Deep within a forest so vast it swallowed horizons, fire burned where no fire should exist.
Ancient trees, thick as mountains and twisted and hollowed by ages of corruption, rose endlessly into the blackened sky. Their roots formed enormous pits and chasms, holes so deep no light could reach their bottoms. From within those depths came noise.
Laughter.
Screams.
The sound of something awakening.
Flames erupted between the trees, staining bark and soil with an infernal glow. From the burning hollows, demons emerged in waves. Thousands, no, far more, crawled, flew, and surged into the open. Bat-winged demons shrieked as they took to the air. Insectoid horrors followed, mantis-shaped fiends with scythe-like limbs, spider-demons dragging their massive bodies across the scorched ground, eyes gleaming with hunger.
The forest trembled under their presence.
They howled and laughed, reveling in chaos, celebrating a rise long denied to them.
At the highest point of this infernal domain stood a throne.
Forged from blackened stone and living flame, it burned without consuming itself. Upon it sat the one they answered to, the one they feared.
Malakor.
He was tall, towering even among demons. His body was lean yet packed with corded muscle, his skin like polished obsidian veined with glowing crimson, as though hellfire flowed beneath it. Curved black horns spiraled back from his temples, sharp enough to tear through stone and bone alike. His wings stretched wide, leathery and vast, their edges tattered like burnt silk, casting enormous shadows over the horde below.
His eyes burned like smoldering embers.
In one clawed hand, Malakor rested a greatsword forged from solidified hellfire. The blade flickered with blue and orange flames, leaving trails of acrid smoke in the air as it moved. The heat around him warped reality itself, turning the air into a stifling, shimmering haze.
When Malakor rose from the throne, the forest fell silent.
He dragged his hand along the burning blade, sparks screaming as metal met claw.
"This time," he said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder mixed with the crackle of flame, "we will succeed."
The demons below growled in anticipation.
"The ones before us failed," Malakor continued, his gaze burning with contempt. "They called themselves lords. Kings. Ancients." His lip curled. "Failures. They do not deserve the name demon."
He hated the old ones, the ancient demon rulers who had lost to Sentinels, to angels, to forces they could not comprehend. Their defeats had shackled demonkind for ages.
Malakor would not repeat their mistakes.
He lifted his blade and pointed it toward the sky beyond the forest.
"This realm, Vastyrion, was never meant to remain whole," he declared. "The Original Sentinel chose stagnation. Balance." His wings twitched with restrained fury. "He made existence easier, weaker."
Malakor's eyes flared.
"Vastyrion should be cut apart."
Murmurs rippled through the demon horde.
"Separated into living spaces. New timespaces. Higher subspaces beyond mortal reach," Malakor continued. "A beginning forged through division." His voice rose. "A new society, our society."
He stepped forward, fire bending beneath his feet.
"I will fracture Vastyrion," he roared. "I will create my own spaces, my own timelines, my own subspaces. Wormholes will pierce reality itself, binding demon will to human souls."
The demons screamed in delight.
"Through these connections, we will grow stronger," Malakor said. "Human souls will fuel us. Their lives will empower us." His gaze hardened. "And when Vastyrion is separated, none will stop us."
Yet even as he spoke with certainty, doubt burned quietly within him.
He could feel it.
A presence.
Far away, yet unmistakable.
Malakor's grip tightened on his sword.
I sense him, he thought. That boy.
Rage twisted his expression.
"One of them," he growled. "One of the Sentinels."
The idea infuriated him.
A child.
Unaware.
Walking freely.
Malakor spread his wings fully, towering above all.
"I will rewrite reality," he declared. "I will tear Heaven apart." His voice thundered. "And I will reach God's domain itself."
He raised his hand.
"Prepare."
The demons erupted into deafening roars, thousands upon thousands, claws raised, wings beating, blades screaming against shields. They were ready to fight. Ready to die. Ready to conquer.
Ready to burn Vastyrion in Malakor's name.
And far away, beneath rain and wind, a boy walked, unaware that hell had already chosen him.