Waking up as Riser Phenex, arrogant, shirtless, and canonically useless, a reincarnated man realizes he's hit the jackpot... and also the trash heap of devil nobility. But why die as a footnote in someone else's story when you can rewrite the whole damn script? Armed with genre awareness, overpowered ambition, and zero patience for anime logic, Riser's done playing nice. He's recruiting monsters, stealing plot armor, and aiming to become something even the gods side-eye. Forget peace, forget canon, and definitely forget being defeated by teenagers again. This time, Riser's going full main character energy, with fire.
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DxD: Born Again in Flame (Riser si)
- Thread starter abel targayen
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User Total abel targayen 7
Prologue and plans
New
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
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Prologue: Ashes of the Phoenix
There was warmth, no, heat, pressing into his skin. A low crackle echoed through the room like a distant fire, steady and alive. He stirred.
The ceiling above was a mural of soaring phoenixes, feathers of gold and fire stitched into enchanted stone, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered old money and older magic. The bed beneath him was absurdly soft, the silken sheets smoother than anything he had touched in a lifetime. A nearby window let in amber-tinted sunlight through high gothic arches, illuminating velvet drapes, a mahogany desk, a chandelier of living flame.
Where the hell am I?
He sat up, the room tilting with unfamiliar weight. His body was different, taller, leaner, stronger. More refined. But what shocked him most was the aura. It rolled off him in waves, arrogance and power. It clung to the air like the scent of spice and brimstone.
He stumbled toward a tall mirror framed in phoenix feathers. The reflection wasn't his.
Blond hair, sharp features, crimson eyes that burned faintly with something inhuman. He looked maybe fifteen. His chest was bare, his skin too perfect, too flawless. No acne, no scars, just aristocratic beauty that felt as unnatural as it was magnetic.
He knew that face.
Riser Phenex.
"No…" His voice was unfamiliar, smooth and aristocratic. He stared at the reflection, trying to will it away, deny it. But then came the wave.
Like a dam breaking, memories flooded in, flashes of noble banquets in the Phenex estate, of tutors lecturing him on etiquette, combat, and devil politics. Flames erupting from his hands in training duels. Cold glances exchanged between elder devils at court. The smirk of a younger Rias Gremory across a table. The shame of a spare Heir. The taste of being irrelevant.
He sank to his knees, gasping.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Eventually, the panic faded. In its place came thought. Cold, precise, analytical thought.
So this was it. Somehow, impossibly, he had ended up in the body of a minor villain. A speedbump on someone else's path to greatness. Riser Phenex, arrogant, petty, disposable.
But now?
A slow grin pulled at his lips.
Now he had a five-year head start, the mind of a man from another world, and a future to rewrite. His fate was no longer bound to the canon timeline, no longer shackled to some teenager's path to greatness.
He would not be someone else's stepping stone.
He would forge a peerage worthy of legend. No more weaklings. He'd find monsters, people with potential and power. Earn their loyalty. Take what he needed and reshape the Underworld if he had to
He opened a drawer in the desk, retrieving the ornate ebony box that pulsed with ancient magic. Inside, the remaining Evil Pieces shimmered, two Rooks, two Knights, two Bishops, eight Pawns.
The Queen slot was empty.
"Yubellana…" he murmured. The name came with a flicker of recognition, a capable but underwhelming choice, locked in before he awoke.
No matter. The rest could be salvaged.
He closed the box gently, reverently. Stood tall.
"A side character in someone else's pathetic little story?" he whispered. "No. I am the master of my fate."
He turned toward the balcony, flame-washed wind tugging at his hair, and stared into the horizon over the mansion, to the rest of Ars Goetia. His mind was already spinning.
Who would he recruit? Where could he find the strength to carve a new future? Could he bend the rules of the game, or break them entirely?
The pieces were on the board. He would decide how they moved.
----------------------------------------------
Peace.
It was intoxicating, in its own way. The scent of roses from enchanted gardens drifting through the open balcony. Servants who bowed their heads in silence. Endless days of leisure, luxury, and lukewarm expectations. No burdens. No pressure. No destiny.
And no meaning.
Riser lounged in an obsidian chair, a glass of expensive wine, fire-blood vintage from the Phenex vaults, glowing softly in his hand. Fifteen years old, devil nobility, born into a house with coffers so deep they could drown lesser houses. Third son. Spare of a spare. Aristocracy meant that unless he actively humiliated himself or exploded half the Underworld, his family would let him live however he pleased.
And the idea was tempting.
He had magic. Real, honest-to-hell magic. He could light up rooms with a flick of his fingers. Summon flames from the marrow of his soul. Live in decadence until the end of time. And the Underworld would applaud him for doing nothing more than existing.
But that... that was how losers thought.
"Peace?" he muttered, smirking. "Fuck peace."
He stood and walked to the window, flames flickering behind his irises. The horizon beyond the House of Phenex's territory shimmered with ley lines, devil cities carved into obsidian mountains, ancient forests, ruins of ancient wars. And beyond even that, the material world.
This world was real fantasy. Every pantheon, every myth is real. Angels soared above Heaven. Dragons slept in volcanoes. Gods sipped wine in hidden dimensions. And he had the chance to live among them, challenge them, surpass them.
"I'm a devil with a literal immortality pass and magic limited only by imagination," he whispered to himself. "Why the fuck would I settle for anything less than the top?"
Sirzechs Lucifer? A noble goal.
But even that was too low.
No. His eyes gleamed now. He would reach the pinnacle. Become a being beyond myth. A king of devils, not by birth, but by right. He wanted to stand on the edge of existence and look down on dragons, gods, angels alike.
To do that, he needed power. Unshakable, undeniable power. Magical, political, personal.
And he couldn't do it alone.
The Evil Piece set still sat on his desk. One Queen already spent. The rest gleamed with latent potential.
Time to fill his peerage. Not with sycophants or incompetent playthings like in canon. No. This time, he would build an elite force, loyal, lethal, cunning. Not a household. A dynasty.
What kind of people did he want?
First: Loyalty. Absolute. His back must be protected when he stepped into the fire.
Second: Capability. Not just raw magical power, though that helped. Intelligence, adaptability, ruthlessness. If they could kill gods or manipulate a situation, that worked too.
Third: No idealists. He wasn't building a charity. Morals were luxuries the strong could afford. In the Underworld, power ruled. Only fools pretended otherwise.
He began listing names:
Valerie Tepes.
A dhampir, held captive by her own family in the shadows of Eastern Europe. Wielder of the Sephiroth Graal, a Sacred Gear of unimaginable potential. Healing, resurrection, possibly capable of granting immunity to holy weaknesses. If he could turn her, not only would he gain a trump card, but possibly the means to make devils' racial weakness obsolete.
A beauty, too. But that was secondary.
Problem? She was a magnet for trouble. Evil dragons, the Fallen, and worst of all: the son of Lucifer would all want her.
"But I have five years," he muttered. "Plenty of time to prepare."
Gasper Vladi.
Childhood friend of Valerie. Wielder of Forbidden Balor View, an anti-time Sacred Gear that could stop time. A little unstable. A little naive. But potential.
If he timed it right, he could get them both.
The Nekomata Sisters.
Held by House Naberius. Abused and caged and used as experiment subjects. Kuroka, especially, would be dangerous, a Youkai of immense potential and deadly instinct.
It would require careful planning to recruit them without becoming a target. But worth it.
Rossweisse.
Valkyrie. Scholar. Talented. Criminally undervalued by her own pantheon.
With the right approach, he could offer her recognition and respect she never received from Odin.
Ingvild Leviathan.
Lost descendant of a Maou. Slumbering power. A High-tier Longinus, Sacred Gear with the ability to control dragons.
She was a slow-burn asset, but a potentially game-breaking one.
Meredith Ordinton.
One of the wielders of a Longinus. If he could find her and recruit her, she could be a useful ally.
These were pieces worth playing.
But peerage members meant nothing if he wasn't strong enough to protect them. Or worse, if he was strong enough to recruit them, but weak enough to lose them.
That meant power had to come first.
Devil magic was a start, but he'd need more.
Ancient tomes from the Phenex library. Elemental fusion beyond just fire. Rituals. Forbidden techniques. Sacred Gear research. Maybe even tapping into the Super-devil research.
No. Not maybe. Definitely.
His end goal wasn't to be some noble with a hobby. It was to reach the level where reality bent to his will. Where the Dragon of Dreams himself, Great Red, would take notice.
And from there?
Maybe even beyond.
He exhaled and sat back, flames curling gently at his fingertips. The window of time was open. He had years before Issei Hyoudou awakens the Boosted Gear. Years to gather power, influence, and allies.
But it had to start now.
"Step one," he muttered. "Push past my current limit. Master Phenex fire. Expand magic versatility. Hunt Sacred Gear wielders. Recruit. Manipulate. Grow."
He poured a second glass of fire-blood wine and toasted the horizon.
"To the top. No matter who stands in my way."
Author's Note: Alright, after whining about how everyone's stories refuse to follow my brilliant plans, I've finally mustered enough courage (and caffeine) to post something. Fingers crossed it doesn't crash and burn. I already have a plan for how it should go but, spoiler alert, only the first arc is locked in — the rest is just me winging it like a pro. Feel free to drop feedback, ideas, or even insults. Seriously, I can take it — bring on the roast!
There was warmth, no, heat, pressing into his skin. A low crackle echoed through the room like a distant fire, steady and alive. He stirred.
The ceiling above was a mural of soaring phoenixes, feathers of gold and fire stitched into enchanted stone, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered old money and older magic. The bed beneath him was absurdly soft, the silken sheets smoother than anything he had touched in a lifetime. A nearby window let in amber-tinted sunlight through high gothic arches, illuminating velvet drapes, a mahogany desk, a chandelier of living flame.
Where the hell am I?
He sat up, the room tilting with unfamiliar weight. His body was different, taller, leaner, stronger. More refined. But what shocked him most was the aura. It rolled off him in waves, arrogance and power. It clung to the air like the scent of spice and brimstone.
He stumbled toward a tall mirror framed in phoenix feathers. The reflection wasn't his.
Blond hair, sharp features, crimson eyes that burned faintly with something inhuman. He looked maybe fifteen. His chest was bare, his skin too perfect, too flawless. No acne, no scars, just aristocratic beauty that felt as unnatural as it was magnetic.
He knew that face.
Riser Phenex.
"No…" His voice was unfamiliar, smooth and aristocratic. He stared at the reflection, trying to will it away, deny it. But then came the wave.
Like a dam breaking, memories flooded in, flashes of noble banquets in the Phenex estate, of tutors lecturing him on etiquette, combat, and devil politics. Flames erupting from his hands in training duels. Cold glances exchanged between elder devils at court. The smirk of a younger Rias Gremory across a table. The shame of a spare Heir. The taste of being irrelevant.
He sank to his knees, gasping.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Eventually, the panic faded. In its place came thought. Cold, precise, analytical thought.
So this was it. Somehow, impossibly, he had ended up in the body of a minor villain. A speedbump on someone else's path to greatness. Riser Phenex, arrogant, petty, disposable.
But now?
A slow grin pulled at his lips.
Now he had a five-year head start, the mind of a man from another world, and a future to rewrite. His fate was no longer bound to the canon timeline, no longer shackled to some teenager's path to greatness.
He would not be someone else's stepping stone.
He would forge a peerage worthy of legend. No more weaklings. He'd find monsters, people with potential and power. Earn their loyalty. Take what he needed and reshape the Underworld if he had to
He opened a drawer in the desk, retrieving the ornate ebony box that pulsed with ancient magic. Inside, the remaining Evil Pieces shimmered, two Rooks, two Knights, two Bishops, eight Pawns.
The Queen slot was empty.
"Yubellana…" he murmured. The name came with a flicker of recognition, a capable but underwhelming choice, locked in before he awoke.
No matter. The rest could be salvaged.
He closed the box gently, reverently. Stood tall.
"A side character in someone else's pathetic little story?" he whispered. "No. I am the master of my fate."
He turned toward the balcony, flame-washed wind tugging at his hair, and stared into the horizon over the mansion, to the rest of Ars Goetia. His mind was already spinning.
Who would he recruit? Where could he find the strength to carve a new future? Could he bend the rules of the game, or break them entirely?
The pieces were on the board. He would decide how they moved.
----------------------------------------------
Peace.
It was intoxicating, in its own way. The scent of roses from enchanted gardens drifting through the open balcony. Servants who bowed their heads in silence. Endless days of leisure, luxury, and lukewarm expectations. No burdens. No pressure. No destiny.
And no meaning.
Riser lounged in an obsidian chair, a glass of expensive wine, fire-blood vintage from the Phenex vaults, glowing softly in his hand. Fifteen years old, devil nobility, born into a house with coffers so deep they could drown lesser houses. Third son. Spare of a spare. Aristocracy meant that unless he actively humiliated himself or exploded half the Underworld, his family would let him live however he pleased.
And the idea was tempting.
He had magic. Real, honest-to-hell magic. He could light up rooms with a flick of his fingers. Summon flames from the marrow of his soul. Live in decadence until the end of time. And the Underworld would applaud him for doing nothing more than existing.
But that... that was how losers thought.
"Peace?" he muttered, smirking. "Fuck peace."
He stood and walked to the window, flames flickering behind his irises. The horizon beyond the House of Phenex's territory shimmered with ley lines, devil cities carved into obsidian mountains, ancient forests, ruins of ancient wars. And beyond even that, the material world.
This world was real fantasy. Every pantheon, every myth is real. Angels soared above Heaven. Dragons slept in volcanoes. Gods sipped wine in hidden dimensions. And he had the chance to live among them, challenge them, surpass them.
"I'm a devil with a literal immortality pass and magic limited only by imagination," he whispered to himself. "Why the fuck would I settle for anything less than the top?"
Sirzechs Lucifer? A noble goal.
But even that was too low.
No. His eyes gleamed now. He would reach the pinnacle. Become a being beyond myth. A king of devils, not by birth, but by right. He wanted to stand on the edge of existence and look down on dragons, gods, angels alike.
To do that, he needed power. Unshakable, undeniable power. Magical, political, personal.
And he couldn't do it alone.
The Evil Piece set still sat on his desk. One Queen already spent. The rest gleamed with latent potential.
Time to fill his peerage. Not with sycophants or incompetent playthings like in canon. No. This time, he would build an elite force, loyal, lethal, cunning. Not a household. A dynasty.
What kind of people did he want?
First: Loyalty. Absolute. His back must be protected when he stepped into the fire.
Second: Capability. Not just raw magical power, though that helped. Intelligence, adaptability, ruthlessness. If they could kill gods or manipulate a situation, that worked too.
Third: No idealists. He wasn't building a charity. Morals were luxuries the strong could afford. In the Underworld, power ruled. Only fools pretended otherwise.
He began listing names:
Valerie Tepes.
A dhampir, held captive by her own family in the shadows of Eastern Europe. Wielder of the Sephiroth Graal, a Sacred Gear of unimaginable potential. Healing, resurrection, possibly capable of granting immunity to holy weaknesses. If he could turn her, not only would he gain a trump card, but possibly the means to make devils' racial weakness obsolete.
A beauty, too. But that was secondary.
Problem? She was a magnet for trouble. Evil dragons, the Fallen, and worst of all: the son of Lucifer would all want her.
"But I have five years," he muttered. "Plenty of time to prepare."
Gasper Vladi.
Childhood friend of Valerie. Wielder of Forbidden Balor View, an anti-time Sacred Gear that could stop time. A little unstable. A little naive. But potential.
If he timed it right, he could get them both.
The Nekomata Sisters.
Held by House Naberius. Abused and caged and used as experiment subjects. Kuroka, especially, would be dangerous, a Youkai of immense potential and deadly instinct.
It would require careful planning to recruit them without becoming a target. But worth it.
Rossweisse.
Valkyrie. Scholar. Talented. Criminally undervalued by her own pantheon.
With the right approach, he could offer her recognition and respect she never received from Odin.
Ingvild Leviathan.
Lost descendant of a Maou. Slumbering power. A High-tier Longinus, Sacred Gear with the ability to control dragons.
She was a slow-burn asset, but a potentially game-breaking one.
Meredith Ordinton.
One of the wielders of a Longinus. If he could find her and recruit her, she could be a useful ally.
These were pieces worth playing.
But peerage members meant nothing if he wasn't strong enough to protect them. Or worse, if he was strong enough to recruit them, but weak enough to lose them.
That meant power had to come first.
Devil magic was a start, but he'd need more.
Ancient tomes from the Phenex library. Elemental fusion beyond just fire. Rituals. Forbidden techniques. Sacred Gear research. Maybe even tapping into the Super-devil research.
No. Not maybe. Definitely.
His end goal wasn't to be some noble with a hobby. It was to reach the level where reality bent to his will. Where the Dragon of Dreams himself, Great Red, would take notice.
And from there?
Maybe even beyond.
He exhaled and sat back, flames curling gently at his fingertips. The window of time was open. He had years before Issei Hyoudou awakens the Boosted Gear. Years to gather power, influence, and allies.
But it had to start now.
"Step one," he muttered. "Push past my current limit. Master Phenex fire. Expand magic versatility. Hunt Sacred Gear wielders. Recruit. Manipulate. Grow."
He poured a second glass of fire-blood wine and toasted the horizon.
"To the top. No matter who stands in my way."
Author's Note: Alright, after whining about how everyone's stories refuse to follow my brilliant plans, I've finally mustered enough courage (and caffeine) to post something. Fingers crossed it doesn't crash and burn. I already have a plan for how it should go but, spoiler alert, only the first arc is locked in — the rest is just me winging it like a pro. Feel free to drop feedback, ideas, or even insults. Seriously, I can take it — bring on the roast!
Chapter 1: Flames Beneath the Surface
New
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
- Messages
- 52
- Likes received
- 251
Yubellana had always loved the way he played.
The first few notes rang out through the manor's music room, rippling across air perfumed with fresh lilac and firewood. She stood in the doorway, caught, no, captivated, as his fingers danced with impossible grace over the ivory keys. Franz Liszt, she recognized. Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.
It wasn't just performance. It was poetry. Every motion, every note, perfectly controlled, yet filled with passion. This was not the careless, smug noble devil she had served for a while—this was someone transformed.
Riser Phenex sat in the golden sunlight, his blond hair catching fire in the light, his eyes half-lidded, and entirely focused on the piano. He didn't look up, but he knew she was there. Of course he did.
"Ah, Yubellana, I love you," he said as the music swept into a playful crescendo, "when I am with you," he said.
Her lips curled into a small smile, cheeks already warming.
"I become what you call a... hipdevil. I am hip, to the jive. I am in the groove, darling."
She laughed softly, covering her mouth. "Riser, you sound like one of those human jazz phonographs trying to flirt."
The notes slowed, playfully exaggerated, as he turned just enough to cast her a look full of theatrical longing.
"And now," he sighed, letting the piano linger on a sweet, low harmony, "you set my soul on fire. It is not just a little spark. No, it is aflame! A great, roaring flame. I can feel it now, burning, Yubellana, burning."
"You're incorrigible," she murmured, stepping into the room with her hands folded. She tried to sound disapproving, but her voice trembled with a poorly hidden giggle.
He rose, letting the final note of the Rhapsody echo gently behind him like the closing breath of a storm. Then he walked to her, not with the lazy swagger she'd known before, but with the composed confidence of a man who had chosen every step.
She blushed as he took her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles.
"Your cheeks betray you," he said, eyes gleaming. "You wear crimson better than any noble banner."
"You are impossible," she whispered, heart racing.
"And yet here you are, enchanted all the same."
Their faces drew closer, her hand pressed lightly against his chest. He leaned in—
But she turned her face away, flustered. "Riser, wait, there's something you're forgetting."
He paused, expression caught between mock disappointment and amusement.
"You're due to visit your parents at the estate today," she said quickly. "You told Lord and Lady Phenex you would attend tonight's evening meal."
He sighed dramatically, resting his forehead against hers. "You wound me, Yubellana. Interrupted at the very height of passion—for family obligations."
"You're the one who made the appointment," she replied, smirking shyly.
He laughed, stepping back. "And that is why you're my Queen. A beautiful woman with an inconvenient memory for my own convenience."
She flushed again, but said nothing.
He turned away, retrieving his coat with practiced grace. His movements were purposeful, elegant. Everything about him lately had changed. It wasn't just charm, it was a kind of focus, a clarity that unsettled and thrilled her in equal measure.
Once, Riser had been all fire and laziness. A noble devil with too much power, too little ambition, and no direction but the bed and the banquet.
But now...
He gave the piano one last glance before they left the room. "You know, Yubellana," he said quietly, "music is what the soul would say if it were free from the body. When I play... it's as though I remember something I never learned."
She tilted her head, intrigued. "You sound like a wannabe philosopher. It seems you have been thinking a lot."
"I have," he said simply. "Something... cosmic. Like I've stumbled across the answer to a question older than my bloodline. And now I can't stop seeing it: truth, purpose, wonder. Even in the smallest things."
She watched him as they walked down the hall. He paused to admire a painting he'd ignored for years. Complimented a servant's stitching. Yesterday, she'd caught him smiling at the simple act of eating a slice of fresh-baked bread, as if it were a ritual worthy of reverence.
"You're different," she said softly. "Since last month. You carry yourself like a man who's found something or someone—that woke him up."
He glanced at her sidelong. "Maybe I did."
Her heart skipped. For a moment, she wanted to ask more, to pry even. But she was afraid the answer might pull her deeper than she already dared to fall.
They reached the teleportation room. A Phenex sigil shimmered on the obsidian floor.
He took her hand again and smiled, less like a flirt, more like a man.
"Don't wait up," he said. "If my father tries to assign me another engagement to some nobleman's daughter, I may flee the mansion entirely."
She chuckled. "I'm sure you'll manage."
"Of course. I'm a hipdevil, remember?"
The teleportation circle flared to life beneath him, firelight licking at his coat.
And then he was gone, off to the Phenex estate, where power slept beneath old stone and politics simmered in gilded cups.
Yubellana stood alone, hand to her chest, wondering.
He was changing.
She only hoped she would not be left behind.
------------------------------------------------
The Phenex Estate stood like a monument to arrogance and eternity.
Riser gazed upward as the teleportation circle faded beneath his feet, boots touching down on polished volcanic glass inscribed with ancient noble seals. Before him stretched the ancestral palace of House Phenex, a sprawling gothic marvel of obsidian towers, sunstone domes, and fiery wards that shimmered in the dusk like auroras. Miles of enchanted gardens surrounded the main hall, where flowers bloomed with demonic fire and songbirds sang in infernal tongues.
It was the kind of splendor that made human monarchies look like peasant circuses.
He adjusted the collar of his coat with quiet precision. He might be the third son, but he was no afterthought.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Lord Riser, welcome home."
The voice belonged to a dark-haired woman in a tightly fitted French maid uniform. Her presence was crisp, elegant, her features refined—likely a noble devil in service, as was often the custom in ancient houses.
