The first thing Kyle noticed was the light.
Not the fire-and-ash glare of Hell, but a sterile white stretching endlessly in every direction. No shadows. No horizon. No scent.
"Where… am I?"
His voice vanished into the brightness.
Memory struck.
The Hell King's obsidian grin. The sudden rupture in his chest. Black fire clawing at his soul. Kyle's breath hitched as phantom pain flared through him.
His fists clenched. I'll rip his head off.
The thought died just as quickly. His strength was gone. Even standing felt wrong.
The light offered no comfort. It felt like mockery.
He moved anyway. Step after step through the emptiness. No wind. No sound. Only his own presence pressing back at him.
Then his instincts screamed.
Something was here.
Something that shouldn't be.
Pressure crashed down on him, forcing him to one knee. Fear surged but beneath it, recognition. He knew this power.
Far ahead, a single figure stood in the white. Distant, blurred but unmistakable.
"…Him," Kyle whispered.
He forced his body forward, burning what little energy he had left. The distance collapsed then pain tore through him.
"Gah!"
He hit the ground, clutching his side. The wound in his core throbbed, unhealed, unforgiving.
Darkness swallowed him.
Kyle woke.
No pain. No weakness. His core was whole, steady, alive with power. He stood, breath calm, strength restored.
The white world remained.
And so did the figure.
He stood ahead, back turned, gazing into the void above. Silent. Still.
Kyle's voice shook.
"…Father."
The figure turned slowly
and smiled.