but in a growing curiosity.
Astaroth: Might I ask... wouldst thou indulge me in a duel?
Dark's posture didn't shift. His gaze remained steady, his voice flat.
Dark: Duel?
Astaroth: Aye. Nothing more. Not war. Not conquest. Simply a measure between flames. I wish to see thee move—not with armies, not with titles. But with thy own limbs. Thy own wrath. A spar... if thy pride allows it.
Dark said nothing at first. His eyes slid sideways for the briefest moment, catching the distant skyline of his empire—its growing structures, its rebuilt bones. The Assassin Empire's corpse, reforged into something new. Something alive.
He looked back at Astaroth.
Dark: Fine.
Astaroth smiled.
Dark: But not here.
Astaroth: Hm?
Dark took a step forward, his tone sharper.
Dark: Not near the Empire. We fight far from it. I don't care if the world can heal from the damage—we're not giving it more scars than it already has.
Astaroth's eyes narrowed, not in disapproval, but interest.
Astaroth: Thou carest for this place that deeply?
Dark: I care for the people who chose to follow me.
Astaroth let out a deep, smoky chuckle. His breath painted the air with glowing cinders.
Astaroth: A noble burden.
He turned slightly, glancing at the horizon. Then—
Astaroth: No.
Dark's eyes sharpened.
Astaroth: If thou art to fight an Emperor... let them witness. Let thy people see what their shadow is truly made of. No veil. No hiding.
Dark didn't flinch.
He didn't argue.
He just vanished.
Astaroth blinked—
And Dark was above him.
He moved like gravity bowed to him.
Dark's fingers clamped Astaroth's collar like a hook catching the sun.
Then—
BOOM.
Dark drove him down into the earth with a ground slam so violent it tore a circular trench around them. The earth cracked. The Hall trembled. Everything—stone, air, sky—shivered from the sheer force of the move.
But before the shockwave could spread, before the dust could even finish lifting—
they vanished again.
The world bent.
And reality folded inward.
•
•
They landed somewhere unmarked by war or memory. An ancient battlefield long dead—no life, no buildings, no sun. Just a wasteland of silence and long-forgotten towers collapsed into dunes of ash.
Dark stepped back from Astaroth, his boots crunching black sand.
He inhaled once.
Spoke low.
Dark: This is good.
Astaroth rose slowly, his expression unreadable. His coat rippled with residual force, smoke drifting off his shoulders in lazy coils.
He looked around—at the void, at the broken horizon, at the sky that didn't quite know what color to be—and then back at Dark.
Astaroth: Thou forced an Emperor from his ground with a single movement.
He smiled.
Astaroth: I rather enjoyed that.
Dark: I don't care.
He pulled his hands from his coat pockets, letting his fingers flex slightly.
Dark: You wanted a duel?
Dark: Then fight me here.
Dark: Or don't fight at all.
To Be Continued....
End Of Arc 6 Chapter 5.