She bowed. "The family is awaiting your arrival in the dining hall."
"Well, lead the way," Riser said smoothly, and followed her inside.
The dining hall was vast, vaulted ceilings of ruby glass, a table carved from firestone stretching the length of a cathedral nave. Fire-elemental chandeliers bathed everything in warm, flickering gold. The Phenex crest, a flaming bird wreathed in demonic script, burned gently on every wall.
Seated at the head of the table was Lord Aurelius Phenex, regal in flowing crimson robes. A man of classical devil nobility, with eyes like burning coal and an expression carved from obsidian.
To his right: Rionas Phenex, the second son and self-made media mogul—handsome, laid-back, already sipping wine with a bemused smirk.
To his left: Rahella Phenex, both wife and sister to Aurelius—refined, powerful, and poised with the ease of a woman used to commanding lesser devils with a glance.
And beside her sat the youngest Phenex: Ravel.
Twelve years old, dressed in a pristine blue gown with a golden sash, her expression desperately serious as she sat straight, trying to appear as proper as possible.
When Riser stepped into the light, all heads turned.
"Well," Rionas grinned, swirling his glass, "look what the wind and his vanity dragged in."
"Apologies," Riser replied as he moved with effortless grace to his seat. "I was busy being in the groove. You know, hipdevil business."
Rahella stifled a chuckle. Aurelius arched a brow. Rionas only laughed louder.
"You're getting poetic. Been spending too much time with your Queen, I take it?"
"She brings out the classical romantic in me," Riser said smoothly as he sat beside his brother. "And unlike some of us, I don't spend all day manufacturing scandals just to boost magazine sales."
"Scandal sells, little brother. Beauty is temporary. Profits are eternal."
"Tragic words from a man with hair that expensive."
Before Rionas could counter, a tiny voice piped up.
"Riser!"
He turned to his sister, smiling warmly.
"Ravel. Still trying to look like a grown-up, I see."
"I am a grown-up!" she pouted, puffing her cheeks. "And I should be your Bishop!"
Riser placed a hand on his heart dramatically. "Alas, my peerage accepts only beautiful women."
"I am beautiful!"
"You're eleven."
"I'm mature for my age!"
Rionas leaned in, stage-whispering to Riser, "That's exactly what an eleven-year-old says when they try to get into noble clubs with illusions."
"I heard that!" Ravel snapped, throwing a bread roll at her older brother.
Rahella reached over gently and adjusted her daughter's hair.
"My little Ravel will be the fairest maiden in the Underworld," she said with a soft, dangerous smile. "And frankly, Riser, it's not a terrible idea. She's talented, and the Bishop piece's demonic power boost would aid her development. She could learn much under your guidance."
The tone shifted. Rahella's suggestion wasn't just maternal—it was a sign of trust.
Riser tapped the table gently with his finger. He had to tread carefully here. Accepting his sister into his peerage could increase their bond—and future influence—but it would also mean giving up a precious piece. Still…
He turned to Ravel, grinning like a fox.
"Tell me, little sister. What year are you in at the Devil Academy?"
"Fourth!" she said proudly. "Already top of my class in Enchantments!"
"Very good," Riser nodded. "Then here's a challenge."
He leaned in, locking eyes with her.
"If you graduate with ten DAEMONs—and I mean ten, with the highest score in each subject—I'll give you my Bishop piece. No take-backs."
The room went silent. Even Aurelius looked faintly impressed.
Ravel blinked. "Ten…? But that's…"
"The record is seven," Rionas pointed out.
"I want to be more than a record!" Ravel declared, fists clenched.
"Then do it," Riser said, smiling. "And I'll welcome you to the team with open arms."
"Promise?"
"On my pride as a Phenex."
Ravel beamed, and Rahella gave a small nod of approval.
Dinner began, servants bringing in seared chimera steak, abyssal salad, and demonic nectar wine—flavors refined over centuries of tradition. As they ate, the conversation drifted to territories, noble gossip, and the upcoming Rating Games.
But Riser listened more than he spoke. His thoughts wandered—not with boredom, but with purpose.
Demonic Leyens.
That was the term. Ancient regions pulsing with raw, condensed demonic energy. Sacred land for devils. Living currency. From these leyens grew what devils called Infernal Crystals—stones that shimmered with chaotic energy, able to be absorbed to increase a devil's demonic power.
The Phenex family owned hundreds. Some low-class, many mid-class, dozens high-class—and more importantly, they had two ultimate-class leyens under their domain. That alone placed them among the richest families in the Underworld.
That wealth translated into power. The reason noble families stayed noble. The reason so many lower devils remained powerless.
Even a talentless devil could become mighty if fed enough Infernal Crystals.
And he had access.
He chewed slowly, savoring the wine. One day, he'd harvest their highest-grade leyens for himself. Not just for power, but for his ambition.
If he wanted to build a peerage that could stand against gods, he'd need it.
He glanced at Ravel, now happily sketching a study plan onto her napkin with one of the enchanted forks.
"Yes," he thought, amused. "She may just earn it."
But the greater game had already begun.
And Riser Phenex was no longer playing to lose.
----------------------------------------------------
After the last wineglass was drained and Ravel had proudly declared her study schedule with ten DAEMONs like a knight swearing an oath, the evening came to a gentle end.
Most of the family dispersed to their private wings, but Lord Aurelius Phenex gave his son a look—a subtle lift of his brow, nothing more. Riser understood.
He followed his father down the obsidian halls of the estate, their boots echoing like distant war drums. At the end of a corridor guarded by silent marble golems, they came to his sanctum.
The doors opened without a sound, yet they carried weight, a silence thick with generations of ambition.
The study of Lord Aurelius Phenex was not a room. It was a statement.
Oil paintings of long-dead ancestors, battles, phoenixes rising from infernal oceans—works so rare even the Louvre would weep blood to house just one. There were statues from the pre-Great War, enchanted glass bookshelves that whispered knowledge in ancient tongues, and a fireplace that burned with golden flame. At the center of it all sat a desk, not ornate, not gilded, but a flawless slab of Void Obsidian and Celestial Ore, mined during the Second Satanic Rebellion. Its value? Enough to bankrupt a human empire. And yet, in this room, it was as natural as air.
So was Aurelius Phenex.
The Lord of the House stood tall, with golden eyes like suns darkened by smoke. His presence filled the room without effort. He had no need to raise his voice. Power hung on him like an heirloom blade: well-worn, deadly, and absolute.
"Sit, Riser."
Riser obeyed.
Aurelius studied him for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Then he spoke.
"You seem different."
Riser said nothing.
"Less dulled. Less trapped in the rhythms of idle hedonism. You carry yourself like a devil who has found his purpose."
Riser looked his father in the eye. "I was blind," he said dramatically, "and now I can see."
Aurelius didn't blink. Didn't smirk. But something in his gaze approved.
He stood, slowly circling his son, and then said:
"Tell me, Riser.
I hold no sword.
I build no wall.
Yet when I speak, gods pause and kings kneel.
What am I?"
Apparently, dramatics ran in the family.
Riser smiled. "Power."
The fire behind Aurelius flared, not with rage, but with recognition.
"Well answered," the old devil said. "Power is the first and last currency of our world. All else is inheritance."
He gestured to a map carved into the wall, a three-dimensional projection of the northernmost reaches of Phenex territory.
"Our high-class leyen field in the Varruk North is under siege. A wolf tide—massive beasts drawn by the leyen's pulse. They're devouring it faster than the ritual wards can regenerate."
Riser studied the region. "That's Uncle Ryzephar's domain."
Aurelius nodded. "He's doing what he can, but they're multiplying faster than expected. The leyen itself may be swelling beyond stability. Such things happen. The Underworld resents us, even if we are its children."
Riser gave a wry smile. "Even Hell wants us dead. It's oddly comforting."
His father let the corner of his lip twitch. "I want you to go. Aid Ryzephar. Fight. Burn. Learn."
Riser raised a brow. "No heir's paranoia? No concern for my tender youth?"
"You are a devil, not a flower. If you die to wolfspawn, you were unworthy of the name Phenex."
Riser exhaled through his nose, more pleased than anything. "And if I live?"
"Then you earn the right to claim something greater."
The two locked eyes. There was no need for dramatics. This was the devil way.
"I accept," Riser said. "I want to see the leyen. I want to test myself, and I want to know what it means to face a tribulation."
Aurelius gave a single nod. That was all the dismissal required.
The hallway beyond led to the Solar Garden Wing, where moonlight and firelight coexisted in an enchanted grove built into the estate's heart. There, in her private salon, sat Rahella Phenex.
His mother.
Tall. Glorious. Golden hair cascading down her back like woven sunlight. Emerald eyes that glittered with mirth, cruelty, and centuries of wisdom. Her curves were precisely sculpted by generations of superior bloodlines, refined magic, and perhaps the sheer will of perfection.
She was sipping something from a crystal flute. A swirling pink liquid that glimmered like stardust.
"Not of Earth," she said when she caught him looking. "The fruit only grows on the floating gardens of the Agares. Delicious and expensive."
She rose gracefully and pulled him into a hug, burying her face into his chest.
"My baby," she whispered. "My baby."
Riser stiffened for a moment, then melted slightly. She kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and then—lingering—his mouth.
Such things were not uncommon in noble devil circles. Hell had no god. Only power made sin.
"You've grown handsome," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Too handsome. I may have to put a ward on your heart."
"You already have one on mine," he replied, half-serious.
She laughed. "Oh, how charming you've become. Tell me, darling, what did your father say?"
"He wants me to aid Uncle Ryzephar. There's a wolf tide threatening the leyen."
Her gaze sharpened instantly. "He's sending you?"
"He's testing me."
"He's gambling you."
He stepped away, hands tucked behind his back. "I accepted."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"I wanted to."
She blinked.
"I need to know what I'm made of, Mother. We devils live forever, but how many of us ever live?"
She looked at him strangely, and for a moment there was almost fear in her gaze. Not of death, but of change. Her little boy had left. Someone older had taken his place.
Still, she smiled, a devilish, perfect thing, and poured him a glass of the forbidden drink.
They talked for a while. Of gossip. Of scandal. Of which noble had recently been caught siphoning leyen power from another's territory. Rahella laughed like a queen at a play. And Riser, ever the gentleman, matched her wit with ease.
When the time came to leave, she pulled him into a final kiss—this one passionate. Her hands gripped his collar as her lips played on his own, whispering promises and half-spells in an ancient tongue.
"My beautiful boy," she said breathlessly. "Come back to me in one piece."
"I always return, Mother," he said with a smirk, brushing her cheek. "The world hasn't yet found a fire that can consume me."
And with that, he stepped through the teleportation portal, bound for his private mansion to prepare for the trials to come.
For the leyen.
For the wolves.
For power.
Authors Note: Alright folks, things are starting to pick up speed. Second chapter of the night, proudly brought to you by the two glorious likes I received — yes, two. Fame is a wild ride. This chapter includes a bit of family drama and some good old-fashioned demonic world-building. You'll also get your first taste of some spooky lore, because what's a story without mysterious ancient legends?
Oh, and quick fun fact: DAEMON is not just edgy branding. It actually stands for Demonic Arts, Evocation, Manipulation, Occultism & Nobility. Basically, it's the VIP class schedule for magical elites. Think potions, combat, and other fun ways to get expelled with style.
Anyway, this is the last chapter for tonight. I'll post more tomorrow if I don't get distracted by snacks or existential dread.
As always, feedback is welcome — praise, criticism, dad jokes, whatever. Also, if you've got peerage member suggestions (High School DxD universe only, no crossover madness), drop them in. This is my first story, so I'm keeping things chill and simple for now. Although, knowing me, that could change by next week.
The first few notes rang out through the manor's music room, rippling across air perfumed with fresh lilac and firewood. She stood in the doorway, caught, no, captivated, as his fingers danced with impossible grace over the ivory keys. Franz Liszt, she recognized. Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.
It wasn't just performance. It was poetry. Every motion, every note, perfectly controlled, yet filled with passion. This was not the careless, smug noble devil she had served for a while—this was someone transformed.
Riser Phenex sat in the golden sunlight, his blond hair catching fire in the light, his eyes half-lidded, and entirely focused on the piano. He didn't look up, but he knew she was there. Of course he did.
"Ah, Yubellana, I love you," he said as the music swept into a playful crescendo, "when I am with you," he said.
Her lips curled into a small smile, cheeks already warming.
"I become what you call a... hipdevil. I am hip, to the jive. I am in the groove, darling."
She laughed softly, covering her mouth. "Riser, you sound like one of those human jazz phonographs trying to flirt."
The notes slowed, playfully exaggerated, as he turned just enough to cast her a look full of theatrical longing.
"And now," he sighed, letting the piano linger on a sweet, low harmony, "you set my soul on fire. It is not just a little spark. No, it is aflame! A great, roaring flame. I can feel it now, burning, Yubellana, burning."
"You're incorrigible," she murmured, stepping into the room with her hands folded. She tried to sound disapproving, but her voice trembled with a poorly hidden giggle.
He rose, letting the final note of the Rhapsody echo gently behind him like the closing breath of a storm. Then he walked to her, not with the lazy swagger she'd known before, but with the composed confidence of a man who had chosen every step.
She blushed as he took her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles.
"Your cheeks betray you," he said, eyes gleaming. "You wear crimson better than any noble banner."
"You are impossible," she whispered, heart racing.
"And yet here you are, enchanted all the same."
Their faces drew closer, her hand pressed lightly against his chest. He leaned in—
But she turned her face away, flustered. "Riser, wait, there's something you're forgetting."
He paused, expression caught between mock disappointment and amusement.
"You're due to visit your parents at the estate today," she said quickly. "You told Lord and Lady Phenex you would attend tonight's evening meal."
He sighed dramatically, resting his forehead against hers. "You wound me, Yubellana. Interrupted at the very height of passion—for family obligations."
"You're the one who made the appointment," she replied, smirking shyly.
He laughed, stepping back. "And that is why you're my Queen. A beautiful woman with an inconvenient memory for my own convenience."
She flushed again, but said nothing.
He turned away, retrieving his coat with practiced grace. His movements were purposeful, elegant. Everything about him lately had changed. It wasn't just charm, it was a kind of focus, a clarity that unsettled and thrilled her in equal measure.
Once, Riser had been all fire and laziness. A noble devil with too much power, too little ambition, and no direction but the bed and the banquet.
But now...
He gave the piano one last glance before they left the room. "You know, Yubellana," he said quietly, "music is what the soul would say if it were free from the body. When I play... it's as though I remember something I never learned."
She tilted her head, intrigued. "You sound like a wannabe philosopher. It seems you have been thinking a lot."
"I have," he said simply. "Something... cosmic. Like I've stumbled across the answer to a question older than my bloodline. And now I can't stop seeing it: truth, purpose, wonder. Even in the smallest things."
She watched him as they walked down the hall. He paused to admire a painting he'd ignored for years. Complimented a servant's stitching. Yesterday, she'd caught him smiling at the simple act of eating a slice of fresh-baked bread, as if it were a ritual worthy of reverence.
"You're different," she said softly. "Since last month. You carry yourself like a man who's found something or someone—that woke him up."
He glanced at her sidelong. "Maybe I did."
Her heart skipped. For a moment, she wanted to ask more, to pry even. But she was afraid the answer might pull her deeper than she already dared to fall.
They reached the teleportation room. A Phenex sigil shimmered on the obsidian floor.
He took her hand again and smiled, less like a flirt, more like a man.
"Don't wait up," he said. "If my father tries to assign me another engagement to some nobleman's daughter, I may flee the mansion entirely."
She chuckled. "I'm sure you'll manage."
"Of course. I'm a hipdevil, remember?"
The teleportation circle flared to life beneath him, firelight licking at his coat.
And then he was gone, off to the Phenex estate, where power slept beneath old stone and politics simmered in gilded cups.
Yubellana stood alone, hand to her chest, wondering.
He was changing.
She only hoped she would not be left behind.
------------------------------------------------
The Phenex Estate stood like a monument to arrogance and eternity.
Riser gazed upward as the teleportation circle faded beneath his feet, boots touching down on polished volcanic glass inscribed with ancient noble seals. Before him stretched the ancestral palace of House Phenex, a sprawling gothic marvel of obsidian towers, sunstone domes, and fiery wards that shimmered in the dusk like auroras. Miles of enchanted gardens surrounded the main hall, where flowers bloomed with demonic fire and songbirds sang in infernal tongues.
It was the kind of splendor that made human monarchies look like peasant circuses.
He adjusted the collar of his coat with quiet precision. He might be the third son, but he was no afterthought.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Lord Riser, welcome home."
The voice belonged to a dark-haired woman in a tightly fitted French maid uniform. Her presence was crisp, elegant, her features refined—likely a noble devil in service, as was often the custom in ancient houses.
She bowed. "The family is awaiting your arrival in the dining hall."
"Well, lead the way," Riser said smoothly, and followed her inside.
The dining hall was vast, vaulted ceilings of ruby glass, a table carved from firestone stretching the length of a cathedral nave. Fire-elemental chandeliers bathed everything in warm, flickering gold. The Phenex crest, a flaming bird wreathed in demonic script, burned gently on every wall.
Seated at the head of the table was Lord Aurelius Phenex, regal in flowing crimson robes. A man of classical devil nobility, with eyes like burning coal and an expression carved from obsidian.
To his right: Rionas Phenex, the second son and self-made media mogul—handsome, laid-back, already sipping wine with a bemused smirk.
To his left: Rahella Phenex, both wife and sister to Aurelius—refined, powerful, and poised with the ease of a woman used to commanding lesser devils with a glance.
And beside her sat the youngest Phenex: Ravel.
Twelve years old, dressed in a pristine blue gown with a golden sash, her expression desperately serious as she sat straight, trying to appear as proper as possible.
When Riser stepped into the light, all heads turned.
"Well," Rionas grinned, swirling his glass, "look what the wind and his vanity dragged in."
"Apologies," Riser replied as he moved with effortless grace to his seat. "I was busy being in the groove. You know, hipdevil business."
Rahella stifled a chuckle. Aurelius arched a brow. Rionas only laughed louder.
"You're getting poetic. Been spending too much time with your Queen, I take it?"
"She brings out the classical romantic in me," Riser said smoothly as he sat beside his brother. "And unlike some of us, I don't spend all day manufacturing scandals just to boost magazine sales."
"Scandal sells, little brother. Beauty is temporary. Profits are eternal."
"Tragic words from a man with hair that expensive."
Before Rionas could counter, a tiny voice piped up.
"Riser!"
He turned to his sister, smiling warmly.
"Ravel. Still trying to look like a grown-up, I see."
"I am a grown-up!" she pouted, puffing her cheeks. "And I should be your Bishop!"
Riser placed a hand on his heart dramatically. "Alas, my peerage accepts only beautiful women."
"I am beautiful!"
"You're eleven."
"I'm mature for my age!"
Rionas leaned in, stage-whispering to Riser, "That's exactly what an eleven-year-old says when they try to get into noble clubs with illusions."
"I heard that!" Ravel snapped, throwing a bread roll at her older brother.
Rahella reached over gently and adjusted her daughter's hair.
"My little Ravel will be the fairest maiden in the Underworld," she said with a soft, dangerous smile. "And frankly, Riser, it's not a terrible idea. She's talented, and the Bishop piece's demonic power boost would aid her development. She could learn much under your guidance."
The tone shifted. Rahella's suggestion wasn't just maternal—it was a sign of trust.
Riser tapped the table gently with his finger. He had to tread carefully here. Accepting his sister into his peerage could increase their bond—and future influence—but it would also mean giving up a precious piece. Still…
He turned to Ravel, grinning like a fox.
"Tell me, little sister. What year are you in at the Devil Academy?"
"Fourth!" she said proudly. "Already top of my class in Enchantments!"
"Very good," Riser nodded. "Then here's a challenge."
He leaned in, locking eyes with her.
"If you graduate with ten DAEMONs—and I mean ten, with the highest score in each subject—I'll give you my Bishop piece. No take-backs."
The room went silent. Even Aurelius looked faintly impressed.
Ravel blinked. "Ten…? But that's…"
"The record is seven," Rionas pointed out.
"I want to be more than a record!" Ravel declared, fists clenched.
"Then do it," Riser said, smiling. "And I'll welcome you to the team with open arms."
"Promise?"
"On my pride as a Phenex."
Ravel beamed, and Rahella gave a small nod of approval.
Dinner began, servants bringing in seared chimera steak, abyssal salad, and demonic nectar wine—flavors refined over centuries of tradition. As they ate, the conversation drifted to territories, noble gossip, and the upcoming Rating Games.
But Riser listened more than he spoke. His thoughts wandered—not with boredom, but with purpose.
Demonic Leyens.
That was the term. Ancient regions pulsing with raw, condensed demonic energy. Sacred land for devils. Living currency. From these leyens grew what devils called Infernal Crystals—stones that shimmered with chaotic energy, able to be absorbed to increase a devil's demonic power.
The Phenex family owned hundreds. Some low-class, many mid-class, dozens high-class—and more importantly, they had two ultimate-class leyens under their domain. That alone placed them among the richest families in the Underworld.
That wealth translated into power. The reason noble families stayed noble. The reason so many lower devils remained powerless.
Even a talentless devil could become mighty if fed enough Infernal Crystals.
And he had access.
He chewed slowly, savoring the wine. One day, he'd harvest their highest-grade leyens for himself. Not just for power, but for his ambition.
If he wanted to build a peerage that could stand against gods, he'd need it.
He glanced at Ravel, now happily sketching a study plan onto her napkin with one of the enchanted forks.
"Yes," he thought, amused. "She may just earn it."
But the greater game had already begun.
And Riser Phenex was no longer playing to lose.
----------------------------------------------------
After the last wineglass was drained and Ravel had proudly declared her study schedule with ten DAEMONs like a knight swearing an oath, the evening came to a gentle end.
Most of the family dispersed to their private wings, but Lord Aurelius Phenex gave his son a look—a subtle lift of his brow, nothing more. Riser understood.
He followed his father down the obsidian halls of the estate, their boots echoing like distant war drums. At the end of a corridor guarded by silent marble golems, they came to his sanctum.
The doors opened without a sound, yet they carried weight, a silence thick with generations of ambition.
The study of Lord Aurelius Phenex was not a room. It was a statement.
Oil paintings of long-dead ancestors, battles, phoenixes rising from infernal oceans—works so rare even the Louvre would weep blood to house just one. There were statues from the pre-Great War, enchanted glass bookshelves that whispered knowledge in ancient tongues, and a fireplace that burned with golden flame. At the center of it all sat a desk, not ornate, not gilded, but a flawless slab of Void Obsidian and Celestial Ore, mined during the Second Satanic Rebellion. Its value? Enough to bankrupt a human empire. And yet, in this room, it was as natural as air.
