A thunderous roar made the ground groan, as if the plain itself were crying out for mercy. It was the third time the sun had risen, and the dispute for the right to challenge the King remained unsettled.
A young-looking youth, his face reflecting light like polished marble, dominated the scene. He possessed amber eyes with pupils so sharp they could slice through a soul, paired with an expression forged in the heart of the Arctic. He wore ebony armor etched with runes so ancient their origin had been lost to time, and garments that only a deity would dare to wear. However, his nature was the polar opposite of divine. He moved his body with a grace that was both feline and arrogant.
In front of him, a metallic abomination dripped a thick, viscous blackness that hissed upon touching the earth. The creature struck the ground where the youth had stood only an instant before, creating a crater deep enough to swallow a mountain range. That excuse for a sword was wielded by a living mountain: pure muscle and hatred, standing taller than any tree. It barely maintained a humanoid shape, devoid of all grace. Clad in furs and skulls—a macabre banner announcing the fate of its victims—the creature's eyes were two red embers. Its skin was a map of scars so dense it suggested the mere idea of dodging was more repulsive to it than the bite of the sharpest axe.
"You damned coward mage! Stop running from my blade with your cheap magic tricks!" Magar roared, his voice emulating thunder splitting a mountain.
As he raised his weapon, it seemed as though the light itself were desperately trying to escape. Magar's horrific grimace twisted into a deranged smile. But before he could deliver the blow, a shock like the collision of two stars struck his chest, lifting him off the ground.
The violence was such that the Obsidian Plain, for a moment, seemed to turn into the vacuum of space. Where rock and lava once stood, only dust and nothingness remained. It wasn't mere brute force; it was a cosmic understanding coupled with a mana pool no nation could ever hope to rival. A mind capable of seeing the glint of stars, feeling the heat of embers, smelling the void of the cosmos, hearing the pulse of a quasar, and tasting darkness itself. It was the most refined magic one could aspire to.
A thick liquid smelling of sulfur and death leaked from every one of Magar's orifices. Surviving that attack was just further proof of the kind of monster he was; a specimen feared even among his own kind. The only one who had dared to face him by choice was Kaelen. This marked three days of continuous combat that the Demon Realm itself experienced as the prelude to the apocalypse. The other demons felt a deep knot in their stomachs.
What if they leave the Obsidian Plain? What if their fight reaches the city?
No demon dared to speak it aloud, but it was a shared thought. With a few exceptions: a young man with an expectant gaze perched atop a building, an empress with a frozen smile on her executive throne, and a maid with violet eyes who clutched her chest so hard her nails drew drops of blood like the tears of a desperate maiden.
And finally, at the top of a tower that remained unmoved by the chaos, sat the throne. There remained the King, hidden in a darkness no light could unveil, patiently awaiting the result.
◆◆◆
At that exact moment, the dawn finally broke over the horizon. A ray of sunlight, ruthless and precise, struck Kaelen's amber eyes. It wasn't just a flash; it was a bridge of fire connecting his present blindness to the radiance of a past he had failed to bury. In that flash of liquid gold that pierced his guard, his mind finally betrayed him.
He lay on the ground, reliving a memory of a distant sunset, seeing the warm face of the one who betrayed him giving one last, pure smile.
"You must live, Kaelen," he heard the apparition say.
He snapped back to reality with a terrible crunch and a searing cold. That fleeting moment of distraction was all Magar needed.
"Distracting yourself like that is pathetic, Kaelen. But coming from a sentimental fool... it doesn't surprise me," Magar spat, savoring his right to face the King.
Kaelen fell to his knees. Strength drained from his body along with his blood. Pain was a living entity devouring his consciousness. He saw Magar raise the sword for the final blow, knowing he couldn't stop it.
"Your aspirations for the throne end today, Kaelen!" the monster roared through fits of laughter. "I SHALL CHALLENGE THE KING!"
But the blow never landed. A rift from another reality manifested. A foreign and powerful force eclipsed the pain. A human grimoire, a young and insecure voice reciting words of summoning... The portal opened behind Kaelen like a golden eye.
"What sorcery is this?!" Magar screamed, recoiling as his triumph turned to confusion.
Kaelen felt his skin being enveloped by an essence that defied all logic. It was a nostalgic sensation, pulling him through the planes. It was his only chance. With one last effort of will, he let himself go, abandoning the demon realm as the darkness swallowed him.
The last thing he saw was Magar's furious expression; the last thing he felt was the sting of the mortal wound in his stomach, temporarily sealed by the magic of a young girl who, without knowing it, had just altered the course of fate.
"Arathor..." Kaelen whispered before disappearing completely.