Octavius's fury shook the very foundations of his ancestral halls when news reached him - his prized facility lay in ruins, and his heir's whereabouts remained unknown. These coordinated strikes had come without warning, dealing catastrophic blows to House Balam's power. Yet through the crimson haze of his rage, the patriarch's strategic mind discerned the hidden pattern beneath these seemingly random attacks.
The trail led back to a single, overlooked incident months prior in one of his lesser facilities. His servants had painstakingly gathered fragments of evidence from the wreckage, piecing together the puzzle with meticulous care. Using arcane technology reverse-engineered from Fallen artifacts, they had reconstructed flickering images of the past - imperfect, fragmented visions, but enough to reveal the architect of his house's downfall.
And what he saw made his infernal blood boil.
A child.
Not some mighty warlord or ancient foe, but a wretched half-breed born from the lowest dregs of humanity and devilkind. This mongrel filth had dared defile Balam territory, had the audacity to spill noble devil blood with his unclean hands.
"How dare he!" Octavius growled, his fangs drawing ichor from his own lips as he clenched his jaw. The coppery taste of his blood only fueled his wrath. "I will have payment in rivers of their blood - my son's life will be repaid a thousandfold, and their women shall scream for generations!"
A shockwave of blue hellfire erupted from his form, reducing the obsidian war table to smoking fragments. Only carnage could quench the fire burning in his chest. Only the screams of his enemies could silence the roaring in his ears.
"Potran!" His voice thundered through the castle's ancient stones, shaking tapestries and sending lesser devils cowering. The very air trembled with his fury.
A crimson magic circle flared to life before him. From its depths emerged a knight in blackened armor, kneeling in perfect submission. Though his face remained hidden behind his horned helm, the fanatical gleam in his glowing eyes betrayed his zealous devotion.
"What is your command, my lord?" the armored devil hissed, his voice like grinding bones.
"Raise the war banners," Octavius commanded, his voice dripping with venom. "We march to extermination!"
The knight hesitated only a heartbeat. "All legions, my lord?"
"I want every last one of my son's murderers wiped from existence!" The Balam patriarch's power exploded outward again, shattering stained glass windows as his magic hungered for violence.
"As you will it, my lord." With another flash of crimson, the knight vanished, leaving Octavius alone with his all-consuming rage.
Memories surfaced of the Great War, when he had led House Balam's legions against the mightiest strongholds of Heaven and the Fallen. Now, these insignificant rebels would learn what true wrath looked like - they would suffer tenfold what the celestial hosts had endured.
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Balechtar's gaze drifted toward the amassing numbers of Balam's forces encroaching upon his domain. The power of the Old Ones granted him vision beyond the veil of fate. There, in the shadowed currents of destiny, he beheld countless legions assembling by the thousands. It would take the Balam two months to muster enough swords to fully lay siege to his territory.
Even with all their might and power, even backed by the Satanic Royal Army, the original would always triumph over the imitation. Thousands may arrive—but only dozens will remain.
Rising from his deep meditation, Balechtar projected his psychic essence across his dominion, calling forth all his faithful followers.
If the enemy dared to raise their banner, he would raise one of his own.
The young hybrid—devil and Old One—descended from his secluded cave. His eyes locked upon the palace forged from golden steel. Its form mirrored the ancient temples once built by men along the Nile. The leylines of the entire Underworld had been twisted and woven into every corner of its sacred structure. Balechtar had the power to forge the greatest army since the days of Genesis. He recalled the ancient arrival of Coltec's kin to this world, eons past. Back then, this planet was but a cradle of primitive life—creatures born from crude evolution of a single cell. Through the boundless power of the Immaterium, the Old Ones birthed a magical race of raw energy fused with flesh.
From that divine act were born the elementals—beings who governed the universal forces. Among them were the first devils. They had been shaped to become the stewards of the Underworld, elementals charged with preserving the soul of the Earth itself. Yet one mystery continued to gnaw at him: the World Spirit of this realm had remained dormant for uncountable millennia.
Now, Balechtar stood before the grand palace he had created. Harnessing the full concentration of the Underworld's leylines, its mechanisms held marvels of incomprehensible intricacy. Every rune embedded in its design pulsed with conceptual power drawn from the thoughts and dreams of every sentient being to ever exist.
The hybrid moved with solemn steps toward his throne at the heart of the palace. Forged just yesterday with his Words of Creation, it stood as a nexus to the entire pyramid. Made from black steel, with golden vines spiraling into every intricate part, its aura shimmered with unreality, leaking into the material world and opening pathways to infinite power. A bubble of solidified reality encased it, forged from titanic energies of the cosmos to tame the chaotic tides of the Sea of Souls—for the will of its master alone.