So was Aurelius Phenex.
The Lord of the House stood tall, with golden eyes like suns darkened by smoke. His presence filled the room without effort. He had no need to raise his voice. Power hung on him like an heirloom blade: well-worn, deadly, and absolute.
"Sit, Riser."
Riser obeyed.
Aurelius studied him for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Then he spoke.
"You seem different."
Riser said nothing.
"Less dulled. Less trapped in the rhythms of idle hedonism. You carry yourself like a devil who has found his purpose."
Riser looked his father in the eye. "I was blind," he said dramatically, "and now I can see."
Aurelius didn't blink. Didn't smirk. But something in his gaze approved.
He stood, slowly circling his son, and then said:
"Tell me, Riser.
I hold no sword.
I build no wall.
Yet when I speak, gods pause and kings kneel.
What am I?"
Apparently, dramatics ran in the family.
Riser smiled. "Power."
The fire behind Aurelius flared, not with rage, but with recognition.
"Well answered," the old devil said. "Power is the first and last currency of our world. All else is inheritance."
He gestured to a map carved into the wall, a three-dimensional projection of the northernmost reaches of Phenex territory.
"Our high-class leyen field in the Varruk North is under siege. A wolf tide—massive beasts drawn by the leyen's pulse. They're devouring it faster than the ritual wards can regenerate."
Riser studied the region. "That's Uncle Ryzephar's domain."
Aurelius nodded. "He's doing what he can, but they're multiplying faster than expected. The leyen itself may be swelling beyond stability. Such things happen. The Underworld resents us, even if we are its children."
Riser gave a wry smile. "Even Hell wants us dead. It's oddly comforting."
His father let the corner of his lip twitch. "I want you to go. Aid Ryzephar. Fight. Burn. Learn."
Riser raised a brow. "No heir's paranoia? No concern for my tender youth?"
"You are a devil, not a flower. If you die to wolfspawn, you were unworthy of the name Phenex."
Riser exhaled through his nose, more pleased than anything. "And if I live?"
"Then you earn the right to claim something greater."
The two locked eyes. There was no need for dramatics. This was the devil way.
"I accept," Riser said. "I want to see the leyen. I want to test myself, and I want to know what it means to face a tribulation."
Aurelius gave a single nod. That was all the dismissal required.
The hallway beyond led to the Solar Garden Wing, where moonlight and firelight coexisted in an enchanted grove built into the estate's heart. There, in her private salon, sat Rahella Phenex.
His mother.
Tall. Glorious. Golden hair cascading down her back like woven sunlight. Emerald eyes that glittered with mirth, cruelty, and centuries of wisdom. Her curves were precisely sculpted by generations of superior bloodlines, refined magic, and perhaps the sheer will of perfection.
She was sipping something from a crystal flute. A swirling pink liquid that glimmered like stardust.
"Not of Earth," she said when she caught him looking. "The fruit only grows on the floating gardens of the Agares. Delicious and expensive."
She rose gracefully and pulled him into a hug, burying her face into his chest.
"My baby," she whispered. "My baby."
Riser stiffened for a moment, then melted slightly. She kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and then—lingering—his mouth.
Such things were not uncommon in noble devil circles. Hell had no god. Only power made sin.
"You've grown handsome," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Too handsome. I may have to put a ward on your heart."
"You already have one on mine," he replied, half-serious.
She laughed. "Oh, how charming you've become. Tell me, darling, what did your father say?"
"He wants me to aid Uncle Ryzephar. There's a wolf tide threatening the leyen."
Her gaze sharpened instantly. "He's sending you?"
"He's testing me."
"He's gambling you."
He stepped away, hands tucked behind his back. "I accepted."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"I wanted to."
She blinked.
"I need to know what I'm made of, Mother. We devils live forever, but how many of us ever live?"
She looked at him strangely, and for a moment there was almost fear in her gaze. Not of death, but of change. Her little boy had left. Someone older had taken his place.
Still, she smiled, a devilish, perfect thing, and poured him a glass of the forbidden drink.
They talked for a while. Of gossip. Of scandal. Of which noble had recently been caught siphoning leyen power from another's territory. Rahella laughed like a queen at a play. And Riser, ever the gentleman, matched her wit with ease.
When the time came to leave, she pulled him into a final kiss—this one passionate. Her hands gripped his collar as her lips played on his own, whispering promises and half-spells in an ancient tongue.
"My beautiful boy," she said breathlessly. "Come back to me in one piece."
"I always return, Mother," he said with a smirk, brushing her cheek. "The world hasn't yet found a fire that can consume me."
And with that, he stepped through the teleportation portal, bound for his private mansion to prepare for the trials to come.
For the leyen.
For the wolves.
For power.
Authors Note: Alright folks, things are starting to pick up speed. Second chapter of the night, proudly brought to you by the two glorious likes I received — yes, two. Fame is a wild ride. This chapter includes a bit of family drama and some good old-fashioned demonic world-building. You'll also get your first taste of some spooky lore, because what's a story without mysterious ancient legends?
Oh, and quick fun fact: DAEMON is not just edgy branding. It actually stands for Demonic Arts, Evocation, Manipulation, Occultism & Nobility. Basically, it's the VIP class schedule for magical elites. Think potions, combat, and other fun ways to get expelled with style.
Anyway, this is the last chapter for tonight. I'll post more tomorrow if I don't get distracted by snacks or existential dread.
As always, feedback is welcome — praise, criticism, dad jokes, whatever. Also, if you've got peerage member suggestions (High School DxD universe only, no crossover madness), drop them in. This is my first story, so I'm keeping things chill and simple for now. Although, knowing me, that could change by next week.
mikocon
Know what you're doing yet?
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- Oct 19, 2024
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- 548
His family felt very devilish with an air of nobility, so that's nice. For the peerage, I guess you already said the best options. If the MC had something to mess with devil bloodlines, he could make Katerea useful.
Merlin
[Verified Idol: Magi☆Mari]
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Because it is not the Christian Hell but an Underworld
Chapter 2: Blood, Fire, and the Forest That Hates
New
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
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The forest whispered as they entered it, an oppressive murmur that seemed to come from every gnarled root, every warped tree, and every direction but forward.
Riser walked ahead, his crimson cloak billowing slightly despite the stagnant air. The forest was a leyline wildland, grown atop rivers of demonic energy, untamed, unstable, and steeped in malevolence.
It hated them. He could feel it.
"It's like it's mocking us," Riser murmured, brushing his fingers over a tree whose bark twitched slightly in response. "Mocking us for trespassing… or daring to believe we're in control."
Yubellana, her violet hair glowing faintly in the gloom, stayed close at his side. Her eyes flicked nervously through the trees.
"Are you sure we shouldn't go to your uncle's camp first?" she asked softly.
He shook his head. "No. There's something here. A ripple. A warping in the air. I feel… devouring intent. Something's wrong."
They pressed deeper into the forest, past stone roots shaped like twisted skulls and shadowy thickets that seemed to shift behind their backs. Riser's senses, far sharper than any middle-class devil should possess, prickled as faint pulses of wild demonic energy flickered at the edge of his awareness.
Hours passed in the warped dusk. And then, he stopped.
Ahead, in a clearing ringed by black thorns and spiraling ley-crystals, a battle raged.
A towering minotaur with six muscular arms, three horned heads, and eyes that danced with malice fought a group of eleven devils. Their clothes bore noble sigils, their auras flickering with desperation.
Among them, one figure stood out.
A blonde-haired woman in elegant combat attire, commanding the team with sharp, tired gestures. Her golden aura flickered with the signature flame of the Phenex bloodline.
"Seorin," Riser whispered. "Uncle Ryzephar's daughter."
She was older than him by a decade, but she moved like a woman born to fire.
Still, she was cornered. And when the minotaur feinted left and lunged right, its wicked axe sweeping toward her neck, Riser moved.
He blurred forward, suppressing his energy as only he could, the way he'd been training since his awakening.
His strike landed cleanly at the base of the creature's thick neck. Not fatal. Not even near it.
But enough to shift the monster's focus.
The minotaur staggered slightly, confused.
And then it turned its many heads and roared.
Riser met its eyes and grinned.
"Boo."
The creature lunged, and Riser danced backward. He wasn't foolish. He couldn't win head-on. But he wasn't here to win.
He was here to stall.
The minotaur's attacks were brutal, raw power fueled by high-class rage. Each strike shook the ground, cracked trees, and split the earth. Riser dodged as best he could, slipping through patterns of destruction like a flickering flame.
He remembered every lesson, every painful sparring match with his older brother, every cruel correction from his tutor.
"Stay alive."
Still, the power difference was staggering.
A punch landed. He blocked it, but was sent flying, crashing through tree after tree. When he stopped tumbling, he was barely conscious and armless.
His limbs were already regrowing.
The pain was suffocating.
And yet, he laughed.
Because the plan was working.
The minotaur loomed over him, lifting him by the neck with two grotesque hands. Its other arms flexed, preparing to rip him apart.
But Riser smiled and looked past the beast.
"You've already lost," he whispered.
The minotaur turned
just in time to see Yubellana, her entire body glowing like a star about to go supernova.
And then:
BOOM.
The forest exploded in light and fire.
A crater the size of a stadium was carved into the earth. Trees vaporized. Shadows screamed. The air itself rippled with power.
When the smoke cleared, the battlefield was a scar of ash and glass.
From the molten dirt, two figures rose.
Riser, burnt, limbless, half his face gone, intestines dangling from his ruined torso, stood grinning, fire flickering in his one remaining eye.
The minotaur, far more intact, still reeled, burnt, broken, its hide split and steaming.
The explosion had worked. Not because it killed, but because it wounded.
And now, the others moved.
Seorin and her team surged forward with everything they had. Magical formations flared, swords struck, lightning crackled. The minotaur roared and lashed out, injuring several, but it was too late.
The collective assault brought it down.
A brutal, final strike from Seorin's flaming blade cut through its chest and it collapsed in a heap of blood and dust.
It was over.
Seorin was the first to run toward him, kneeling beside his now-regenerated form.
"You reckless idiot," she hissed. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
Riser smirked through his ruined clothes and bloody face. "I thought I'd drop in and say hi. Surprise family visit."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the relief. "Are you… okay?"
"I'm always okay," he said, rising. "Takes more than a high-class beast to ruin this hair."
He turned, eyes scanning for Yubellana.
She was kneeling on the ground, exhausted, barely conscious.
He crossed the scorched battlefield and gently picked her up in a princess carry.
She blinked, cheeks flushing bright red. "M-my Lord—"
"You earned it," he said softly. "You burned half the forest for me. I should carry you through a city square."
Seorin was already barking orders to her team, tending to the wounded, checking wards.
"Before more things crawl out," she said sharply. "We need to move. Now."
Riser nodded. The chaotic energy in the air made teleportation impossible. They'd have to move on foot.
As they trudged through the ashen forest, several devils came to thank him.
"A noble risking himself like that," one whispered. "I've never seen it."
"He didn't even hesitate," said another.
Riser didn't bask. He simply nodded.
Seorin walked beside him as they moved toward her father's camp. She glanced sideways.
"We were pulled into this forest," she explained. "Tricked. Enchanted. The minotaur or someone else wanted us dead."
"We lost twelve in the first ambush."
Riser said nothing. He offered no comfort. Death was part of this world.
"We make for the main camp," he said quietly. "Before this cursed land decides to feed again."
And so they marched, past ruined trees, the burnt corpse of a monster, and deeper into the infernal unknown.
Riser Phenex, once a joke of a noble, now a man with fire in his blood and a plan in his eyes.
This was only the beginning.
---------------------------------------
The moon was high and sickly red when Riser finally arrived at the stronghold of his uncle, Ryzephar Phenex. The structure loomed out of the leyline-shadowed hills like a grim crown of stone and obsidian, glowing slightly with warding sigils etched deep into every wall, tower, and parapet.
This was not a palace.
It was a fortress.
A place meant not for comfort, but for survival.
Riser landed lightly at the gates, still carrying Yubellana in his arms, her form slack with exhaustion. Seorin had guided the rest of her wounded subordinates ahead, and now they were being whisked away to the medical halls by the castle's healers and alchemical staff.
As Riser approached the inner courtyard, his uncle was already waiting.
Tall, narrow-eyed, and wrapped in a cloak of gray fire, Ryzephar Phenex was every inch a noble of Ars Goetia, his gaze polite but sharp, his stance like a drawn sword.
"Riser," he greeted, nodding once. "I bid you welcome to our fortress."
Riser inclined his head respectfully. "Uncle."
"I've had quarters prepared for you and your Queen. You should rest tonight. We'll debrief tomorrow morning."
"I appreciate the hospitality."
A silent gesture, and a steward in black and silver livery led Riser down a corridor of volcanic stone and reinforced arches. The air here was cooler than in the southern territories, tainted by the leyline energies, less gentle than the luxury of the main Phenex estate.
Yubellana stirred faintly as he laid her in the bed of their chamber. Riser knelt beside her, pulled a small crystalline vial from his jacket, and uncorked it with care. A single drop of a Phenex tear glowed with golden-white warmth, liquid life itself.
The moment it touched her lips, color returned to her cheeks.
Riser watched her sleep for a moment, brushing a stray strand of purple hair from her brow.
"You did well," he murmured.
Then he retired to his own room. His body ached, but the pain was useful. It reminded him he was still far too weak.
As he lay down on the stiff military bedding, he closed his eyes and mentally replayed the entire battle. Every mistake. Every advantage he'd failed to exploit.
He should have angled left instead of right on that fifth feint. Should have taken the tree line instead of the crater ridge. And Yubellana's explosion, too delayed, nearly too late.
It wasn't enough.
He needed more training. More tools. More control.
Sleep took him soon after.
Riser awoke with the second dawn. The red skies above the northern leyline territory shimmered faintly with demonic radiation.
A servant greeted him promptly, offering a platter of bloodfruit preserves, abyss bread, and eggs cooked over soulfire, a rich, nutritious devil breakfast.
As he ate, he was informed of the debriefing in one hour.
He nodded and dismissed the servant.
Afterward, he checked in on Yubellana. She was still fast asleep, her breathing even, her demonic signature stable.
Good. She needed the rest.
Riser left quietly and began to explore the stronghold. Its halls were reinforced with obsidian runes and alloyed with anti-magical latticework, no decorative excess like the Phenex estate. This place wasn't meant to impress, but to endure.
It had seen attacks. He could feel it in the walls.
Eventually, the meeting bell chimed. Riser made his way to the meeting chamber.
Seven captains had already assembled, seated at a long, circular table of black stone. Their house crests shimmered in subtle color, House Saeros, House Wystel, and others lesser but loyal to House Phenex.
All talk ceased as Riser entered.
His uncle gestured to the seat at his right. "Nephew. Please."
Riser sat with practiced elegance, clasping his hands before him.
Ryzephar rose.
"For the benefit of Lord Riser, who is newly arrived, I will summarize our position," he began, voice calm and sharp like a winter blade. "We are facing what we've designated as a Wolf Tide."
He tapped a rune projection. Glowing red sigils shimmered into a forest outline, dotted with icons of demonic beasts.
"Demonic wolves are not rare. They come in various strains, typically low to mid-class. Dangerous in numbers but predictable."
He turned toward Riser.
"However, these beasts strategize. They attack with feints. They retreat when overextended. They bait and break formations."
A pause. The captains nodded grimly.
"This suggests they are not acting alone. Something or someone is guiding them. And that is the root of our problem."
He flicked his fingers, and a new projection bloomed, mountains, ruined temples, leyline fractures.
"We believe their 'shepherd' may be hiding in the far northeast ridge. Our plan is as follows."
He outlined a new unit: 30 devils.
Elite, mobile, and experienced.
They would be the forward team. Their goal: track the intelligence directing the wolves, uncover its nature, and, if possible, eliminate it.
The captains began proposing names. Volunteers. Trusted agents.
Riser listened, silent. Calculating.
And then, when the list was nearly complete, he raised a hand.
"I volunteer," he said calmly.
The room quieted. A few glances flickered between surprise and concern.
Ryzephar's brows lifted. "Riser, this isn't a controlled exercise. It is very dangerous. You would be under live threat."
"I know."
One of the captains, a gray-haired noble from House Saeros, cleared his throat. "My Lord, with all due respect, this is no place for young heirs. There's no dishonor in allowing others to take this burden."
"I appreciate your concern," Riser replied. "But I am not porcelain. And if I wish to walk among the mighty, I must first crawl through the dirt."
He met his uncle's gaze evenly.
"I will go."
A long pause. Ryzephar studied him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"So be it," he finally said. "You are Phenex. And you walk your own fire."
The rest of the plan proceeded with fewer objections, though tension still hung thick in the air. Once all names were confirmed and strategy agreed upon, the meeting was adjourned.
The captains returned to their posts or their preparation.
Riser remained.
His uncle, as expected, did not move.
Seorin stayed as well, arms folded, her expression half-proud, half-worried.
Ryzephar stepped closer.
"You're serious about this."
"I am."
"You could die."
"I know."
Seorin interjected quietly. "You don't have to prove anything, Riser."
He glanced at her. "I'm not trying to. I just… refuse to be a man who lets his fate be decided by others."
Ryzephar nodded, slowly. "Then I won't stop you. But if something goes wrong, I'll be the one to inform your mother."
"I pity you for that," Riser said, half-grinning.
His uncle smirked. "As do I."
Ryzephar paused again.
"You saved Seorin's life. You have my gratitude, and my debt."
"You don't owe me," Riser said smoothly. "We're family. Besides, she handled herself well. I merely made an opening."
That earned him a snort from Seorin. "You were missing half your body by the end of it."
"And yet, still devastatingly handsome."
Ryzephar chuckled softly. "Go prepare. You leave at sundown."
Riser bowed his head.
"Yes, Uncle."
And with that, he left to ready his weapons, reinforce his wards, and walk willingly into the wild unknown.
Author's Note:
Just like I promised (and shockingly didn't forget), here's the new chapter! This officially kicks off the first arc. Yes, I have a plan. Yes, there's an antagonist. Yes, power-ups are coming. Basically, I've done the writer equivalent of meal-prepping for chaos.
I'd love to hear what you think. Praise, criticism, roast-level insults, dramatic poetry about my plot holes—whatever you've got, toss it my way. Any tips on how to improve my writing are also very welcome. Help me level up before I start giving side characters tragic backstories for no reason.
Riser walked ahead, his crimson cloak billowing slightly despite the stagnant air. The forest was a leyline wildland, grown atop rivers of demonic energy, untamed, unstable, and steeped in malevolence.
It hated them. He could feel it.
"It's like it's mocking us," Riser murmured, brushing his fingers over a tree whose bark twitched slightly in response. "Mocking us for trespassing… or daring to believe we're in control."
Yubellana, her violet hair glowing faintly in the gloom, stayed close at his side. Her eyes flicked nervously through the trees.
"Are you sure we shouldn't go to your uncle's camp first?" she asked softly.
He shook his head. "No. There's something here. A ripple. A warping in the air. I feel… devouring intent. Something's wrong."
They pressed deeper into the forest, past stone roots shaped like twisted skulls and shadowy thickets that seemed to shift behind their backs. Riser's senses, far sharper than any middle-class devil should possess, prickled as faint pulses of wild demonic energy flickered at the edge of his awareness.
Hours passed in the warped dusk. And then, he stopped.
Ahead, in a clearing ringed by black thorns and spiraling ley-crystals, a battle raged.
A towering minotaur with six muscular arms, three horned heads, and eyes that danced with malice fought a group of eleven devils. Their clothes bore noble sigils, their auras flickering with desperation.
Among them, one figure stood out.
A blonde-haired woman in elegant combat attire, commanding the team with sharp, tired gestures. Her golden aura flickered with the signature flame of the Phenex bloodline.
"Seorin," Riser whispered. "Uncle Ryzephar's daughter."
She was older than him by a decade, but she moved like a woman born to fire.
Still, she was cornered. And when the minotaur feinted left and lunged right, its wicked axe sweeping toward her neck, Riser moved.
He blurred forward, suppressing his energy as only he could, the way he'd been training since his awakening.
His strike landed cleanly at the base of the creature's thick neck. Not fatal. Not even near it.
But enough to shift the monster's focus.
The minotaur staggered slightly, confused.
And then it turned its many heads and roared.
Riser met its eyes and grinned.
"Boo."
The creature lunged, and Riser danced backward. He wasn't foolish. He couldn't win head-on. But he wasn't here to win.
He was here to stall.
The minotaur's attacks were brutal, raw power fueled by high-class rage. Each strike shook the ground, cracked trees, and split the earth. Riser dodged as best he could, slipping through patterns of destruction like a flickering flame.
He remembered every lesson, every painful sparring match with his older brother, every cruel correction from his tutor.
"Stay alive."
Still, the power difference was staggering.
A punch landed. He blocked it, but was sent flying, crashing through tree after tree. When he stopped tumbling, he was barely conscious and armless.
His limbs were already regrowing.
The pain was suffocating.
And yet, he laughed.
Because the plan was working.
The minotaur loomed over him, lifting him by the neck with two grotesque hands. Its other arms flexed, preparing to rip him apart.
But Riser smiled and looked past the beast.
"You've already lost," he whispered.
The minotaur turned
just in time to see Yubellana, her entire body glowing like a star about to go supernova.
And then:
BOOM.
The forest exploded in light and fire.
A crater the size of a stadium was carved into the earth. Trees vaporized. Shadows screamed. The air itself rippled with power.
When the smoke cleared, the battlefield was a scar of ash and glass.
From the molten dirt, two figures rose.
Riser, burnt, limbless, half his face gone, intestines dangling from his ruined torso, stood grinning, fire flickering in his one remaining eye.
The minotaur, far more intact, still reeled, burnt, broken, its hide split and steaming.
The explosion had worked. Not because it killed, but because it wounded.
And now, the others moved.
Seorin and her team surged forward with everything they had. Magical formations flared, swords struck, lightning crackled. The minotaur roared and lashed out, injuring several, but it was too late.
The collective assault brought it down.
A brutal, final strike from Seorin's flaming blade cut through its chest and it collapsed in a heap of blood and dust.
It was over.
Seorin was the first to run toward him, kneeling beside his now-regenerated form.
"You reckless idiot," she hissed. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
Riser smirked through his ruined clothes and bloody face. "I thought I'd drop in and say hi. Surprise family visit."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the relief. "Are you… okay?"
"I'm always okay," he said, rising. "Takes more than a high-class beast to ruin this hair."
He turned, eyes scanning for Yubellana.
She was kneeling on the ground, exhausted, barely conscious.
He crossed the scorched battlefield and gently picked her up in a princess carry.
She blinked, cheeks flushing bright red. "M-my Lord—"
"You earned it," he said softly. "You burned half the forest for me. I should carry you through a city square."
Seorin was already barking orders to her team, tending to the wounded, checking wards.
"Before more things crawl out," she said sharply. "We need to move. Now."
Riser nodded. The chaotic energy in the air made teleportation impossible. They'd have to move on foot.
As they trudged through the ashen forest, several devils came to thank him.
"A noble risking himself like that," one whispered. "I've never seen it."
"He didn't even hesitate," said another.
Riser didn't bask. He simply nodded.
Seorin walked beside him as they moved toward her father's camp. She glanced sideways.
"We were pulled into this forest," she explained. "Tricked. Enchanted. The minotaur or someone else wanted us dead."
"We lost twelve in the first ambush."
Riser said nothing. He offered no comfort. Death was part of this world.
"We make for the main camp," he said quietly. "Before this cursed land decides to feed again."
And so they marched, past ruined trees, the burnt corpse of a monster, and deeper into the infernal unknown.
Riser Phenex, once a joke of a noble, now a man with fire in his blood and a plan in his eyes.
This was only the beginning.
---------------------------------------
The moon was high and sickly red when Riser finally arrived at the stronghold of his uncle, Ryzephar Phenex. The structure loomed out of the leyline-shadowed hills like a grim crown of stone and obsidian, glowing slightly with warding sigils etched deep into every wall, tower, and parapet.
This was not a palace.
It was a fortress.
A place meant not for comfort, but for survival.
Riser landed lightly at the gates, still carrying Yubellana in his arms, her form slack with exhaustion. Seorin had guided the rest of her wounded subordinates ahead, and now they were being whisked away to the medical halls by the castle's healers and alchemical staff.
As Riser approached the inner courtyard, his uncle was already waiting.
Tall, narrow-eyed, and wrapped in a cloak of gray fire, Ryzephar Phenex was every inch a noble of Ars Goetia, his gaze polite but sharp, his stance like a drawn sword.
"Riser," he greeted, nodding once. "I bid you welcome to our fortress."
Riser inclined his head respectfully. "Uncle."
"I've had quarters prepared for you and your Queen. You should rest tonight. We'll debrief tomorrow morning."
"I appreciate the hospitality."
A silent gesture, and a steward in black and silver livery led Riser down a corridor of volcanic stone and reinforced arches. The air here was cooler than in the southern territories, tainted by the leyline energies, less gentle than the luxury of the main Phenex estate.
Yubellana stirred faintly as he laid her in the bed of their chamber. Riser knelt beside her, pulled a small crystalline vial from his jacket, and uncorked it with care. A single drop of a Phenex tear glowed with golden-white warmth, liquid life itself.
The moment it touched her lips, color returned to her cheeks.
Riser watched her sleep for a moment, brushing a stray strand of purple hair from her brow.
"You did well," he murmured.
Then he retired to his own room. His body ached, but the pain was useful. It reminded him he was still far too weak.
As he lay down on the stiff military bedding, he closed his eyes and mentally replayed the entire battle. Every mistake. Every advantage he'd failed to exploit.
He should have angled left instead of right on that fifth feint. Should have taken the tree line instead of the crater ridge. And Yubellana's explosion, too delayed, nearly too late.
It wasn't enough.
He needed more training. More tools. More control.
Sleep took him soon after.
Riser awoke with the second dawn. The red skies above the northern leyline territory shimmered faintly with demonic radiation.
A servant greeted him promptly, offering a platter of bloodfruit preserves, abyss bread, and eggs cooked over soulfire, a rich, nutritious devil breakfast.
As he ate, he was informed of the debriefing in one hour.
He nodded and dismissed the servant.
Afterward, he checked in on Yubellana. She was still fast asleep, her breathing even, her demonic signature stable.
Good. She needed the rest.
Riser left quietly and began to explore the stronghold. Its halls were reinforced with obsidian runes and alloyed with anti-magical latticework, no decorative excess like the Phenex estate. This place wasn't meant to impress, but to endure.
It had seen attacks. He could feel it in the walls.
Eventually, the meeting bell chimed. Riser made his way to the meeting chamber.
Seven captains had already assembled, seated at a long, circular table of black stone. Their house crests shimmered in subtle color, House Saeros, House Wystel, and others lesser but loyal to House Phenex.
All talk ceased as Riser entered.
His uncle gestured to the seat at his right. "Nephew. Please."
Riser sat with practiced elegance, clasping his hands before him.
Ryzephar rose.
"For the benefit of Lord Riser, who is newly arrived, I will summarize our position," he began, voice calm and sharp like a winter blade. "We are facing what we've designated as a Wolf Tide."
He tapped a rune projection. Glowing red sigils shimmered into a forest outline, dotted with icons of demonic beasts.
"Demonic wolves are not rare. They come in various strains, typically low to mid-class. Dangerous in numbers but predictable."
He turned toward Riser.
"However, these beasts strategize. They attack with feints. They retreat when overextended. They bait and break formations."
A pause. The captains nodded grimly.
"This suggests they are not acting alone. Something or someone is guiding them. And that is the root of our problem."
He flicked his fingers, and a new projection bloomed, mountains, ruined temples, leyline fractures.
"We believe their 'shepherd' may be hiding in the far northeast ridge. Our plan is as follows."
He outlined a new unit: 30 devils.
- 14 Peak middle-class
- 12 Low middle-class
- 3 Low High-class
- 1 Peak High-class
Elite, mobile, and experienced.
They would be the forward team. Their goal: track the intelligence directing the wolves, uncover its nature, and, if possible, eliminate it.
The captains began proposing names. Volunteers. Trusted agents.
Riser listened, silent. Calculating.
And then, when the list was nearly complete, he raised a hand.
"I volunteer," he said calmly.
The room quieted. A few glances flickered between surprise and concern.
Ryzephar's brows lifted. "Riser, this isn't a controlled exercise. It is very dangerous. You would be under live threat."
"I know."
One of the captains, a gray-haired noble from House Saeros, cleared his throat. "My Lord, with all due respect, this is no place for young heirs. There's no dishonor in allowing others to take this burden."
"I appreciate your concern," Riser replied. "But I am not porcelain. And if I wish to walk among the mighty, I must first crawl through the dirt."
He met his uncle's gaze evenly.
"I will go."
A long pause. Ryzephar studied him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"So be it," he finally said. "You are Phenex. And you walk your own fire."
The rest of the plan proceeded with fewer objections, though tension still hung thick in the air. Once all names were confirmed and strategy agreed upon, the meeting was adjourned.
The captains returned to their posts or their preparation.
Riser remained.
His uncle, as expected, did not move.
Seorin stayed as well, arms folded, her expression half-proud, half-worried.
Ryzephar stepped closer.
"You're serious about this."
"I am."
"You could die."
"I know."
Seorin interjected quietly. "You don't have to prove anything, Riser."
He glanced at her. "I'm not trying to. I just… refuse to be a man who lets his fate be decided by others."
Ryzephar nodded, slowly. "Then I won't stop you. But if something goes wrong, I'll be the one to inform your mother."
"I pity you for that," Riser said, half-grinning.
His uncle smirked. "As do I."
Ryzephar paused again.
"You saved Seorin's life. You have my gratitude, and my debt."
"You don't owe me," Riser said smoothly. "We're family. Besides, she handled herself well. I merely made an opening."
That earned him a snort from Seorin. "You were missing half your body by the end of it."
"And yet, still devastatingly handsome."
Ryzephar chuckled softly. "Go prepare. You leave at sundown."
Riser bowed his head.
"Yes, Uncle."
And with that, he left to ready his weapons, reinforce his wards, and walk willingly into the wild unknown.
Author's Note:
Just like I promised (and shockingly didn't forget), here's the new chapter! This officially kicks off the first arc. Yes, I have a plan. Yes, there's an antagonist. Yes, power-ups are coming. Basically, I've done the writer equivalent of meal-prepping for chaos.
I'd love to hear what you think. Praise, criticism, roast-level insults, dramatic poetry about my plot holes—whatever you've got, toss it my way. Any tips on how to improve my writing are also very welcome. Help me level up before I start giving side characters tragic backstories for no reason.
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
- Messages
- 52
- Likes received
- 251
Right? It's such a shame. High School DxD has this wild setup where literally every myth, legend, god, and grandma's haunted teapot exists, but somehow Hell ended up looking like someone's mildly spooky backyard. I get it though—the author had a very specific kind of story to tell (read: plot, with extra "plot") and honestly, he nailed it.
But me? I'm here to stretch that world like pizza dough. More depth, more weird lore, more hellish nonsense. I've got plans. Hopefully, I don't completely mess it up and turn it into a flaming clown parade. But hey, fingers crossed and notes prepared!
Gereh
Versed in the lewd.
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2021
- Messages
- 1,048
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- 29,491
Kinda basic list, besides Meredith those seem to be standard picks, part of me was hoping to see "Leonardo" or "George" on here, get them before the Cao Cao gets to them. Or at least some of the SlashDog characters. Just something that is a bit more unusual pick.
SeibahFaceSimp
Is It Wrong to be a Saberface Simp?
- Joined
- Dec 22, 2021
- Messages
- 491
- Likes received
- 3,741
So the Peerage Members (and the Possible Harem)
Queen: Yubelluna
2 Knights: Artoria Pendragon (Genderbend DxD!Arthur with Fate!Lancer Artoria Looks but less curvy) (Can you please add her too?)
Bishop: Meredith Ordinton
Bishop: Kuroka
Rook: Koneko
Rook: Rossweisse
2 Pawns: Valerie Tepes
3 Pawns: Ingvild Leviathan
2 Pawns: Le Fay Pendragon (Can you please add her too?)
1 Pawn: Gasper Vladi
Queen: Yubelluna
2 Knights: Artoria Pendragon (Genderbend DxD!Arthur with Fate!Lancer Artoria Looks but less curvy) (Can you please add her too?)
Bishop: Meredith Ordinton
Bishop: Kuroka
Rook: Koneko
Rook: Rossweisse
2 Pawns: Valerie Tepes
3 Pawns: Ingvild Leviathan
2 Pawns: Le Fay Pendragon (Can you please add her too?)
1 Pawn: Gasper Vladi
chapter 3: The Fruits of Obsession
New
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
- Messages
- 52
- Likes received
- 251
Riser sat alone in the dim chamber, the only light coming from a single soulflame hovering above his desk.
His thoughts were not idle.
They were of power.
Not for vanity, not for prestige, though those were inevitable, but because he had to. Because in this world, power was the only absolute. And without it, he would always be just a pawn in someone else's story.
That was the tragedy of the old Riser Phenex.
But not him.
It had been just over a month since he had awoken in this body, reborn under gilded feathers and ancient Castles. Since then, he had been relentless, an obsessive student of the devil arts.
The pure-blood devils of the Underworld believed demonic power came naturally. That with lineage and waiting, one could bloom like fire.
But they lacked ambition. They relied on talent, on privilege.
Riser had no such illusions. And so, he turned to something else, to the power system in a show he watched back in his first life—Nen.
He thought of it as he closed his eyes, letting his demonic power still, his breath shallow. Zetsu: the shutting of his aura nodes, the absolute nullification of presence.
Devils never used this. They despised the very concept of vulnerability. But that was why they lacked true control.
Riser could now do it in his sleep.
He trained daily, following the concepts of Ten to reinforce his form, Ren to increase output, In to conceal. He practiced Gyo to hyper-focus his senses on a single point. And En, a personal favorite—his domain of perception, reaching meters out like a spider's web. He layered all these over the devil system's inherent malleability and imagination-fueled application.
That wasn't all.
He had gone further.
Through ritual and experimentation, Riser had created potions—blends of infernal chemistry, law-bound contracts, and the structured logic of the spiritual. The original Riser was decently talented, and he inherited all of his knowledge and took it further.
Which culminated in his first inventions: potions of power. Each potion, once ingested, rewrote a part of his very essence. His soul adapted, contorted, evolved.
The first was Hunter.
The moment I drank the Hunter potion, it was like someone cracked open a vault in my head. Suddenly, I just knew how to survive, how to move, how to hunt, how to live in the wild like I'd been doing it since birth.
Plants I'd never seen before, I could name them. I knew which ones would stop bleeding, which ones would kill, and which ones would keep me standing when my body wanted to drop. Animal organs? I knew what to keep, what to burn, and what to eat raw if it came to it.
Traps? Oh, that came too. I could walk through a forest and my eyes would just highlight the best spots. Slopes, branches, pressure points, like the terrain itself whispered to me where the trap should go.
I could rig a tripwire that would take out a demonic boar or blow a path to pieces if I needed. Yeah, explosives. Don't ask me how, but I suddenly knew the blast radius of a homemade grenade, the delay of a fuse, the best way to turn a pile of rocks into a minefield. It didn't stop there. I could feel danger spots, unstable cliffs, hidden sinkholes, quicksand. Nature's own traps, just waiting to be used. And I remembered places, like my mind took snapshots of every tree, every bend, every hiding spot. I didn't have to think, I just knew where to lead someone to make sure they wouldn't come out again.
Then my body changed. My strength surged, solid, feral. Like a bear's raw power mixed with a cat's precision. I could punch hard enough to crack the air and leap like I had springs for bones. My body just obeyed, tight control, fast reactions, quick healing. A cut closed faster. Pain dulled. I didn't feel stronger. I was stronger.
And the senses? That's the freakiest part. I don't even need to try most of the time. But when I focus, I can smell the difference between two people by the sweat on their shirts. I can see the faintest scuff on the ground and know who passed by and how long ago. I can hear a whisper across a field and tell if the speaker is limping, tired, or lying. Even footsteps tell me weight, stride, confidence.
But unless I want it, it stays quiet. Background hum. No overload. Just waiting.
The second was Provoker—a social weapon.
After I awakened the power of Provocation, something in me changed. I could read people better, spot the little cracks in their pride or patience. Just by watching and listening, I knew what to say or do to get under their skin. When I activate it, it's not just words. It's calculated humiliation, sharpened like a blade. My insults don't just sting, they dig deep and make people reckless. Even beasts and mindless monsters feel it. I don't even have to speak—sometimes just being near me is enough to make them charge.
It's not always fancy. Even a word like "ugly" can hit the right nerve if I say it right. And once they're mad, they're easy to bait, easy to lead—straight into a trap.
The third was Conspirer.
This one had nearly broken him.
After taking the Conspirer potion, my mind just... sharpened. Thoughts came faster, clearer. I could see connections, spot flaws in logic, and spin convincing lies on the fly.
With a few words, I can stir desire or doubt in someone's heart—make them chase an idea that wasn't theirs to begin with. That's Incitement.
But the real weapon? Misdirection. Confusion. Deception. I lead people to their own downfall without ever touching them. That's the art of conspiracy.
And last… Reaper.
As a Reaper, I see weaknesses—no matter where they hide. Flesh, stone, storms, even supernatural barriers. If it has a flaw, I can find it. And when I strike, I don't just hit hard. I hit where it hurts most.
That's Cull. Every blow is aimed at a vital point, and if I land enough, even an opponent mightier than I will fall.
He was not yet at his peak.
But the foundation had been laid.
When others see me, they see a young lord playing at war, he thought.
Let them.
He smirked to himself, eyes glowing faintly with internal power. The Hunter senses told him someone was coming.
Three... two...
A knock.
He didn't need to check. He already knew.
"Enter," he called lazily.
The door opened to reveal Seorin, blonde, composed, clad now in a knight's formal gown of the Phenex house crest. She looked regal. Yet the slight hesitation in her step betrayed something softer beneath.
"I came to thank you," she said. "And… say goodbye."
"Already trying to get rid of me?" Riser asked with a raised brow. "And here I was, preparing an emotional farewell with a sonnet and tragic violin."
She laughed softly, stepping closer.
"You saved me. I haven't forgotten."
"I told you. You handled yourself well. I merely stepped in before your charming head rolled off."
She rolled her eyes, but there was color in her cheeks.
"I still owe you."
"You could name your firstborn after me," Riser offered. "Or build a statue."
"Tempting," she murmured. Then, her tone changed, quieter. "But I think I'll thank you properly… now."
She stepped closer.
The mood shifted.
Riser tilted his head slightly as she reached for his jacket, eyes glinting with something between flirtation and promise. He caught her hand gently but firmly, just before things could go further.
For a moment, they stood in silence, heat in the air.
But Riser, ever the conspirer, simply smiled.
"You're beautiful when you blush," he said, brushing his thumb across her knuckles.
"Shut up," she whispered, redder than before.
But she didn't pull away.
Not yet.
-----------------------------------------------
Thirty devils stood at the forest's edge. The expedition had begun.
Leading them were the high-class devils:
• Zarkaura Saeros, Rank 6 and the overall commander, stoic and composed, with a stare like sharpened obsidian. And what his intuition told him to be wary of.
• Abygral of House Mengis, Rank 5, known for his battlefield valor.
• Tenebrael Silase, Rank 5, a silent strategist with unsettling calm.
• Mizraketh of House Hizbi, Rank 5, the strongest in raw strength among them.
Riser Phenex was the outlier, young, only still middle-class in power, yet unshakably present among the seasoned warriors. His face betrayed no fear.
A Week Later
They had gone deep into the Leyen Mountains, following no maps. There were none accurate for this region. At first, they found nothing. Then the signs began.
A rotting elk, skin pale and translucent, as if the color had been drained like juice from a fruit. Corpses of devils, some crucified upside down, others bent into grotesque sculptures that defied biology. An entire platoon's gear scattered as if torn from their wearers mid-scream, but no bodies.
Riser said little. He merely walked beside Zarkaura, watching, listening, calculating.
They followed the trail of horror for nearly half a day when the first attack came.
A pack of demonic wolves—over a hundred strong. They descended from the cliffs and treetops like a storm of teeth and muscle.
The devils reacted immediately, decades of training snapping into place. Formations were called. Magic was cast. Blood painted the forest floor.
But the wolves didn't stop. Another wave came the next night. Then another.
A grim pattern emerged: they were being herded, guided. Every time they made camp, even with careful precautions and magical concealment, the wolves found them.
By the fifth night, they were exhausted. At their latest makeshift camp, the captains met in hushed tones around the flickering campfire.
"Something's wrong," said Abygral, his armor streaked with dried blood.
"They're coordinating. They don't behave like wild beasts."
"we are being guided," said Zarkaura. "Or worse, led."
They formed a rotation. Zarkaura would take the first watch. Riser noticed how his eyes never left the dark horizon.
Riser's Thoughts
He remained quiet, but his mind churned.
This isn't a hunt.
It's a culling.
We are the prey.
The signs were too perfect. Tracks covered. Magical cloaking. Stealth practiced down to the breath, and still, the wolves came.
Someone is feeding them our locations.
But he kept his suspicions to himself.
If there's a traitor, the wolves are the least of our problems.
The Final Ambush
On the tenth day, Zarkaura's shout shattered the morning air.
"Form up! We are surrounded!"
They had been boxed in. A valley of dead trees. Jagged cliffs on three sides. Too late to reposition.
Hundreds of wolves emerged from the shadows. Their eyes glowed red with unnatural intelligence. Riser counted five alpha wolves, huge, pitch-black beasts wreathed in shadowflame. High-class in power.
Zarkaura barked orders. "Form the pentacle! Don't break the line!"
The devils obeyed.
The battle was hell itself.
Wolves attacked with maddening speed. Devils countered with flame, blade, and family magic. The formation held for a time.
Abygral Mengis roared, unleashing a burst of lightning that incinerated a dozen wolves.
They rallied.
Until Tenebrael Silase broke rank.
"It's hopeless! We're dead if we stay!" he shouted, eyes wild with fear. He vanished into the forest, unlikely to survive.
That was the crack the wolves needed.
One of the alphas leapt through the gap, straight for Abygral. The noble devil screamed once before the beast's jaws closed over his chest, crushing him like glass.
Then the panic began.
The formation broke. Screams. Blood. Chaos.
Idiots, thought Riser coldly. They've turned this into a massacre.
He dashed north, trailing Mizraketh. If anyone could survive, it was a Rank 5 captain. He suppressed his demonic energy to nothing, completely hidden.
After what felt like hours, he found Mizraketh—but he was not alone.
The Real Enemy
Six tall figures emerged from the trees.
They were shadows made flesh, burning with internal fire. Humanoid only in outline. Gaunt and shifting. Their forms bent reality around them.
Shadow Warlocks.
Demonic entities of fire and shadow. Normally solitary. But in rare cases, they formed groups, hive minds, amplifying their power.
Six of them meant near-invincibility.
Mizraketh flared his aura in defiance. "Come, then!"
The Shadow Warlocks didn't answer. They moved as one.
Whips of shadowfire lashed from their arms. Mizraketh screamed. His armor melted. His limbs turned black with rot.
It was not a battle. It was an execution.
Riser crouched, unmoving, suppressing his every breath. For the first time since his reincarnation, he felt true fear.
Then pain. Something slammed into his neck.
His vision went dark.
Author's note:
Well, that happened.
Hope the battle was at least mildly satisfying. I didn't want to spend ten paragraphs explaining how one character unleashed their special sparkle beam while the other activated their ultra-mega-final-form. Just quick chaos, a few explosions, and boom—we're back to the plot. Otherwise the pacing would slow down so hard it might start growing moss.
So, Riser has officially blacked out. Who could've possibly done it? He suspects a traitor. Is he right? Is he just paranoid with heatstroke? Who knows. But if there is a traitor… who is it? Dun dun duuun.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
His thoughts were not idle.
They were of power.
Not for vanity, not for prestige, though those were inevitable, but because he had to. Because in this world, power was the only absolute. And without it, he would always be just a pawn in someone else's story.
That was the tragedy of the old Riser Phenex.
But not him.
It had been just over a month since he had awoken in this body, reborn under gilded feathers and ancient Castles. Since then, he had been relentless, an obsessive student of the devil arts.
The pure-blood devils of the Underworld believed demonic power came naturally. That with lineage and waiting, one could bloom like fire.
But they lacked ambition. They relied on talent, on privilege.
Riser had no such illusions. And so, he turned to something else, to the power system in a show he watched back in his first life—Nen.
He thought of it as he closed his eyes, letting his demonic power still, his breath shallow. Zetsu: the shutting of his aura nodes, the absolute nullification of presence.
Devils never used this. They despised the very concept of vulnerability. But that was why they lacked true control.
Riser could now do it in his sleep.
He trained daily, following the concepts of Ten to reinforce his form, Ren to increase output, In to conceal. He practiced Gyo to hyper-focus his senses on a single point. And En, a personal favorite—his domain of perception, reaching meters out like a spider's web. He layered all these over the devil system's inherent malleability and imagination-fueled application.
That wasn't all.
He had gone further.
Through ritual and experimentation, Riser had created potions—blends of infernal chemistry, law-bound contracts, and the structured logic of the spiritual. The original Riser was decently talented, and he inherited all of his knowledge and took it further.
Which culminated in his first inventions: potions of power. Each potion, once ingested, rewrote a part of his very essence. His soul adapted, contorted, evolved.