As Balechtar ascended toward the throne, three of his earliest and most devoted followers materialized in flashes of brilliant teleportation.
First came Rylazia, the firstborn of her kind. Her jet-black armor was forged from the essence of unreality merged with the fabric of the material world. Etched upon it were the forces of resonance and entropy. Her very form radiated perfection, the Ether coursing through her veins. Though she had not yet achieved the full transformation into an original devil, Rylazia possessed a singular gift—an ability rivaling divine authority.
Next was Jyptor, once a humble blacksmith from a nameless village. Raised among mortals, he was reborn through the same process as Rylazia. His armor was wrought from the abstract manifestations of Creation and Form. A masterpiece of impossible craftsmanship, his body now embodied the edge of Old One artifice. Jyptor the Craftsman, a being of sublime construction.
And finally, Azletak—the mightiest among them in the art of war.
He had once been a forgotten man, a nameless soul with no memories of his past. But now, he had become the master of destruction under Balechtar's command. His armor was forged from the very concept of annihilation, anchored into physical reality by a lattice of sacred runes. Azletak was reborn to channel psychic power potent enough to bring about cataclysms.
If Rylazia was the mistress of birth and rebirth—
If Jyptor embodied creation and craft—
Then Azletak completed the triad as the sovereign of destruction and unmaking.
"The time draws near to reveal our presence to the world," Balechtar said, his gaze gradually shifting to the sole female among them. "Rylazia… how fares the Pond?"
"Everything proceeds exactly as you designed, my lord," she replied calmly. "The refugees within our domain have been chosen to undergo rebirth in the Pond. As of now, we have remade one hundred devils."
The atmosphere within the chamber shifted abruptly. The gravity of her words weighed heavily on the other two.
According to Balechtar's calculations, the power contained within a single original devil could rival even the legendary Heavenly Dragons. Though these were only half-breeds, a hundred of them were sufficient to fracture any balance that existed in the Underworld—or perhaps, the entirety of the supernatural world.
"Remarkable, Rylazia," Balechtar said with a faint smile, his eyes drifting with deliberate intent to the next of his chosen.
"What of our weapons and armor, Jyptor?" the Old One hybrid inquired, his voice calm and deliberate.
"A full set for the entire legion has been forged, my lord," Jyptor replied with resolute certainty.
Balechtar cast a fond smile upon his creation. An army without equal now stood ready—armed with the finest weaponry the Underworld could provide. His army had arrived.
Only one matter remained.
"Azeltak, take twenty devils with you to the Capital. Deliver them a message." His command echoed through the chamber, causing the trio to stiffen as anticipation surged.
"Is that wise, my lord? Our numbers remain few," Jyptor questioned, earning a sharp glare from the female devil beside him.
"No need for concern," Balechtar answered with a gentle, reassuring smile. "They are sufficient—at least, sufficient to deliver a message."
"It does seem plausible, my lord," Rylazia added quickly, bridging the silence. "But if Azeltak goes to the Capital... that would mean—"
Before Balechtar could answer, comprehension dawned upon them. Realization crept in, leaving awe and dread lingering like a chill in their bones.
The air grew dense as a psychic wave surged through the chamber, sweeping over them like an invisible flood. Tides of immaterial force swirled in slow, graceful vortexes, coaxing their eyes to meet their master's.
"I will lead the army here."
The declaration was final. And as it rang through the room, the world beyond would echo with the same tremor—mirroring the words once spoken by the original master of their so-called supernatural factions.
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-Bael Castle-
Zekram Bael read the reports given by his servants.
They give him sparse information that needs to be put together, and despite a lack of details, the information is enough for him to make a greater picture.
The Primordial Creator is calling his realm to war.
But considering the size of his realm, the rational size of his army would be around a few thousand. The quality itself is very questionable.
However, if the old legend were to be believed, the might of the original devils would be enough to make the world tremble. Power beyond that of the Heavenly Dragons wielded in a single devil's hand is unlike anything in this reality.
Zekram once heard the raw power of the place beyond the material universe, located far from the reach of mortals' hands. It was described once as the boundless sea of power, filled with horrors and wonders that no mortal or immortal tongue could describe.
The Bael progenitor has tried to reach it in the past—more than several times in fact. Ah, the trace of young blood within him speaks of longing. The thirst for power is a natural habit of the devil, no one can deny it. Yet, it would be more if the Primordial Creator did return.