The first was Hunter.
The moment I drank the Hunter potion, it was like someone cracked open a vault in my head. Suddenly, I just knew how to survive, how to move, how to hunt, how to live in the wild like I'd been doing it since birth.
Plants I'd never seen before, I could name them. I knew which ones would stop bleeding, which ones would kill, and which ones would keep me standing when my body wanted to drop. Animal organs? I knew what to keep, what to burn, and what to eat raw if it came to it.
Traps? Oh, that came too. I could walk through a forest and my eyes would just highlight the best spots. Slopes, branches, pressure points, like the terrain itself whispered to me where the trap should go.
I could rig a tripwire that would take out a demonic boar or blow a path to pieces if I needed. Yeah, explosives. Don't ask me how, but I suddenly knew the blast radius of a homemade grenade, the delay of a fuse, the best way to turn a pile of rocks into a minefield. It didn't stop there. I could feel danger spots, unstable cliffs, hidden sinkholes, quicksand. Nature's own traps, just waiting to be used. And I remembered places, like my mind took snapshots of every tree, every bend, every hiding spot. I didn't have to think, I just knew where to lead someone to make sure they wouldn't come out again.
Then my body changed. My strength surged, solid, feral. Like a bear's raw power mixed with a cat's precision. I could punch hard enough to crack the air and leap like I had springs for bones. My body just obeyed, tight control, fast reactions, quick healing. A cut closed faster. Pain dulled. I didn't feel stronger. I was stronger.
And the senses? That's the freakiest part. I don't even need to try most of the time. But when I focus, I can smell the difference between two people by the sweat on their shirts. I can see the faintest scuff on the ground and know who passed by and how long ago. I can hear a whisper across a field and tell if the speaker is limping, tired, or lying. Even footsteps tell me weight, stride, confidence.
But unless I want it, it stays quiet. Background hum. No overload. Just waiting.
The second was Provoker—a social weapon.
After I awakened the power of Provocation, something in me changed. I could read people better, spot the little cracks in their pride or patience. Just by watching and listening, I knew what to say or do to get under their skin. When I activate it, it's not just words. It's calculated humiliation, sharpened like a blade. My insults don't just sting, they dig deep and make people reckless. Even beasts and mindless monsters feel it. I don't even have to speak—sometimes just being near me is enough to make them charge.
It's not always fancy. Even a word like "ugly" can hit the right nerve if I say it right. And once they're mad, they're easy to bait, easy to lead—straight into a trap.
The third was Conspirer.
This one had nearly broken him.
After taking the Conspirer potion, my mind just... sharpened. Thoughts came faster, clearer. I could see connections, spot flaws in logic, and spin convincing lies on the fly.
With a few words, I can stir desire or doubt in someone's heart—make them chase an idea that wasn't theirs to begin with. That's Incitement.
But the real weapon? Misdirection. Confusion. Deception. I lead people to their own downfall without ever touching them. That's the art of conspiracy.
And last… Reaper.
As a Reaper, I see weaknesses—no matter where they hide. Flesh, stone, storms, even supernatural barriers. If it has a flaw, I can find it. And when I strike, I don't just hit hard. I hit where it hurts most.
That's Cull. Every blow is aimed at a vital point, and if I land enough, even an opponent mightier than I will fall.
He was not yet at his peak.
But the foundation had been laid.
When others see me, they see a young lord playing at war, he thought.
Let them.
He smirked to himself, eyes glowing faintly with internal power. The Hunter senses told him someone was coming.
Three... two...
A knock.
He didn't need to check. He already knew.
"Enter," he called lazily.
The door opened to reveal Seorin, blonde, composed, clad now in a knight's formal gown of the Phenex house crest. She looked regal. Yet the slight hesitation in her step betrayed something softer beneath.
"I came to thank you," she said. "And… say goodbye."
"Already trying to get rid of me?" Riser asked with a raised brow. "And here I was, preparing an emotional farewell with a sonnet and tragic violin."
She laughed softly, stepping closer.
"You saved me. I haven't forgotten."
"I told you. You handled yourself well. I merely stepped in before your charming head rolled off."
She rolled her eyes, but there was color in her cheeks.
"I still owe you."
"You could name your firstborn after me," Riser offered. "Or build a statue."
"Tempting," she murmured. Then, her tone changed, quieter. "But I think I'll thank you properly… now."
She stepped closer.
The mood shifted.
Riser tilted his head slightly as she reached for his jacket, eyes glinting with something between flirtation and promise. He caught her hand gently but firmly, just before things could go further.
For a moment, they stood in silence, heat in the air.
But Riser, ever the conspirer, simply smiled.
"You're beautiful when you blush," he said, brushing his thumb across her knuckles.
"Shut up," she whispered, redder than before.
But she didn't pull away.
Not yet.
-----------------------------------------------
Thirty devils stood at the forest's edge. The expedition had begun.
Leading them were the high-class devils:
• Zarkaura Saeros, Rank 6 and the overall commander, stoic and composed, with a stare like sharpened obsidian. And what his intuition told him to be wary of.
• Abygral of House Mengis, Rank 5, known for his battlefield valor.
• Tenebrael Silase, Rank 5, a silent strategist with unsettling calm.
• Mizraketh of House Hizbi, Rank 5, the strongest in raw strength among them.
Riser Phenex was the outlier, young, only still middle-class in power, yet unshakably present among the seasoned warriors. His face betrayed no fear.
A Week Later
They had gone deep into the Leyen Mountains, following no maps. There were none accurate for this region. At first, they found nothing. Then the signs began.
A rotting elk, skin pale and translucent, as if the color had been drained like juice from a fruit. Corpses of devils, some crucified upside down, others bent into grotesque sculptures that defied biology. An entire platoon's gear scattered as if torn from their wearers mid-scream, but no bodies.
Riser said little. He merely walked beside Zarkaura, watching, listening, calculating.
They followed the trail of horror for nearly half a day when the first attack came.
A pack of demonic wolves—over a hundred strong. They descended from the cliffs and treetops like a storm of teeth and muscle.
The devils reacted immediately, decades of training snapping into place. Formations were called. Magic was cast. Blood painted the forest floor.
But the wolves didn't stop. Another wave came the next night. Then another.
A grim pattern emerged: they were being herded, guided. Every time they made camp, even with careful precautions and magical concealment, the wolves found them.
By the fifth night, they were exhausted. At their latest makeshift camp, the captains met in hushed tones around the flickering campfire.
"Something's wrong," said Abygral, his armor streaked with dried blood.
"They're coordinating. They don't behave like wild beasts."
"we are being guided," said Zarkaura. "Or worse, led."
They formed a rotation. Zarkaura would take the first watch. Riser noticed how his eyes never left the dark horizon.
Riser's Thoughts
He remained quiet, but his mind churned.
This isn't a hunt.
It's a culling.
We are the prey.
The signs were too perfect. Tracks covered. Magical cloaking. Stealth practiced down to the breath, and still, the wolves came.
Someone is feeding them our locations.
But he kept his suspicions to himself.
If there's a traitor, the wolves are the least of our problems.
The Final Ambush
On the tenth day, Zarkaura's shout shattered the morning air.
"Form up! We are surrounded!"
They had been boxed in. A valley of dead trees. Jagged cliffs on three sides. Too late to reposition.
Hundreds of wolves emerged from the shadows. Their eyes glowed red with unnatural intelligence. Riser counted five alpha wolves, huge, pitch-black beasts wreathed in shadowflame. High-class in power.
Zarkaura barked orders. "Form the pentacle! Don't break the line!"
The devils obeyed.
The battle was hell itself.
Wolves attacked with maddening speed. Devils countered with flame, blade, and family magic. The formation held for a time.
Abygral Mengis roared, unleashing a burst of lightning that incinerated a dozen wolves.
They rallied.
Until Tenebrael Silase broke rank.
"It's hopeless! We're dead if we stay!" he shouted, eyes wild with fear. He vanished into the forest, unlikely to survive.
That was the crack the wolves needed.
One of the alphas leapt through the gap, straight for Abygral. The noble devil screamed once before the beast's jaws closed over his chest, crushing him like glass.
Then the panic began.
The formation broke. Screams. Blood. Chaos.
Idiots, thought Riser coldly. They've turned this into a massacre.
He dashed north, trailing Mizraketh. If anyone could survive, it was a Rank 5 captain. He suppressed his demonic energy to nothing, completely hidden.
After what felt like hours, he found Mizraketh—but he was not alone.
The Real Enemy
Six tall figures emerged from the trees.
They were shadows made flesh, burning with internal fire. Humanoid only in outline. Gaunt and shifting. Their forms bent reality around them.
Shadow Warlocks.
Demonic entities of fire and shadow. Normally solitary. But in rare cases, they formed groups, hive minds, amplifying their power.
Six of them meant near-invincibility.
Mizraketh flared his aura in defiance. "Come, then!"
The Shadow Warlocks didn't answer. They moved as one.
Whips of shadowfire lashed from their arms. Mizraketh screamed. His armor melted. His limbs turned black with rot.
It was not a battle. It was an execution.
Riser crouched, unmoving, suppressing his every breath. For the first time since his reincarnation, he felt true fear.
Then pain. Something slammed into his neck.
His vision went dark.
Author's note:
Well, that happened.
Hope the battle was at least mildly satisfying. I didn't want to spend ten paragraphs explaining how one character unleashed their special sparkle beam while the other activated their ultra-mega-final-form. Just quick chaos, a few explosions, and boom—we're back to the plot. Otherwise the pacing would slow down so hard it might start growing moss.
So, Riser has officially blacked out. Who could've possibly done it? He suspects a traitor. Is he right? Is he just paranoid with heatstroke? Who knows. But if there is a traitor… who is it? Dun dun duuun.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
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You are absolutely right. The choices are basic, but hey—they're strong and reliable. Like bread. Boring, but keeps you alive.
That said, Riser is planning things, and not something concret so they are still subject to change. Leonardo and George are great suggestions though, and honestly, the idea of Riser trying to recruit a human supremacist gives me life. The chaos potential is off the charts.
As for Slash Dog, oh yes. I've got plans. Big ones. That arc will be the first real canon-adjacent story after the current madness wraps up.
And by the way… another Riser fic? You know what that means
Gereh
Versed in the lewd.
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But why do you want bread when you could have cake? Or Goulash? Or Curry?
So yeah as a reader I would love seeing something beside "good ol' breed", so I would take a Shigune Nanadaru over another Kuroka/Koneko every day.
I mean Leonardo isn't really a supremacist, guy is still considered a child in canon, so 5 years earlier he is like 6 years old or so. And George is probably still hanging out in the magician association where probably half of his co-workers have pacts with some other supernatural beings. My personal head-canon is that he only really got into human supremacy because of Cao Cao.
I don't know what you are talking about...
The void trembled.
The girl-that-was-a-snake-that-was-a-Dragon stood still. Barefoot, emotionless, surrounded by an ocean of nothingness that stretched beyond space, beyond time. Her eyes stared ahead, unblinking.
Reality twitched.
A grin appeared first, impossible wide and sharp. Then glowing eyes, hovering midair. A figure twisted into place like a glitch in reality, curling out of nothing.
A purple tophat and orange fur coiling in an invisible breeze.
"Meow-dy."
The-grinning-cat-that-wasn't-supposed-to-be hovered upside down, grinning like the universe was a joke she refused to explain.
"How often do I have to tell you? You don't belong here, cat."
"I don't really belong anywhere. That's the trick, darling."
A pause. Then movement.
The cat launched forward, twisting through air, her tail snaking behind her, leaving a trail of afterimages in her wake.
The snake-dragon-girl raised a hand.
Blackness.
A sphere of void, pure nothingness, rushed out like a tidal wave. As it hit the cat, the feline just simply disappeared.
She reappeared mid-spin above, holding an open umbrella, slowly glided down.
"Ohhh no, no, no, deleting people on the first move? How impolite."
[add stuff here]
The-infinite-snake blinked. The projectiles froze, midair, then disintegrated.
She stepped forward. A single, casual step.
The space cracked, but the outsider didn't care, her grin got even wider.
"Tag."
Suddenly, the Dragon-without-a-beginning-or-end was surrounded by a dozen Cheshires Cats, each one with a hand extended.
She turned to vapor. A pulse of infinity wiped the copies out — all but one.
The real Cheshire Cat balanced on a floating teacup, sipping something steaming.
"You know, 'Phi-chan, you may be very powerful, but you are also very predictable."
Ophis raised her hand again.
"You are irritating."
Carol smirked, unbothered.
"Good. I'd hate to be boring."
She vanished in a puff of purple butterflies. Behind Ophis now, arms draped around her neck like a scarf.
"Want to hear a riddle?"
Crack. Ophis pulsed, once again reality screamed. The Cat was gone again.
But not defeated.
Her laughter echoed from everywhere—and nowhere.
"Careful, Dragon~"
Ophis looked up.
The sky smiled back.
The girl-that-was-a-snake-that-was-a-Dragon stood still. Barefoot, emotionless, surrounded by an ocean of nothingness that stretched beyond space, beyond time. Her eyes stared ahead, unblinking.
Reality twitched.
A grin appeared first, impossible wide and sharp. Then glowing eyes, hovering midair. A figure twisted into place like a glitch in reality, curling out of nothing.
A purple tophat and orange fur coiling in an invisible breeze.
"Meow-dy."
The-grinning-cat-that-wasn't-supposed-to-be hovered upside down, grinning like the universe was a joke she refused to explain.
"How often do I have to tell you? You don't belong here, cat."
"I don't really belong anywhere. That's the trick, darling."
A pause. Then movement.
The cat launched forward, twisting through air, her tail snaking behind her, leaving a trail of afterimages in her wake.
The snake-dragon-girl raised a hand.
Blackness.
A sphere of void, pure nothingness, rushed out like a tidal wave. As it hit the cat, the feline just simply disappeared.
She reappeared mid-spin above, holding an open umbrella, slowly glided down.
"Ohhh no, no, no, deleting people on the first move? How impolite."
[add stuff here]
The-infinite-snake blinked. The projectiles froze, midair, then disintegrated.
She stepped forward. A single, casual step.
The space cracked, but the outsider didn't care, her grin got even wider.
"Tag."
Suddenly, the Dragon-without-a-beginning-or-end was surrounded by a dozen Cheshires Cats, each one with a hand extended.
She turned to vapor. A pulse of infinity wiped the copies out — all but one.
The real Cheshire Cat balanced on a floating teacup, sipping something steaming.
"You know, 'Phi-chan, you may be very powerful, but you are also very predictable."
Ophis raised her hand again.
"You are irritating."
Carol smirked, unbothered.
"Good. I'd hate to be boring."
She vanished in a puff of purple butterflies. Behind Ophis now, arms draped around her neck like a scarf.
"Want to hear a riddle?"
Crack. Ophis pulsed, once again reality screamed. The Cat was gone again.
But not defeated.
Her laughter echoed from everywhere—and nowhere.
"Careful, Dragon~"
Ophis looked up.
The sky smiled back.
Need to finish off the Dio chapter for first, tho, since I trying to do once of those per week at the moment.
Chapter 4: The Halls of Rebirth
New
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
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- Jan 26, 2024
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- 52
- Likes received
- 251
Pain.
It was the first thing Riser felt. A searing, gnawing ache in every part of his body, as if even his bones protested their continued existence. A mocking voice followed.
"Good morning, princess."
The voice was familiar. Cruel. Self-satisfied. Riser's vision returned in swirls of red and darkness, and his eyes met the smirking face of Zarkaura Saeros.
"You're awake. Good. We've got a long walk ahead."
Riser tried to move, only to find his limbs limp—dead weight. His body did not respond, as though something in him had been caged.
"A seal," Zarkaura said, almost casually, as if reading Riser's thoughts. "Don't worry. You're too valuable to harm. For now."
Riser didn't show the panic crawling up his throat. Instead, he met Zarkaura's gaze and forced a sardonic grin.
"I didn't think you'd be the traitor, Lord Saeros. Too predictable, really."
Zarkaura chuckled. "Observant. But too slow. Now get up."
He released the seal with a snap of his fingers, and control returned to Riser's limbs like cold water rushing through empty pipes. Weakly, he stood. No point running, he wouldn't get far. Zarkaura was peak high-class, and Riser, for all his training, wasn't ready to match that yet.
Not yet.
They began ascending a narrow mountain path. Jagged rocks jutted from the sides like teeth, and the wind howled through the peaks like a lament. The sun was gone—hidden behind bruised clouds. Hell's atmosphere was worse than bleak: it was hateful.
"What do you want with me?" Riser asked.
Zarkaura smirked. "Me? Nothing. But… an old friend of mine is eager to meet you."
He said it like the punchline to an inside joke. Riser felt a chill crawl down his spine. Then, unexpectedly:
"Have you ever heard of the tale of Kelzior the cruel?"
"No."
Zarkaura's voice turned reverent. "Then you are more ignorant than I thought. That name should echo in the bones of every living devil. Kelzior the Cruel. Kelzior the Great. Founder of our House. My blood. My grandfather."
Zarkaura's eyes gleamed, and his voice dropped to a reverent hush, like a priest before a sacrificial altar. "He was born low, vermin to the noble houses. No bloodline, no wealth, no patron. But within him burned a will not of this world. Where others bent, he endured. Where others faltered, he slaughtered. During the Great War, he rose—through grit, through slaughter, through brilliance. Became High-Class by merit alone. And still, it wasn't enough. Because Kelzior didn't just want power. He bore the pride of the First Light, the pride of Lucifer himself. And just like his creator, he too wanted to overtake his creator. He sought transcendence. To be a Suzerian of creation."
Riser blinked once. Slowly. Great. I've been kidnapped by a mad fanatic with a martyr complex.
He glanced at the narrow passage they were walking through. Still bound. Still watched. Escape seemed unlikely. But maybe… maybe if he kept this zealot talking, something might slip. A plan. A weakness.
"And what happened to him then?" Riser asked, tone feigning curiosity.
"Surely someone so 'great' would be famous. Yet I've never heard his name whispered outside this dusty little bloodline."
Zarkaura stiffened, nostrils flaring but he didn't lash out. He wanted to tell the tale.
"The fools of history remember only victors. And Kelzior did not fall in battle—he was betrayed by time. During the civil war between the Old Faction and the New Satans, he chose neither. He instead declared himself Prince of Hell. Sovereign of devils. The One Above All. And for his vision, he was besieged by the traitor Sirzechs Gremory."
Riser's brow arched. "Not Sirzechs Lucifer?"
Zarkaura hissed.
"He is no true successor of Lucifer. He is a spineless coward who listens to the voices of the weak and the words of mortals. A peace-broker. A politician."
He spat the word like venom. "Sirzechs Gremory may be powerful, but he is no devil. He abandoned what we are."
Riser kept walking in silence for a moment, watching the torchlight flicker across Zarkaura's face—twisted with disgust and pride.
No true devil, he thought with a trace of amusement. How convenient. It never matters what they say when they lose. Only when they win.
Zarkaura could foam and rave about "true devils" all day. But Riser knew better.
Power defines truth in the underworld. And Sirzechs? Sirzechs Lucifer is monstrously powerful. The strongest devil that has ever lived. Maybe the strongest that ever will.
Zarkaura might have his delusions. But Riser wasn't in the business of ignoring reality.
He was in the business of surviving it. Riser's eyes narrowed.
"Besieged," he repeated silently. Not defeated. Not slain.
Zarkaura spoke with too much certainty. Too much present tense. It wasn't how one talked about a long-dead ancestor. It was how one spoke of a sleeping god—or a weapon still waiting to be drawn.
The air seemed colder now.
Riser kept his tone casual.
"You keep mentioning your grandfather like he's still alive."
Zarkaura grinned, teeth like daggers. "Who said he isn't?"
They climbed in silence until they reached a flat cliff face. Zarkaura performed several arcane gestures. The rock shimmered, then cracked open with a groan like a dying beast. A circular passage revealed itself, carved into the mountain like a wound.
"After you."
Riser entered.
What greeted him was not a hall, but a nightmare.
The Halls of Rebirth.
Despite the name, there was no life here. Only death, rot, and madness. The air was damp, stinking of blood and decay. The walls were lined with ancient, crumbling murals—grotesque images that seemed painted with human fat and blood.
One showed a devil wearing a coat stitched from baby faces, grinning with jagged teeth.
Another depicted a woman stretched on a rack made of children's limbs, her eyes gouged out and sewn into a cloak.
Yet another: shoes made of scalped human heads, their mouths frozen mid-scream.
The centerpiece of the chamber was a black river—thick, viscous, and crawling with things that should not exist. Rats the size of cats floated belly-up beside bloated snakes and eyeless, twisted things that might once have been infants.
"Welcome to the Halls of Rebirth," Zarkaura announced with pride, arms spread wide.
Riser stared in revulsion.
"You call this the hall of rebirth?"
"The weak see decay. The strong see potential. Kelzior saw beyond the veil. These halls are his legacy. His blood, his madness, his genius."
Riser stepped cautiously closer to the river. It whispered. He wasn't sure with what mouth, but it whispered. Words in a tongue that made his skin crawl.
"So what? You're going to throw me into this thing? Use me in some ritual to ascend?"
"Close." Zarkaura stepped beside him. "You're not the offering. You're the key. Kelzior left behind rituals. One of them requires something rare: a devil with both bloodline and potential. You, dear Riser Phenex, are the final piece. I was going to use your uncle but you arrived suddenly and were perfect as well as much easier."
Riser closed his eyes. "You're insane."
"No Riser," Zarkaura said calmly, almost lovingly. " I'm simply ahead of schedule."
He gestured toward a stone altar etched with runes older than most languages. Behind it loomed a statue, cracked and disfigured—a horned, eyeless devil with seven mouths, each one eternally screaming.
Zarkaura continued: "Sirzechs' ideology is poison. Equality? Mercy? The weak have deceived him. They would say the strong should nurture the gentle. These are the noble lies of Heaven. Devils were never meant to be kind. That is not our nature. The strong should rule, and the weak should burn."
"You really think this will bring down Lucifer himself?"
Zarkaura's eyes sparkled with manic fire. "I don't need to bring him down. I just need to show the world that truth is not dictated by votes or titles… but power."
Riser clenched his jaw. "And what if I don't cooperate?"
Zarkaura grinned like a wolf. "Then we go to Plan B. But don't worry. You'll cooperate. Because Kelzior… is waiting. And once you see him…"
The air grew heavier. The shadows shifted. Something was watching.
"…you'll understand."
Author's Note: Another chapter, yes again. It's a bit short, but I just wanted to toss it out into the world before my brain started rewriting the whole thing at 2 a.m. out of spite.
This one's mostly Zarkura glazing his ancestor like he's applying BBQ sauce, with a sprinkle of lore on top. Also, fair warning—take everything Zarkura says with a grain of salt. Or maybe a whole salt mine. The guy's basically a walking conspiracy forum in fancy robes. Total fanatic. Entertaining? Absolutely. Reliable narrator? Not even slightly.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
It was the first thing Riser felt. A searing, gnawing ache in every part of his body, as if even his bones protested their continued existence. A mocking voice followed.
"Good morning, princess."
The voice was familiar. Cruel. Self-satisfied. Riser's vision returned in swirls of red and darkness, and his eyes met the smirking face of Zarkaura Saeros.
"You're awake. Good. We've got a long walk ahead."
Riser tried to move, only to find his limbs limp—dead weight. His body did not respond, as though something in him had been caged.
"A seal," Zarkaura said, almost casually, as if reading Riser's thoughts. "Don't worry. You're too valuable to harm. For now."
Riser didn't show the panic crawling up his throat. Instead, he met Zarkaura's gaze and forced a sardonic grin.
"I didn't think you'd be the traitor, Lord Saeros. Too predictable, really."
Zarkaura chuckled. "Observant. But too slow. Now get up."
He released the seal with a snap of his fingers, and control returned to Riser's limbs like cold water rushing through empty pipes. Weakly, he stood. No point running, he wouldn't get far. Zarkaura was peak high-class, and Riser, for all his training, wasn't ready to match that yet.
Not yet.
They began ascending a narrow mountain path. Jagged rocks jutted from the sides like teeth, and the wind howled through the peaks like a lament. The sun was gone—hidden behind bruised clouds. Hell's atmosphere was worse than bleak: it was hateful.
"What do you want with me?" Riser asked.
Zarkaura smirked. "Me? Nothing. But… an old friend of mine is eager to meet you."
He said it like the punchline to an inside joke. Riser felt a chill crawl down his spine. Then, unexpectedly:
"Have you ever heard of the tale of Kelzior the cruel?"
"No."
Zarkaura's voice turned reverent. "Then you are more ignorant than I thought. That name should echo in the bones of every living devil. Kelzior the Cruel. Kelzior the Great. Founder of our House. My blood. My grandfather."
Zarkaura's eyes gleamed, and his voice dropped to a reverent hush, like a priest before a sacrificial altar. "He was born low, vermin to the noble houses. No bloodline, no wealth, no patron. But within him burned a will not of this world. Where others bent, he endured. Where others faltered, he slaughtered. During the Great War, he rose—through grit, through slaughter, through brilliance. Became High-Class by merit alone. And still, it wasn't enough. Because Kelzior didn't just want power. He bore the pride of the First Light, the pride of Lucifer himself. And just like his creator, he too wanted to overtake his creator. He sought transcendence. To be a Suzerian of creation."
Riser blinked once. Slowly. Great. I've been kidnapped by a mad fanatic with a martyr complex.
He glanced at the narrow passage they were walking through. Still bound. Still watched. Escape seemed unlikely. But maybe… maybe if he kept this zealot talking, something might slip. A plan. A weakness.
"And what happened to him then?" Riser asked, tone feigning curiosity.
"Surely someone so 'great' would be famous. Yet I've never heard his name whispered outside this dusty little bloodline."
Zarkaura stiffened, nostrils flaring but he didn't lash out. He wanted to tell the tale.
"The fools of history remember only victors. And Kelzior did not fall in battle—he was betrayed by time. During the civil war between the Old Faction and the New Satans, he chose neither. He instead declared himself Prince of Hell. Sovereign of devils. The One Above All. And for his vision, he was besieged by the traitor Sirzechs Gremory."
Riser's brow arched. "Not Sirzechs Lucifer?"
Zarkaura hissed.
"He is no true successor of Lucifer. He is a spineless coward who listens to the voices of the weak and the words of mortals. A peace-broker. A politician."
He spat the word like venom. "Sirzechs Gremory may be powerful, but he is no devil. He abandoned what we are."
Riser kept walking in silence for a moment, watching the torchlight flicker across Zarkaura's face—twisted with disgust and pride.
No true devil, he thought with a trace of amusement. How convenient. It never matters what they say when they lose. Only when they win.
Zarkaura could foam and rave about "true devils" all day. But Riser knew better.
Power defines truth in the underworld. And Sirzechs? Sirzechs Lucifer is monstrously powerful. The strongest devil that has ever lived. Maybe the strongest that ever will.
Zarkaura might have his delusions. But Riser wasn't in the business of ignoring reality.
He was in the business of surviving it. Riser's eyes narrowed.
"Besieged," he repeated silently. Not defeated. Not slain.
Zarkaura spoke with too much certainty. Too much present tense. It wasn't how one talked about a long-dead ancestor. It was how one spoke of a sleeping god—or a weapon still waiting to be drawn.
The air seemed colder now.
Riser kept his tone casual.
"You keep mentioning your grandfather like he's still alive."
Zarkaura grinned, teeth like daggers. "Who said he isn't?"
They climbed in silence until they reached a flat cliff face. Zarkaura performed several arcane gestures. The rock shimmered, then cracked open with a groan like a dying beast. A circular passage revealed itself, carved into the mountain like a wound.
"After you."
Riser entered.
What greeted him was not a hall, but a nightmare.
The Halls of Rebirth.
Despite the name, there was no life here. Only death, rot, and madness. The air was damp, stinking of blood and decay. The walls were lined with ancient, crumbling murals—grotesque images that seemed painted with human fat and blood.
One showed a devil wearing a coat stitched from baby faces, grinning with jagged teeth.
Another depicted a woman stretched on a rack made of children's limbs, her eyes gouged out and sewn into a cloak.
Yet another: shoes made of scalped human heads, their mouths frozen mid-scream.
The centerpiece of the chamber was a black river—thick, viscous, and crawling with things that should not exist. Rats the size of cats floated belly-up beside bloated snakes and eyeless, twisted things that might once have been infants.
"Welcome to the Halls of Rebirth," Zarkaura announced with pride, arms spread wide.
Riser stared in revulsion.
"You call this the hall of rebirth?"
"The weak see decay. The strong see potential. Kelzior saw beyond the veil. These halls are his legacy. His blood, his madness, his genius."
Riser stepped cautiously closer to the river. It whispered. He wasn't sure with what mouth, but it whispered. Words in a tongue that made his skin crawl.
"So what? You're going to throw me into this thing? Use me in some ritual to ascend?"
"Close." Zarkaura stepped beside him. "You're not the offering. You're the key. Kelzior left behind rituals. One of them requires something rare: a devil with both bloodline and potential. You, dear Riser Phenex, are the final piece. I was going to use your uncle but you arrived suddenly and were perfect as well as much easier."
Riser closed his eyes. "You're insane."
"No Riser," Zarkaura said calmly, almost lovingly. " I'm simply ahead of schedule."
He gestured toward a stone altar etched with runes older than most languages. Behind it loomed a statue, cracked and disfigured—a horned, eyeless devil with seven mouths, each one eternally screaming.
Zarkaura continued: "Sirzechs' ideology is poison. Equality? Mercy? The weak have deceived him. They would say the strong should nurture the gentle. These are the noble lies of Heaven. Devils were never meant to be kind. That is not our nature. The strong should rule, and the weak should burn."
"You really think this will bring down Lucifer himself?"
Zarkaura's eyes sparkled with manic fire. "I don't need to bring him down. I just need to show the world that truth is not dictated by votes or titles… but power."
Riser clenched his jaw. "And what if I don't cooperate?"
Zarkaura grinned like a wolf. "Then we go to Plan B. But don't worry. You'll cooperate. Because Kelzior… is waiting. And once you see him…"
The air grew heavier. The shadows shifted. Something was watching.
"…you'll understand."
Author's Note: Another chapter, yes again. It's a bit short, but I just wanted to toss it out into the world before my brain started rewriting the whole thing at 2 a.m. out of spite.
This one's mostly Zarkura glazing his ancestor like he's applying BBQ sauce, with a sprinkle of lore on top. Also, fair warning—take everything Zarkura says with a grain of salt. Or maybe a whole salt mine. The guy's basically a walking conspiracy forum in fancy robes. Total fanatic. Entertaining? Absolutely. Reliable narrator? Not even slightly.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
sickboy398
Versed in the lewd.
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Lotm elements, interesting
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
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yeah, i have taken a lot of inspiration
Chapter 5: The Phenex Gambit
New
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
- Messages
- 52
- Likes received
- 251
"Stop," said a voice, mellifluous yet cold, its echoes weaving through every crack in the cavern's stone ribs. It was as if the shadows themselves had spoken.
"Your wish is my command, Sire," Zarkaura murmured, bowing low. He began unfastening the battered pieces of his armor, letting iron plates fall with dull clangs onto the wet rock until his torso was bare. Pale flesh shone with old scars and inked sigils that seemed to writhe when touched by torchlight.
He lifted his arms and began to chant in a language no mortal throat should recall. The sound coiled through the cavern, heavy and rotten, stirring something unspeakable in the stale air. Then it came, horror forced into flesh.
From Zarkaura's shoulders the skin split. Slow and deliberate, the seams tore wider, birthing shapes that forced themselves out like blasphemous flowers blooming. Riser felt bile rise in his throat at the sight.
On Zarkaura's right shoulder emerged a head, if it could even be called that. It was an obscene parody of flesh, a face pocked with burrowing insects that feasted on decaying eyes, mandibles clicking as they crawled from its ragged mouth. It quivered in perpetual agony, a suffering given shape and voice.
On the left, by contrast, bloomed a visage of near-divinity. Its flawless features seemed carved from marble and haloed by a faint, pearly glow. Yet its eyes, deep crimson, gleamed with such pitiless cruelty that it made the monstrous one seem almost honest by comparison.
When all three faces turned toward him, Zarkaura's own head bowed beneath them, Riser felt an icy terror settle in his marrow. The beautiful one smiled first, a perfect mouth curving into something inhuman.
"Hello there, Riser Phenex," it purred. Its voice was music, angelic but slick with poison. "A perfect vessel. Don't bother screaming too long. It dilutes the soul."
The ruined face on the right shoulder began to babble, a string of broken, ancient syllables that made Riser's ears throb and bleed. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to collapse.
"So... Kelzior, I presume?" Riser rasped, mustering a bravery he did not feel. His back pressed against cold stone as he searched for an exit that did not exist. "What is this? What do you want? Surely we can... reach an understanding. Preferably one where I walk away alive?"
Kelzior laughed through the perfect mouth, a sound too lovely to belong in this pit. It dripped mockery and rot. "Understanding? Delightful creature. No, no. This ritual is far older than you. Older than this world's memory."
He lifted his borrowed arms and began another chant. Sharp syllables cracked the air like lightning. From a leather satchel, he scattered pieces into the foul river that trickled through the cavern: yellowed bones, hearts slick and red as fresh slaughter. The water hissed as flesh dissolved into steam and stink.
Kelzior traced a circle into the black stone with his nails. Light bled from it, sickly, greenish. The cavern trembled. From the circle, like a perversion of birth, they came: 666 women clutching swaddled infants to breasts swollen with milk and something worse. Their smiles were too wide, eyes glassy with unnatural bliss.
"Do it," Kelzior commanded.
One by one, the mothers stepped forward, cooing lullabies as they hurled their babies into the river of death. The water turned crimson, the air thick with burnt copper and the thin, awful wails of lives snuffed out before they could draw breath. The beautiful head laughed, a bright, lilting giggle that soured the stone. The monstrous head only gnashed and gibbered its filth.
Riser's expression froze into a mask of stone. He would not give Kelzior the pleasure of his horror.
"This ritual, my dear," Kelzior crooned, his voice wrapping around the nightmare, "is for my rebirth. You see, my old vessel decayed long ago. But you... you are perfect. A shell made for my soul, as if tailor-crafted by fate itself. A vessel worthy of the name Kelzior."
"Fuck," Riser whispered. He had only cursed twice since his rebirth. This time it felt earned.
Kelzior's three heads beamed. "These rites will make your flesh better. Purified. More potent. The perfect throne for my ascension."
In a blink, the creature was before him. An iron grip closed around Riser's throat and lifted him like a rag doll. He struggled, flame flickering at his fingertips, but it was like wrestling stone. Kelzior hurled him into the blood river.
Pain. Agony like oil on fire. And then, blackness.
When he opened his eyes, he stood in a place that should have belonged to a fable, if fables were written by madmen.
A vast tree rose above him, its leaves a thousand shades of blood. Its trunk was knotted with faces, each locked in an eternal scream. All around, the landscape pulsed with shapes that wept and whispered. The air was thick with the salt-bitter taste of suffering souls.
"Where the hell am I?" Riser rasped.
Kelzior's beautiful voice coiled through the branches. "Your mindscape. The river carries body and soul to the threshold."
"I suppose this is where I'm meant to fight you for my body, then," Riser said, his voice dry as old bone. He pretended calm, anything to keep the terror at bay.
"Correct," Kelzior sang. The branches above rustled with unseen laughter. "Whoever commands this realm commands the body of Riser Phenex."
Riser turned in slow circles, eyes drawn to the countless souls orbiting the tree like moths around a corpse-flame. The more he stared, the more the landscape trembled beneath his will. It felt like clay waiting to be molded. There was power here, yet a price too.
"Careful," Kelzior's voice warned, smooth as silk over a blade. "Stare too long at the dead and you will forget yourself. You will become just another soul screaming in the bark."
"Why would you care?" Riser shot back and tore his gaze free. The spell snapped like rotten string.
Kelzior's laugh drifted through the bleeding canopy. "Because I crave a challenge, little bird. And I would hate for you to break too soon."
--------------------------------
Riser stood beneath the blood-red canopy, eyes half-lidded as crimson leaves drifted down like flakes of dying flesh. The screaming faces knotted in the bark seemed to breathe in time with his heartbeat. The air was thick with the weight of other minds, their suffering made almost musical in this place that was not a place.
He drew a slow breath, steadying the echo of agony that pressed against his thoughts.
Devils could use telepathy—it wasn't a rare talent but something they were born with and trained to master. It could be divided into two parts.
The first was called Sorvian. This was telepathy used to attack. A devil could reach into another person's mind, read memories, change emotions, or plant suggestions that felt like the target's own thoughts. It was how devils erased memories, lied without speaking, and broke even the strongest leaders without laying a hand on them.
The second was called Shadeward. This was telepathy used to defend. It protected the mind from being read or influenced. A strong Shadeward user could hide their true thoughts and feelings completely, locking their mind like a fortress no one could enter.
When devils fought using telepathy, it wasn't loud or flashy. It was quiet, heavy, and intense, like two invisible forces pressing against each other, trying to break through or hold the line
Riser's eyes narrowed. This ritual reeked of both, a battlefield of minds, not steel and flame. It is not quite Sorvian nor quite Shadeward, he thought. But the principle is the same.
He stood in the red-glowing mindscape beneath the tree with bleeding leaves, his breath shallow, his soul bared. His eyes tracked the monstrosity across from him—Kelzior, no longer hidden in shadow or in another's body, but revealed in mocking majesty.
He looked like Riser—only taller, broader, more perfect. His face was symmetrical, inhumanly so. A crown of bone adorned his head. His smile was sharp enough to split sanity.
"That thing is your core. Your anchor. Your soul in symbol. And look how it cracks already. Just like you shall."
Kelzior's grin widened, a sliver of bone and malice. "Let me tell you what is happening, so you know exactly how thoroughly you shall lose. Listen well, for my mercy is to teach you what breaks you."
He circled Riser like a serpent, voice echoing off the shrieking canopy. "This is your mind's final veil. The souls' theatre. Here, thought and meaning are one. Here, you and I will not cross blades of steel nor call down petty spells. Here, we battle with identity. Mask against mask. What you are, what you pretend to be, all tested until it splinters."
Kelzior leaned close, breath like grave dust. "And I shall peel you apart piece by piece."
Riser did not flinch. He merely exhaled through his nose, calm as the abyss. So be it, he thought.
⸻
Kelzior's smile turned cruel. "Shall we?"
Without another word, his form shifted, unraveling into scales and fangs and coiled muscle. A serpent, vast as a river, coiled around the tree. Its eyes glowed with deceit and venom, each flick of its tongue dripping poison that sizzled on the screaming faces below.
Riser's mind flickered through memory and myth. The snake, an old symbol of slow death, corrosion, treachery. Very fitting.
He smiled slightly. If you bring poison, I bring the talons.
His own form blurred, bones snapping, feathers tearing through charred flesh. Wings spread wide, shadowed under the bleeding canopy. A bird of prey, vast and regal, claws hooked like scythes. He struck from above, talons raking scales, tearing at the serpent's flesh with cold precision.
The serpent hissed, body coiling tighter. Venom sprayed in arcs that scorched feathers, yet Riser pressed in, ripping scale after scale free, a hunter dismantling its prey.
Kelzior's laughter slithered through the air even as the snake's head split and changed again. Poison gave way to corrosion. The serpent rotted as it shifted, flesh bubbling into corruption given form. Rusted chains snaked outward from the decaying coils, wrapping Riser's wings and dragging him downward.
Corruption. Rot. A thing that devoured all brightness.
Riser's claws scraped the chains. So you would decay me.
His wings smoldered. Feathers burned and fell like embers. Beneath them new feathers regrew, each brighter than flame. He let himself drop, shifting into something else. A white phoenix, body flickering between life and ash. Fire hissed as chains dissolved. He rose again, talons blazing, striking the corruption until it split like old bark.
Kelzior roared, shifting again. Corruption bent into theft, shadows coalescing into a masked figure with countless hands. Each hand grasped, snatched bits of light from the tree's roots and Riser's wings alike.
Riser stumbled back, mind spinning. A thief, now. A parasite. He watched the figure pull flame and memory from him, threading it into an endless cloak.
Above the battle, the orbiting souls drifted in slow circles, whispering their agony. He felt them like static, crawling on the edge of his thoughts.
He countered the thief with conquest. His form lengthened, armored plates of molten gold encasing him. A crown of searing flame hovered over his brow. In one hand he carried a lance of blazing sun. In the other, a shield wrought of charred wings and bone.
He struck the shadows with sovereign force. Light stabbed through the masked thief. For a moment, Kelzior's figure flickered. The many hands withered in the sun's blaze.
But the shadows reformed, always finding cracks in the armor.
The mindscape trembled. Kelzior's laughter oozed from every bleeding branch.
"You think your fire can last forever, little phoenix?"
Riser said nothing. He could feel his thoughts stretching thin, the pressure of millennia pressing against his will. Kelzior's experience in Sorvian and Shadeward was suffocating. Each strike Kelzior landed was precise, leeching parts of Riser's essence.
He is too skilled, Riser thought, mind fracturing under the weight of the conflict. If it continues like this, I will lose.
A thin thread of observation flickered. Riser's gaze drifted to the orbiting souls. Their whispers pressed closer when the thief had torn pieces from him. He remembered the river. The mothers. The offering.
Pieces clicked together behind his eyes.
So that is it, he thought, ignoring the ringing in his skull. The souls feed this place. Not audience but fuel.
He forced a piece of his mind to probe them. One whisper drifted near, a face half-formed in sorrow. Riser reached out, let a wisp slip into his burning shell.
For a heartbeat, strength surged through him. The conquest blaze roared higher. The shadows recoiled.
But another heartbeat later, a voice that was not his laughed inside his skull. A shriek that clawed at the walls of his mind. He felt it scratch at the core of who he was.
Madness. A cost.
Riser exhaled, eyes bright. So that is the game, old devil. Feed on the damned or die clean.
Kelzior's mockery coiled around him, a voice made of barbs. "You flinch at what you taste, vessel. The dead are poisonous. They will devour you from within."
Riser forced a grin, crimson light dancing in his pupils. "You hid that well. Or perhaps not well enough."
He let his mind drift again. Beneath the agony he could feel it , the truth. Kelzior could have used these souls himself. But he had not. He hoarded his own self intact.
Riser parried another strike as Kelzior's form warped again, now a reaper clad in famine and pestilence. Rusted scythes swung at Riser's burning wings. The phoenix dodged, countered with a blinding flare.
He will not risk himself, Riser thought. That is his flaw.
He laughed aloud. Flames danced from his broken mouth. "Is this all you have, snake? Rot and theft and famine? Try devouring hope."
His wings burst outward, feathers like comet trails. Each strike carried the weight of a conqueror's will.
Yet Kelzior met him blow for blow. The older devil's grin never wavered, scythes cutting fresh wounds in the phoenix's burning hide. Shadows bled poison into every strike.
Riser felt himself buckling. He is better. If it stays like this, I am nothing but cinder.
He saw the tree's roots cracking. More souls drifted closer, drawn to the rising heat.
Should I risk it? Should I burn what remains of me for a chance?
He thought of the alternative, becoming Kelzior's shell. A puppet worn by something older than kings.
The answer was obvious.
With grim resolve he spread his wings wide. The souls wailed as he opened himself. Their shapes folded into his blazing chest. Their whispers became storms in his skull.
Kelzior recoiled, scythes dropping for a single heartbeat. "Stop! What are you doing, you fool!"
Riser's laughter cracked like thunder through the mindscape. It came out ragged and half-mad. "So it is as I guessed."
He loomed over Kelzior, burning feathers falling like meteors. "You need me sane to wear my flesh. You need me whole. But you, old snake, will not risk yourself to do what I do."
Kelzior's perfected face twisted, a glimmer of fear coiling behind crimson eyes. He opened his mouth but no mocking rhyme came.
Riser's grin was all teeth and broken flame. "I guessed your heart in the moments between strikes. You care only for yourself. You would not gamble your essence to drown mine."
He laughed again, louder now, as more souls poured into him, shredding the last walls of sanity thread by thread. "You could have done it too, couldn't you?" he spat. "You could've consumed these souls and negated my innate control. But you didn't. You played it safe."
His grin widened, mad and bright. "Because you're a coward at heart. You care about one thing, don't you? Yourself. You could've risked it. But you didn't. Because unlike me, you're not willing to risk madness just to win."
Kelzior's eyes twitched. His voice failed him. The tree shuddered, its leaves igniting in bursts of white flame.
Kelzior raised his scythes but the shadows flickered with doubt. "You dare ….you fool ….you will destroy yourself!"
Kelzior stepped back. A mistake.
Riser's mind fractured further, voices echoing in his skull, but his eyes shone with something bright and final. Riser stood taller, flames of mind-soul-body intertwining. The tree behind him, once cracking, now burned bright.
"I won't let you take this body . Even if I must feed my mind to the abyss to keep you out."
He lunged, feathers and flame and a thousand screaming souls moving as one. Kelzior stood frozen, staring at Riser with a face of pure incomprehension.
Not fear.
Not anger.
But a mind that could not process what it was seeing.
A being who had seen millennia of horror and finally glimpsed something beyond it.
Riser laughed one last time, mad and bright, and the world began to tear.
Author's Note: Here's the new chapter, hot off the metaphorical press!