"My lord!" A scream rang across the room, alarmed and filled with dread.
Zekram turned his body hastily, watching a person he recognized as one of his spies in the Balam territory.
"What's wrong?" Zekram asked, his tone calm and collected. But his ancient eyes revealed hidden concern and emotions that slowly escaped his expression.
"We... We got news that the Balam have raised their banners." He said slowly, his voice shaking.
"How many?"
"Five hundred thousand." The answer made the ancient devil raise his eyebrows.
Indeed, the number is a pale imitation of the mighty Balam army back in the Great War where Balam can raise countless millions.
But it also raises another question. If indeed the numbers are around five hundred thousand. It only means one thing.
"Did you know their banners?" Zekram asked slowly, his voice calculating.
"Pardon me, my lord. Their banners are not clear. But the color is black." The answer sends shivers to the Bael.
"Black." He said to himself, doubting his own statement. The black banner was only raised when the Satans themselves ordered the Balam to complete the annihilation of their enemies. "Raise our Redguard. If the Balam raised their black banners, it was only a matter of time until the Satans knew about this transgression. Prepare for the worst." Before Zekram could give another command, the room's temperature dropped significantly.
"There is no need." A flash of crimson fire emerged from the edge of the room. Its aura was overwhelming, crushing Zekram's presence. A man of towering stature materialized before him, walking closer with each step.
"Who are you?" Zekram asked in defiance.
"The one who watching this entire time." The answer made the Bael devil fall into silence.
"Are you the Primordial Creator?"
Zekram asked, his voice filled with uncertainty. Never once did Zekram feel power unbearable in his ancient life, which made all of his magical detection numb.
"Primordial Creators." The progenitor devil said in confirmation, his voice echoed throughout the room. The being did not answer, trying to study Zekram. Before he could open his mouth to ask another question, the ethereal existence bore his eyes at the Bael patriarch.
Then, reality begins to lose its law, replaced by chaos. The rules of the universe are unmade and distorted beyond recognition. He saw madness and order as overlapping, creating a helix of cacophony, a melody of creation that speaks destruction.
Zekram can feel his bone, skin, and nerves drowned in the abyss, melting into the maelstrom.
In what seemed like an eternity, his senses finally returned. Zekram scanned his surroundings and found that the chaotic place had been held in place with Herculean power, invisible, yet he could feel his very existence being sustained by that power.
"Zekram Bael." The being's voice echoed throughout the infinity.
"What do you want?" Zekram asked carefully.
Instead of answering, the devil only to be pulled to the space beyond the veil. Distance became meaningless as reality changed abruptly. Zekram finally regained his senses to find himself in some kind of throne room. He only sees black inks around him, flowing freely but solid enough for Zekram to recognize. His head raised, finding the being rested on his throne.
Without words, the being created a spear of gold in his hand before slowly descending from his seat. He stared at Zekram. Those golden orbs peered deep, yet there was no pain, only blissful sentiment that gradually entered Bael's senses.
The mighty being leaves his gaze upon the devil, slowly making its trajectory beneath the owner's throne. There, he saw a being manifested. No, the existence itself was there even before Zekram entered the room. Then, he realized.
"What do you want to show me?"
Zekram asked, his voice low and bordered with dread.
The being's golden orbs slowly lowered, staring back at him with burning intensity. In a flicker of time, the eternity was pressed into the existence of him. Zekram watched and felt. He tastes a tint of bitterness in his mouth. The progenitor holds his gaze upon the Primordial Creator. This man is his original ancestor's maker, the grand designer of anything Zekram had stood for. Within his grasp and beyond are his to control, maker of the creation.
The gaze pierced the devil, sending waves of song. It was a song of creation and destruction, the harmony that brought order to chaos.
Beauty and terrible, both sides of reality being presented to him in a cacophony of overlapping songs.
A light of truth appeared before him.
"So, that what do you want." Zekram said, his voice filled with awe. The reason begins to unfold as the truth of ambition slowly comes to light.
"Conquest." He added. "Unification."
"By your will." These are his last words, echoing in his soul. Zekram smirked.
The golden eyes stared intently before sending a psychic wave to him, sending the devil back to his body.
Zekram blinked, regaining his body control. The devil pondered about the last thing he saw in between the chaotic color of his return. A spark of golden appeared instantly, transformed into another creation.
He walked to his window. There, he saw upward where a golden shooting star soaring in the night sky.
Zekram only watched, waiting, like the order of his master had been bestowed upon him.