This one nearly fried my brain. Trying to write a battle of concepts is like trying to juggle metaphors while blindfolded on a unicycle. It was inspired by the oldest game from the Sandman comics, so if it feels like pure madness… that's because it is. Hopefully it's the fun kind of madness and not just me being a narrative gremlin.
Oh, and if you're wondering why Kelzior is out here explaining the ritual mechanics to Riser like he's auditioning for a role as Saturday morning cartoon villain of the week, it's not just drama. He has to. It's literally a condition of starting the ritual. Ancient rules and all that. Bureaucracy meets evil sorcery. Classic combo.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
"Your wish is my command, Sire," Zarkaura murmured, bowing low. He began unfastening the battered pieces of his armor, letting iron plates fall with dull clangs onto the wet rock until his torso was bare. Pale flesh shone with old scars and inked sigils that seemed to writhe when touched by torchlight.
He lifted his arms and began to chant in a language no mortal throat should recall. The sound coiled through the cavern, heavy and rotten, stirring something unspeakable in the stale air. Then it came, horror forced into flesh.
From Zarkaura's shoulders the skin split. Slow and deliberate, the seams tore wider, birthing shapes that forced themselves out like blasphemous flowers blooming. Riser felt bile rise in his throat at the sight.
On Zarkaura's right shoulder emerged a head, if it could even be called that. It was an obscene parody of flesh, a face pocked with burrowing insects that feasted on decaying eyes, mandibles clicking as they crawled from its ragged mouth. It quivered in perpetual agony, a suffering given shape and voice.
On the left, by contrast, bloomed a visage of near-divinity. Its flawless features seemed carved from marble and haloed by a faint, pearly glow. Yet its eyes, deep crimson, gleamed with such pitiless cruelty that it made the monstrous one seem almost honest by comparison.
When all three faces turned toward him, Zarkaura's own head bowed beneath them, Riser felt an icy terror settle in his marrow. The beautiful one smiled first, a perfect mouth curving into something inhuman.
"Hello there, Riser Phenex," it purred. Its voice was music, angelic but slick with poison. "A perfect vessel. Don't bother screaming too long. It dilutes the soul."
The ruined face on the right shoulder began to babble, a string of broken, ancient syllables that made Riser's ears throb and bleed. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to collapse.
"So... Kelzior, I presume?" Riser rasped, mustering a bravery he did not feel. His back pressed against cold stone as he searched for an exit that did not exist. "What is this? What do you want? Surely we can... reach an understanding. Preferably one where I walk away alive?"
Kelzior laughed through the perfect mouth, a sound too lovely to belong in this pit. It dripped mockery and rot. "Understanding? Delightful creature. No, no. This ritual is far older than you. Older than this world's memory."
He lifted his borrowed arms and began another chant. Sharp syllables cracked the air like lightning. From a leather satchel, he scattered pieces into the foul river that trickled through the cavern: yellowed bones, hearts slick and red as fresh slaughter. The water hissed as flesh dissolved into steam and stink.
Kelzior traced a circle into the black stone with his nails. Light bled from it, sickly, greenish. The cavern trembled. From the circle, like a perversion of birth, they came: 666 women clutching swaddled infants to breasts swollen with milk and something worse. Their smiles were too wide, eyes glassy with unnatural bliss.
"Do it," Kelzior commanded.
One by one, the mothers stepped forward, cooing lullabies as they hurled their babies into the river of death. The water turned crimson, the air thick with burnt copper and the thin, awful wails of lives snuffed out before they could draw breath. The beautiful head laughed, a bright, lilting giggle that soured the stone. The monstrous head only gnashed and gibbered its filth.
Riser's expression froze into a mask of stone. He would not give Kelzior the pleasure of his horror.
"This ritual, my dear," Kelzior crooned, his voice wrapping around the nightmare, "is for my rebirth. You see, my old vessel decayed long ago. But you... you are perfect. A shell made for my soul, as if tailor-crafted by fate itself. A vessel worthy of the name Kelzior."
"Fuck," Riser whispered. He had only cursed twice since his rebirth. This time it felt earned.
Kelzior's three heads beamed. "These rites will make your flesh better. Purified. More potent. The perfect throne for my ascension."
In a blink, the creature was before him. An iron grip closed around Riser's throat and lifted him like a rag doll. He struggled, flame flickering at his fingertips, but it was like wrestling stone. Kelzior hurled him into the blood river.
Pain. Agony like oil on fire. And then, blackness.
When he opened his eyes, he stood in a place that should have belonged to a fable, if fables were written by madmen.
A vast tree rose above him, its leaves a thousand shades of blood. Its trunk was knotted with faces, each locked in an eternal scream. All around, the landscape pulsed with shapes that wept and whispered. The air was thick with the salt-bitter taste of suffering souls.
"Where the hell am I?" Riser rasped.
Kelzior's beautiful voice coiled through the branches. "Your mindscape. The river carries body and soul to the threshold."
"I suppose this is where I'm meant to fight you for my body, then," Riser said, his voice dry as old bone. He pretended calm, anything to keep the terror at bay.
"Correct," Kelzior sang. The branches above rustled with unseen laughter. "Whoever commands this realm commands the body of Riser Phenex."
Riser turned in slow circles, eyes drawn to the countless souls orbiting the tree like moths around a corpse-flame. The more he stared, the more the landscape trembled beneath his will. It felt like clay waiting to be molded. There was power here, yet a price too.
"Careful," Kelzior's voice warned, smooth as silk over a blade. "Stare too long at the dead and you will forget yourself. You will become just another soul screaming in the bark."
"Why would you care?" Riser shot back and tore his gaze free. The spell snapped like rotten string.
Kelzior's laugh drifted through the bleeding canopy. "Because I crave a challenge, little bird. And I would hate for you to break too soon."
--------------------------------
Riser stood beneath the blood-red canopy, eyes half-lidded as crimson leaves drifted down like flakes of dying flesh. The screaming faces knotted in the bark seemed to breathe in time with his heartbeat. The air was thick with the weight of other minds, their suffering made almost musical in this place that was not a place.
He drew a slow breath, steadying the echo of agony that pressed against his thoughts.
Devils could use telepathy—it wasn't a rare talent but something they were born with and trained to master. It could be divided into two parts.
The first was called Sorvian. This was telepathy used to attack. A devil could reach into another person's mind, read memories, change emotions, or plant suggestions that felt like the target's own thoughts. It was how devils erased memories, lied without speaking, and broke even the strongest leaders without laying a hand on them.
The second was called Shadeward. This was telepathy used to defend. It protected the mind from being read or influenced. A strong Shadeward user could hide their true thoughts and feelings completely, locking their mind like a fortress no one could enter.
When devils fought using telepathy, it wasn't loud or flashy. It was quiet, heavy, and intense, like two invisible forces pressing against each other, trying to break through or hold the line
Riser's eyes narrowed. This ritual reeked of both, a battlefield of minds, not steel and flame. It is not quite Sorvian nor quite Shadeward, he thought. But the principle is the same.
He stood in the red-glowing mindscape beneath the tree with bleeding leaves, his breath shallow, his soul bared. His eyes tracked the monstrosity across from him—Kelzior, no longer hidden in shadow or in another's body, but revealed in mocking majesty.
He looked like Riser—only taller, broader, more perfect. His face was symmetrical, inhumanly so. A crown of bone adorned his head. His smile was sharp enough to split sanity.
"That thing is your core. Your anchor. Your soul in symbol. And look how it cracks already. Just like you shall."
Kelzior's grin widened, a sliver of bone and malice. "Let me tell you what is happening, so you know exactly how thoroughly you shall lose. Listen well, for my mercy is to teach you what breaks you."
He circled Riser like a serpent, voice echoing off the shrieking canopy. "This is your mind's final veil. The souls' theatre. Here, thought and meaning are one. Here, you and I will not cross blades of steel nor call down petty spells. Here, we battle with identity. Mask against mask. What you are, what you pretend to be, all tested until it splinters."
Kelzior leaned close, breath like grave dust. "And I shall peel you apart piece by piece."
Riser did not flinch. He merely exhaled through his nose, calm as the abyss. So be it, he thought.
⸻
Kelzior's smile turned cruel. "Shall we?"
Without another word, his form shifted, unraveling into scales and fangs and coiled muscle. A serpent, vast as a river, coiled around the tree. Its eyes glowed with deceit and venom, each flick of its tongue dripping poison that sizzled on the screaming faces below.
Riser's mind flickered through memory and myth. The snake, an old symbol of slow death, corrosion, treachery. Very fitting.
He smiled slightly. If you bring poison, I bring the talons.
His own form blurred, bones snapping, feathers tearing through charred flesh. Wings spread wide, shadowed under the bleeding canopy. A bird of prey, vast and regal, claws hooked like scythes. He struck from above, talons raking scales, tearing at the serpent's flesh with cold precision.
The serpent hissed, body coiling tighter. Venom sprayed in arcs that scorched feathers, yet Riser pressed in, ripping scale after scale free, a hunter dismantling its prey.
Kelzior's laughter slithered through the air even as the snake's head split and changed again. Poison gave way to corrosion. The serpent rotted as it shifted, flesh bubbling into corruption given form. Rusted chains snaked outward from the decaying coils, wrapping Riser's wings and dragging him downward.
Corruption. Rot. A thing that devoured all brightness.
Riser's claws scraped the chains. So you would decay me.
His wings smoldered. Feathers burned and fell like embers. Beneath them new feathers regrew, each brighter than flame. He let himself drop, shifting into something else. A white phoenix, body flickering between life and ash. Fire hissed as chains dissolved. He rose again, talons blazing, striking the corruption until it split like old bark.
Kelzior roared, shifting again. Corruption bent into theft, shadows coalescing into a masked figure with countless hands. Each hand grasped, snatched bits of light from the tree's roots and Riser's wings alike.
Riser stumbled back, mind spinning. A thief, now. A parasite. He watched the figure pull flame and memory from him, threading it into an endless cloak.
Above the battle, the orbiting souls drifted in slow circles, whispering their agony. He felt them like static, crawling on the edge of his thoughts.
He countered the thief with conquest. His form lengthened, armored plates of molten gold encasing him. A crown of searing flame hovered over his brow. In one hand he carried a lance of blazing sun. In the other, a shield wrought of charred wings and bone.
He struck the shadows with sovereign force. Light stabbed through the masked thief. For a moment, Kelzior's figure flickered. The many hands withered in the sun's blaze.
But the shadows reformed, always finding cracks in the armor.
The mindscape trembled. Kelzior's laughter oozed from every bleeding branch.
"You think your fire can last forever, little phoenix?"
Riser said nothing. He could feel his thoughts stretching thin, the pressure of millennia pressing against his will. Kelzior's experience in Sorvian and Shadeward was suffocating. Each strike Kelzior landed was precise, leeching parts of Riser's essence.
He is too skilled, Riser thought, mind fracturing under the weight of the conflict. If it continues like this, I will lose.
A thin thread of observation flickered. Riser's gaze drifted to the orbiting souls. Their whispers pressed closer when the thief had torn pieces from him. He remembered the river. The mothers. The offering.
Pieces clicked together behind his eyes.
So that is it, he thought, ignoring the ringing in his skull. The souls feed this place. Not audience but fuel.
He forced a piece of his mind to probe them. One whisper drifted near, a face half-formed in sorrow. Riser reached out, let a wisp slip into his burning shell.
For a heartbeat, strength surged through him. The conquest blaze roared higher. The shadows recoiled.
But another heartbeat later, a voice that was not his laughed inside his skull. A shriek that clawed at the walls of his mind. He felt it scratch at the core of who he was.
Madness. A cost.
Riser exhaled, eyes bright. So that is the game, old devil. Feed on the damned or die clean.
Kelzior's mockery coiled around him, a voice made of barbs. "You flinch at what you taste, vessel. The dead are poisonous. They will devour you from within."
Riser forced a grin, crimson light dancing in his pupils. "You hid that well. Or perhaps not well enough."
He let his mind drift again. Beneath the agony he could feel it , the truth. Kelzior could have used these souls himself. But he had not. He hoarded his own self intact.
Riser parried another strike as Kelzior's form warped again, now a reaper clad in famine and pestilence. Rusted scythes swung at Riser's burning wings. The phoenix dodged, countered with a blinding flare.
He will not risk himself, Riser thought. That is his flaw.
He laughed aloud. Flames danced from his broken mouth. "Is this all you have, snake? Rot and theft and famine? Try devouring hope."
His wings burst outward, feathers like comet trails. Each strike carried the weight of a conqueror's will.
Yet Kelzior met him blow for blow. The older devil's grin never wavered, scythes cutting fresh wounds in the phoenix's burning hide. Shadows bled poison into every strike.
Riser felt himself buckling. He is better. If it stays like this, I am nothing but cinder.
He saw the tree's roots cracking. More souls drifted closer, drawn to the rising heat.
Should I risk it? Should I burn what remains of me for a chance?
He thought of the alternative, becoming Kelzior's shell. A puppet worn by something older than kings.
The answer was obvious.
With grim resolve he spread his wings wide. The souls wailed as he opened himself. Their shapes folded into his blazing chest. Their whispers became storms in his skull.
Kelzior recoiled, scythes dropping for a single heartbeat. "Stop! What are you doing, you fool!"
Riser's laughter cracked like thunder through the mindscape. It came out ragged and half-mad. "So it is as I guessed."
He loomed over Kelzior, burning feathers falling like meteors. "You need me sane to wear my flesh. You need me whole. But you, old snake, will not risk yourself to do what I do."
Kelzior's perfected face twisted, a glimmer of fear coiling behind crimson eyes. He opened his mouth but no mocking rhyme came.
Riser's grin was all teeth and broken flame. "I guessed your heart in the moments between strikes. You care only for yourself. You would not gamble your essence to drown mine."
He laughed again, louder now, as more souls poured into him, shredding the last walls of sanity thread by thread. "You could have done it too, couldn't you?" he spat. "You could've consumed these souls and negated my innate control. But you didn't. You played it safe."
His grin widened, mad and bright. "Because you're a coward at heart. You care about one thing, don't you? Yourself. You could've risked it. But you didn't. Because unlike me, you're not willing to risk madness just to win."
Kelzior's eyes twitched. His voice failed him. The tree shuddered, its leaves igniting in bursts of white flame.
Kelzior raised his scythes but the shadows flickered with doubt. "You dare ….you fool ….you will destroy yourself!"
Kelzior stepped back. A mistake.
Riser's mind fractured further, voices echoing in his skull, but his eyes shone with something bright and final. Riser stood taller, flames of mind-soul-body intertwining. The tree behind him, once cracking, now burned bright.
"I won't let you take this body . Even if I must feed my mind to the abyss to keep you out."
He lunged, feathers and flame and a thousand screaming souls moving as one. Kelzior stood frozen, staring at Riser with a face of pure incomprehension.
Not fear.
Not anger.
But a mind that could not process what it was seeing.
A being who had seen millennia of horror and finally glimpsed something beyond it.
Riser laughed one last time, mad and bright, and the world began to tear.
Author's Note: Here's the new chapter, hot off the metaphorical press!
This one nearly fried my brain. Trying to write a battle of concepts is like trying to juggle metaphors while blindfolded on a unicycle. It was inspired by the oldest game from the Sandman comics, so if it feels like pure madness… that's because it is. Hopefully it's the fun kind of madness and not just me being a narrative gremlin.
Oh, and if you're wondering why Kelzior is out here explaining the ritual mechanics to Riser like he's auditioning for a role as Saturday morning cartoon villain of the week, it's not just drama. He has to. It's literally a condition of starting the ritual. Ancient rules and all that. Bureaucracy meets evil sorcery. Classic combo.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
Uchiha Ryu
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Sep 15, 2021
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- 151
Interesting, I don't believe I ever saw DxD fic that took on full aspect of Devils being able to deal in souls so well before. Please do keep up the good work, it is amazing so far.
KonahrikYol
Local basement dweller | dumber than a leming
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finally a riser si that isn't just porn, rating game bs, or slice of life!
sickboy398
Versed in the lewd.
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I'm Lotm, high sequence battle are usually conceptual, Grounded Angels/ Angels, deities are insane, it can be a great source for inspiration
GoldDoesGames
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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How'd he make the potions? Are they potions one can craft with enough effort?
Chapter 6: Amor Fati
New
abel targayen
Getting sticky.
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AN: So if the beginning feels a little off, that's because I was experimenting—trying out this fancy new high fantasy prose. You know, the kind where every tree has a name, the wind sighs dramatically, and people say "verily" unironically. Basically, I was practicing my inner Tolkien. Results may vary.
Chapter 6: Amor Fati
When the ritual's last echoes had scattered like dying embers, there remained only silence or what passed for silence in the battered corridors of Riser Phenex's mind.
Yet it was no true silence that pressed upon him now, but the hush of a storm before it speaks. Beneath that hush came the whispering of the broken, mad voices gathered where the borders of thought frayed and bled into one another. At first they were distant: a babble of tongues, half-formed prayers or curses gnawed to bone by the centuries.
Then they swelled. The hush broke.
Their ravings rose about him like a flood: words without meaning, syllables that scraped the air raw, laughter gurgling where laughter had no place. The voices wept and gnashed and called him by names he had never worn, father, thief, king, meat. They begged him to drown, to drink them, to let them shatter him into a thousand shards of mirrored thought.
Sound split apart from sound. Light bled through color until he heard red like the peal of cracked bells. The scent of burning leaves and old blood flickered across his vision in streaks of blue flame. His mind trembled at the edges, drawn thin as a blade left too long in the forge.
Riser stood beneath what remained of his anchor: the tree, gnarled and beautiful, once vast with branches like the arms of a god. Now its trunk was blackened, leaves torn and drifting away into the cavernous dark of this mindscape that no longer obeyed shape or reason.
"I do not have much time", he thought, though the thought itself felt as though it had been spoken by a stranger's lips.
Madness coiled around him, not as an enemy to strike him down in open battle, but as a lover whispering seduction at the ear of his reason. Let go, it seemed to say in a thousand voices. Slip beneath the tide. Rest.
But rest was a stranger to Riser Phenex, and pity had no throne within him.
His eyes swept the ruin, the smoldering roots, the drifting ash, the branches that bent beneath an unseen wind. There, within that ruin, flickered a light: splinters of something not his own. They glimmered like coals scattered by a broken hearth. Soul-shards. Pieces of Kelzior Saeros, that ancient devil who had once thought himself eternal.
Any sane men, standing at the edge of their mind's oblivion, would have recoiled at that sight. They would have fled into forgetfulness, or clutched what little of themselves remained until they withered beneath the weight.
But Riser Phenex was no sane man. He was no man at all. He was becoming.
He did not reach for these fragments as a priest might reach for holy relics. He did not bow to them, nor weep for the knowledge they carried. He looked upon them as a starving wanderer might look upon a poisoned spring, to be drunk, risk and all.
So be it, he thought. Better poison than the desert's thirst.
He drew the first fragment into himself. It struck him like a blade drawn across his ribs, visions of ancient betrayal, forbidden rites spoken in palaces where the ceiling dripped with human ash. Secrets hissed in the dark. Pain older than cities. Curses uttered beneath a blood eclipse.
Madness howled at the edges of this offering, gnawed at the thread that was his name. He felt it tug, whispering that it could unmake him if only he would yield. Yield, it said. Yield and be silent.
But Riser's will did not yield. It folded the whisper into silence, pinned it like an insect beneath glass.
Then came the second fragment, then the third, and still he fed upon them. They did not heal him. They did not mend the cracks that split the walls of his mindscape. Instead, they formed new struts, crooked and jagged, upon which he laid the weight of his will.
I do not worship chaos, he thought, as the hush of Kelzior's soul bled through him. I harness it.
He saw himself as if from afar, a figure alone beneath the dying tree, light flickering behind his eyes like the last flame in a ruined citadel. He thought back, not to the abyss that gaped at him now, but to the moment this second life began.
One month. A heartbeat of time by the measure of devils. He had awoken then in a bed too soft for the trials that lay ahead. He had looked upon a world that fed its children to monsters, where kings knelt before claws and shadows spoke in old tongues. Some would have wept then, cursed the fate that cast them from one world into another's teeth.
He had not.
Amor fati. The words rang within him as he drew the last shard of Kelzior's essence into the citadel of his thought. To love one's fate, not merely bear it but to greet the jaws of the beast laughing.
What meaning was there in life unending, rebirth without boundary? Many had broken upon that question. They called it cruelty, proof that nothing endured but pain and entropy. They clutched at gods and duty, nation and kin, as anchors against the storm.
Riser spat upon such chains.
Meaning? he thought, as the last of Kelzior's cunning screamed within him before it fell quiet, bound by the iron of his will. Let lesser men beg for meaning. I am my own purpose. I name my own summit. To conquer, not others only, but myself.
He stood then in the ruin of his mindscape, a storm raging about him, but the core of him glowed like a black star. The tree above him cracked, not with the promise of collapse, but with a promise of rebirth.
He was not saved by these fragments. He made no shrine to them. He bent them to his shape, forged ruin into scaffold. What had been Kelzior's crown became Riser's throne. The whispering madness found no purchase but what he gave it and what he gave it was nothing but obedience.
I am the storm, he thought. I do not stand against it. I ride it to the world's end.
⸻
POV: Zarakura Saeros
In the cavern beyond thought, stone wept with the cold breath of the Dead River.
Zarkaura Saeros lingered at the banks. The torches that lit the cavern guttered, fed by air heavy with sulfur and old secrets. He stood alone, armor polished, hands folded behind his back like a sentinel who believed himself master of what he watched.
The second head did not whisper now, nor the third. Those husks, once vessels for an ancient mind's cunning, were gone. The river's surface rippled with a darkness that never slept, as if it dreamed of mouths waiting below the stone.
Zarkaura pitied the boy, though he would not have named it pity aloud. Such is the fate of the weak, he told himself, watching the black tide shift. Better that they be consumed by the strong. So it has always been. So it shall ever be.
He dreamed of the future then, of a house restored to their glory and beyond, draped in banners that sang of flame and rebirth. His lips parted in a smile that showed more teeth than warmth.
Then the river split.
A shape rose from the depths, as if the black water had grown weary of keeping secrets. Zarkaura stepped back, breath caught in his throat.
What emerged was no trembling wretch, no broken vessel leaking scraps of soul.
Naked.Tall. Perfect
It was a figure fairer than any painted saint. Hair gold as the crown of dawn, skin pale where the torchlight dared touch it. His muscles flowed like divine geometry. Eyes deep crimson, deeper than the river, deeper than the old abyss that birthed devils in days forgotten. They glowed not with hunger, but with dominion.
Power poured from him in silence. It pressed upon Zarkaura's shoulders like a mountain's weight.
At the very least, Peak High-Class, he thought, heart thundering like drums at a sacrificial rite. Grandfather lives.
The figure took three steps forward. The water clung to his bare limbs like reverence.
"Grandfather," Zarkaura whispered, sinking to one knee. His armor clanged against stone slick with ancient blood. Who else could it be? The boy had no chance.
The figure stepped onto land. He walked like royalty. Like destiny.
Zarakura bowed deeper.
This was the rebirth of the Saeros line. Finally, their house would return to glory.
The figure's gaze fell upon him, steady, unblinking. In that gaze, kingdoms might kneel. In that gaze, old gods might find cause to pray.
One pale finger rose. A single word fell, bright and cruel as a star made iron.
"Bang."
Zarkaura's thoughts ended there.
⸻
POV: Riser
When the echo faded, Riser Phenex stepped from the river's hush. Steam rose from his skin where the darkness fled his touch. He reached for the robe Zarkaura had laid out, silk dyed deep with silver thread, fine enough for the shoulders of a king.
He slipped it over his bare frame with no haste. His eyes did not linger upon the ash that once was Zarkaura. He did not need to.
A whisper of laughter flickered past his lips, bright, almost gentle.
"He really thought I was his grandfather," Riser mused aloud, voice like honey and knives.
"I didn't even have to act. He'd convinced himself Kelzior couldn't lose. He let his guard down."
He chuckled.
"Pride always comes before the fall."
Then he laughed harder, shoulders shaking with something between cruelty and joy.
He flexed a hand, curling and uncurling the fingers as if testing their truth.
Power hummed beneath his ribs. Not the stolen shade of Kelzior's cruelty, but the raw, singing promise of new dominion. Peak High-Class, at the least, and yet only a single stone upon a stairway without summit.
Riser Phenex looked down at the silver armor prepared by Zarkaura's trembling hope, a promise of borrowed greatness. He ran a finger along its polished edge, and a smile, bright and cold, flickered across his face.
"One step," he said to the dark cavern that once housed monsters and prayers alike. "One step toward my true ambition."
With the robe about his shoulders and the armor at his feet, he turned from the river's hush.
Back to the world he went, laughing not for the world's sake, but for his own.
For what was fate but another stone to tread upon?
-----------------------------------------------------
POV: Ryzephar Phenex
It had been three weeks.
Three weeks since Ryzephar Phenex watched his youngest nephew ride out with thirty devils, banners proud and hearts eager for glory. Three weeks since he'd let the boy talk him into it, so easy, so smooth, so unnaturally persuasive.
Why had he agreed?
Why indeed.
Why had I let him go? The question was poison, bitter upon the tongue of thought. He had replayed that hour endlessly: Riser, that bold spark of reckless fire, standing before him in the meeting chambers, voice steady as any captain thrice his years. He had asked to join the expedition into the Northern Reach, the old forests where legends were said to rot among twisted roots. And Ryzephar, the Warden of the North, eldest of his line save for Lord Aurelius himself, had given leave. Freely, yes. Or so he had believed.
Yet even now, seated in the hush that follows folly, he knew that he had not been himself when he spoke that fateful consent. His thoughts had been gauzy, as though steeped in some heavy wine. A warmth had weighed his reason, blurring caution, singing him toward ruin with the soft promise of destiny. As though fate itself or some hand masquerading in its cloak, had guided him to betray his own blood.
A fog had wrapped his mind. He saw it now for what it was: a trick.
A puppet string wound into his very thoughts. And when the fog lifted, horror came with it.
Someone had bent his will. Someone had made him send Riser Phenex, his brother's son, into the mouth of Hell itself.
When the truth cracked open, Ryzephar had acted fast.He had summoned the messengers at once, pale devils clad in the runes of secrecy and sent them winging toward the capital where his brother Aurelius Phenex kept his court. No word of the trespass. Not yet. Only a request for an adept in the mind-arts, one skilled in unweaving the curses that bind thought to foreign hands. .
Aurelius, bound by blood older than any kingdom now breathing, asked no needless question. Within days the adept had come, faceless behind a mask of silver, robed in the dusk-light of ancient runes. In the hush of his chamber, Ryzephar had bared his skull like a penitent before a surgeon's blade.
"Yes," the old devil confirmed, voice soft with pity. "You were made to want it. The strings are cut now, but the knife remains."
So Ryzephar made himself a promise: If there was even a breath left in his nephew's chest — he would find it. Or bring vengeance enough to drown Hell in blood.
⸻
They gathered at dawn: ten devils of high rank, who could level a mountain with their might, twenty elite hunters and mind-wardens with hellhounds foaming at the leash.
They hunted into the forest's veins, old woods where the sun never shone, roots tangled in old sins, trees that wept pitch instead of sap. They found signs: hoofprints like claw-marks, a dead wolf here and there, stripped of color, skin like brittle parchment.
Then came the corpses.
A devil crucified upside-down on a spear of black iron. Another split open and stuffed with ravens. The symbols on the trees were not words but wounds, bleeding meaning into the earth.
Some horrors made even Ryzephar's soul flinch and he had seen centuries.
And yet they pressed on.
⸻
They found the last stand at dusk:
A clearing where severed hands bloomed like flowers, eyes nailed to bark in a ring of silent witness.
He recognized the faces, Abygral of House Mengis, Tenebrael's jaw lying open in a circle of flies.
"Ambushed by demonic wolves and something else," someone whispered.
Ryzephar did not answer. He felt no wind, only the iron taste of finality. The last hope that his nephew might walk out of this forest whole began to flicker.
And then the shadows came.
⸻
They rose from the roots and the black air: four shapes of shadow and flame. Shadow Warlocks. He knew the tales, and the price they demanded in flesh.
"Formation!" Ryzephar barked.
The Phenex elites moved like one: circle tight, weapons drawn, wards flaring bright in the dusk.
The first blow fell — a snap of hellfire against sigils of defense. They met force with force, strategy with cold resolve.
Divide them, that was the only way. A hive-mind must be splintered, broken like a brittle bone.
They clashed in silence broken only by roars and the wet tearing of reality itself.
They killed one. A good sign. But the cost was time.
Ryzephar felt it before he saw it, a chill, a ripple of unseen knives pressing against the back of his neck.
The warlock hissed in a tongue that hated the world.
And the forest answered.
A sea of eyes blinked open between the trees. Demonic wolves, thousands.
"We are surrounded…" someone breathed.
"You don't say." Ryzephar bit it back, lips pressed to a grim line. His mind raced. The strategy shifted: hold the line, buy the mages time, draw their strength into one final obliteration.
The wolves came in waves, a red tide over black soil.
Steel and flame met fur and fang. A high-class devil split ten at a time, but for every beast slain, ten more slithered free from the dark.
They fought thirty minutes, thirty years in a heartbeat. Ryzephar did deeds surpassing of valour, holding the line where it should have broken, carving down wolves and flinging shadow back into shadow.
Then, the two devils in the middle, guarded by their kin, shouted their spell complete. Ryzephar's hand rose. The sign given.
The forest turned white.
An explosion carved a new crater in Hell's skin, two kilometers wide, a sun of ruin that devoured trees, wolves, shadows.
When the thunder faded, the silence mocked them.
Five shapes still stood.
Five Shadow Warlocks, fresh as newborn flame, glaring with molten hate.
Ryzephar's heart sank. His devils bled around him, only six high-class left standing, two middle-class crouched behind them, wide-eyed.
The rest?
Fuel for the forest now.
The Warlocks hissed as one, a sound like knives under the tongue. They moved as a single will, circling.
Ryzephar read the truth in that molten halo of hate: Death.
There would be no legend sung of this place. No grave for his nephew. No redemption for his own folly. Only shadow and ruin.
⸻
But then, the world cracked.
Something faster than thought, faster than sound, hit one of the Warlocks like a thunderbolt from the black sky.
A crater bloomed where its chest had been.
The hive-mind shrieked, momentarily severed.
Dust rolled like stormclouds, and from that ruin stepped a figure.
From the ruin rose a tall figure clad in silver like moonlight upon a stormy tide. Hair bright as dawn's first flame. Eyes crimson as the birth of suns.
Riser Phenex.
He raised two fingers to his temple, mock salute. Smirked.
"Miss me?" he said, as if the whole forest wasn't watching him reborn.
----------------------------------------------
POV: Riser Phenex
The wolves were the first to flee. One heartbeat, they snarled and circled, the next, they vanished, tails tucked between legs, eyes wide with primal dread.
Riser let his demonic aura unfurl, a blazing storm of golden flame laced with something colder, older, stitched from Kelzior's bones and his own sovereign will. The forest itself seemed to recoil.
Only five shapes remained. Cloaked in smoke, rimmed in dull flame, the Shadow Warlocks held their ground. No mortal foe, these — but something older, a hive bound by ruin and pact, five bodies moved by one feral mind. Even wolves had fled their presence before. Even lords of lesser rank would turn back at the sight of their slithering flame.
Riser rolled his neck, silver armor whispering over skin still wet from the river of the dead. His crimson eyes gleamed with manic delight.
"Well then…" he purred, voice like velvet over a dagger's edge. "…Shall we dance?"
They lunged, five as one, the swarm-mind howling silent in the air. They were fast, devils born of nightmare and abyss, flame and shadow stitched into muscle that moved at twice the speed of thunder.
But Riser was faster. He blurred forward, a streak of gold and silver.
The first Warlock's claw came, trailing a wake of shadow-fire meant to shear through the marrow of lesser devils. Riser's palm flicked up, flame gathering at his knuckles like a jewelled gauntlet, and he struck aside the blow with a contemptuous twist. Another Warlock flanked him from the left, shadow tendrils blooming like roots seeking his throat.
Too slow.
Riser vanished, the world swallowing his presence in a heartbeat, then reappeared behind the Warlock, a flaming spear forming in his hand mid-lunge. It was the Blazing Spear, conjured with the ease of a noble plucking wine from a feast-table. The spear punched through layered shadows, pinned the shrieking creature to the black earth. Its flame roared inward, a hateful bloom that devoured what should not burn.
He turned before the corpse struck the moss, already smiling at the next two.
They came at angles, one high, one low, moving faster now, driven by rage and the tearing loss in their collective mind. But for every speed they found, Riser found greater. His body, reshaped by Kelzior Saeros' mad rituals, was not merely that of a Phenex but a vessel tuned to bear ruin. His limbs blurred, his steps struck roots to cinders.
A claw grazed his cheek, flame hissed, the wound gone before pain could register. In its place: laughter. A flick of his hand, and he wove flames into ravens, Fire Ravens screaming from his outstretched fingers. They tore through the clearing like burning omens, harrying the Warlocks, pecking and exploding in sudden bursts. One raven crashed into the skull of the closest, detonating with a shriek that shook branches overhead.
As the Warlock reeled, Riser closed in, faster than the hush between two heartbeats, and drove his fist into its chest. Fire Infusion: the blow not only broke bone but spilled flame inside. He twisted, a lover's grace turned to slaughter, and triggered the bloom. The Warlock erupted from within, its shriek cut short by cleansing fire.
Three left. Still they circled him, but now a trace of uncertainty fluttered at the edges of their unity. Riser sensed it. He smelled it like a beast scents blood.
"Ah," he mocked, rolling his shoulders beneath the gleaming plate. "Where is the fabled strength of the mighty warlocks? You lunge like curs without a leash or master."
One lunged, driven by that same spark of rage. Riser met it head-on, body clad in Fire Armor, a corona of white flame that melted the warlocks' claws on contact. His fists cracked ribs made of dusk and memory — each blow infused with embers that burrowed deeper, blooming into sudden, vicious eruptions. From nothing, flame congealed into a blade, a scimitar of crimson heat, its edge flickering with runes too ancient for mortal tongues. They clashed: the Warlock's claws sparked against the conjured blade. Sparks burst like embers caught in the wind.
Riser's grin widened as he parried a savage blow. "Weakness investigation," he murmured. His eyes flickered, the Cull sang through his veins, pinpointing flaws in their churning shadows.
He traced the Warlock's core beneath the tangled shadows, a knot of devouring flame that pulsed within its chest.
"Found you," he whispered. His sword flicked, a blur of motion, and the blade's edge turned to his stolen art: Dismantle. The cut seemed slight. But a heartbeat later the Warlock's chest peeled open, parted like silk to the blade's passing, and a gout of searing fire devoured it from within.
Two left now.
The last pair came together, shadows fusing into a single monstrous shape, arms doubling, claws blacker than tomb-soil, its flame fused with void-light that cracked the air like a storm. They charged. The forest trembled at their roar. This was the full might of the hive, the living knot that had undone the expedition, that had hollowed the devils whose bones still decorated this glade of nightmares.
Riser only bared his teeth, a grin carved of arrogance, flame and old delight. He lifted his free palm. Flame gathered, folding in upon itself like a star birthing its own ruin.
Compression.
Deeper. Denser. The fire hissed as though alive, the air warping around it. A Giant Fireball, but one compressed so tightly that its light was a core of white within the palm, a miniature sun caged in his fist. He spoke no incantation. He needed none. The flame obeyed because it remembered him, a phenex, and it was eager to devour.
As the fused Warlocks came within a blade's length, Riser thrust the orb into the soil between them. He stepped back, and his smile was wicked with promise.
"Boom," he whispered.
The ground cracked open. Flame swallowed root and bone alike. The Giant Fireball burst outward with surgical violence, not scattered chaos, but precise ruin. A ring of white flame erupted around the Warlocks, searing their shadows apart even as they howled, splitting in pain that could not be uttered by mortal tongue.
They stumbled from the ruin. One tried to flee, dragging what remained of its conjoined half. But Riser was already moving, faster than the eye, the mind, the soul. He reappeared at its back, hand outstretched. The space around his palm shimmered, Kelzior's legacy made manifest.
Dismantle.
An invisible slash parted the Warlock from throat to spine, no flame, no roar, only the whisper of air giving way to will. The Warlock fell in halves, both still alight with ruinous flame.
And so, silence. The forest, still dripping with the hush of ancient rot, now echoed with only Riser's laughter, softer now, though no less terrible.
The blast turned the glade into a sunrise. When the light faded, nothing remained but drifting embers.
Riser stood there, chest heaving, silver armor cracked but whole, flesh knitting itself back together as fast as it split. He tasted the char in the air, grinned, flexing fingers that trembled not with weakness but with victory.
Behind him, Ryzephar Phenex and the battered survivors stared, not at their enemy but at the thing they had reclaimed. The nephew who stood laughing amid ruin , golden, terrible.
Riser turned to them, eyes gleaming like a predator's in dawn's fire.
He smiled wide, perfect and terrible, his eyes alight with a madness that danced like a prophecy yet to be spoken.
-----------------------------------------
POV: Ryzephar Phenex
Ryzephar stood frozen, breath caught halfway in his lungs. The air trembled around him, as if the forest's charred earth itself bent its knees to the figure clad in silver flame.
The wolves had fled, the Shadow Warlocks were ash, but what remained was worse. The devil who gazed with madness.
The aura Riser exuded was wrong. It was not the savage, crawling dread of the Warlocks' abyssal shadows. It was bright, terrible, royal. It pierced flesh like a thousand blades. It whispered ruin and triumph in the same breath. Ryzephar, a devil near a millennium old, found himself fearing the very air that touched his skin.
He dared speak. His voice rasped like old parchment. "Riser?"
And the vision turned smiling, beautiful, lethal.
"Hello there, Uncle."
A voice like honey over coals, beautiful, melodic, yet brimming with something that refused to be named.
Ryzephar drank in the sight. This impossible thing that claimed to be his kin. Taller, easily six and a half feet now with golden hair falling in perfect waves, framing a face that mocked marble with its cruel perfection. His features were sculpted too finely for nature's chisel. Fae-like, dreamlike, but more than that: they were alive, every subtle flicker of the brow, the twist of his lips, the iron alertness in crimson eyes.
It was the bearing that struck him dumb. Riser stood not like a boy, nor a scion, nor even a prince. He stood like a king. No, a conqueror. No tremor of doubt, no humility to mask the tyrant in his veins.
His silver armor shimmered under the bloodied sky. Ryzephar's mind, ever the scholar, marked runes and arcane lattices forged of metals rarer than phoenix's ash. This was no mere armor, it was testament.
And then Riser spoke, voice clear enough to make the wind stand still.
"The tribulation is over."
The words rolled across the scorched clearing like a royal decree. Ryzephar felt, absurdly, that Hell itself would bow its horned head if commanded.
He did not argue. He could not. Not after seeing five High-Class monsters swatted aside like children.
He turned, voice booming with what command his battered soul could muster. "We move! Back to the stronghold, now! Carry the wounded and burn what remains, this ground is cursed."
His devils obeyed with grateful desperation. Even in ruin, they found renewed purpose in the monstrous shadow of the new Riser Phenex.
⸻
It took hours to trudge back through the gnarled woods, the horror of the forest left behind, the shadow of warlocks replaced by whispers of a rumor no one dared speak aloud. Beside him, Riser glided rather than walked, as though the earth feared to stain him.
At the gates of the fortress, Seorin, his daughter, first of his blood and his hope for their House's future, awaited with her retinue. She wore black mail and a blade at her hip, yet when she saw her father alive, dignity melted in an instant.
"Father!"
She flew into his arms, armor clanging against his. He held her tightly, feeling the mortal warmth of family for a heartbeat longer than he should have.
Then her gaze lifted and found him.
Riser Phenex stepped through the dusk, flames dancing across his silver chestplate, crimson eyes glinting with a mirth too sharp to touch. Seorin's breath caught in her throat. Ryzephar felt it, the way the devils behind her stilled. It was as if an archangel or a demon-lord masquerading as one had stepped through Hell's gate.
Riser tilted his head, a sly half-smile curling his mouth. "You'll catch flies, cousin. And I'm hardly that holy … yet."
Seorin startled, color rose to her cheeks so fast Ryzephar almost laughed. She regained herself in a rush, stepped forward and, daring what the air told her not to dare, flung her arms around the Phenex reborn.
Riser let out a soft, bemused chuckle, one hand brushing over her back like a priest blessing a penitent. When she stepped away, dazed but radiant. Ryzephar knew there would be songs sung of this moment before dawn broke.
⸻
He cleared his throat, the fortress quieted, all eyes fixed on him. His old voice boomed with the weight of centuries and a theater devil-kind adored.
"Hear me! Devils of House Phenex, hear what befell in the accursed woods!"
He spun them a tale as old as their blood, of wolves and shadows, betrayal and slaughter. He spoke of how they, the faithful, carved a path through horror with fang and flame. He told of sacrifice "More than half our strength, gone but not in vain!"
Then his voice rose, thunder cracking the hush of night.
"For when our ruin seemed certain, when the abyss yawned wide, who returned from the jaws of death? Who burned the shadows to cinder? Who stands before you now stronger, brighter, terrible and glorious, our scion, our hope?"
He turned , pointed, the gesture more dramatic than any stage.
"Riser Phenex!"
They cheered, how could they not? Devils are creatures of spectacle and what spectacle stood before them now?
Ryzephar caught the briefest flicker of amusement in Riser's eye, a prince pleased with his court, perhaps. When the roar of adoration quieted, Ryzephar bellowed:
"Spread the word! Spread it through every hall and hearth, the tribulation is over!"
⸻
When the clamor faded, Ryzephar turned, a quiet word perched on his lips.
"Nephew, we must speak. There is much—"
Riser held up a hand, graceful, imperious. His crimson eyes gleamed like sunset reflected in a blade.
"Later, Uncle. I must see my Queen."
No apology. None was needed nor dared be demanded.
Ryzephar only bowed his head. The Mad Phenex had returned. There would be no commanding him now.
⸻
And so the devils parted, a tide making way for a storm. Riser Phenex, clad in silver and crowned in flame, strode toward the heart of the stronghold, where Yubellana waited.
He did not look back.
----------------------------------------------
POV: Riser Phenex
Riser strode down the fortress corridor, silver boots echoing against ancient stone. Eyes followed him, devils in black mail and crimson cloaks parted like mortal waves before a storm. Some bowed their heads, some dared not breathe. A few, braver or more foolish, let their gaze linger on the impossible symmetry of his face, then quickly looked away, cheeks burning, hearts drumming.
He felt it, the hush in the air, the reverence born not of love but of fear and awe. As it should be, he mused, a flicker of amusement curling the corner of his lips. Among devils, strength is the iron coin that buys respect. Without it, one is nothing but mocked, toyed with, devoured. He smiled as he walked. How swiftly they learn to kneel when power stands before them.
Ahead, the carved doors of his Queen's chamber rose like a promise. He rapped his knuckles against them, gentle, polite. A faint voice, warm yet weary: "Enter."
He did and felt the world catch its breath.
Yubellana Phenex, his beautiful Queen, sat wrapped in a silken robe. Her hair, glowing purple and soft as midnight, tumbled down her shoulders. She turned and the shock that flooded her face was almost comical.
Riser bit down a laugh. I suppose I'll have to grow used to this, he thought wryly. Beauty, power, devils worship them both. And I am both.
⸻
Yubellana's stupor broke like glass under a storm. She leapt from the bed, a blur of silken limbs and tremulous sobs and threw herself into his arms.
"Master— Riser— I—" Her words broke against his chest as laughter and tears spilled together. "I was so worried— when I woke they told me— you'd volunteered— some damned suicide mission— What were they thinking— what were you thinking—"
Her voice trembled. Her fingers dug into his back as though to swear he'd never vanish again.
Riser said nothing, he only held her. Sometimes, a king's comfort was not in words but in silence and in the unyielding strength of an embrace that promised I remain.
For long minutes she wept until the tremors softened, the sobs turned to small, broken laughs muffled against his chest.
⸻
He drew her gently to the bed, silk sheets, the hush of a chamber made for whispered confessions.
"Are you well now?" he asked softly and not of her tears, but of the exhaustion that had hollowed her when last he saw her. That felt like a lifetime ago.
She sniffed, wiping her cheeks. Her eyes shone, bright, alive. "Ye- yes, my demonic energy's back. The drain from the last ritual, it's healed. My technique, Explosion Creation, I'll be able to use it again soon."
He smiled, radiant, careless. "Good. I'd hate to think my Queen was anything less than terrifying in her own right."
She laughed, a flush rising under pale skin. Then her eyes flicked up, curious but shy. "And you…? this…this change. This… power? Master…forgive me but how…?"
He chuckled, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. "Curiosity suits you. The forest was… educational, let's say."
So he told her, in the broad strokes devils love. Of wolves with fangs like black glass. Of shadow-warlocks lurking like cancerous veins in the roots of the world. Of betrayal, a captain named Zarakura Saeros who betrayed them.
He did not speak of the ancient devil that wore his face. Nor of the mindscape war and the tormented choir of souls he devoured. Some truths were for kings alone.
Yubellana listened, rapt, lips parted, breathing shallow. Not just love now in her eyes but something more. Worship, raw and unblinking. A queen undone by the sheer certainty of the tyrant she called her master.
They spoke of other things, softer things, old memories, small jests. He teased her and she laughed until her shoulders trembled. When he rose at last, she clung to him once more, timid now, as though he were a relic too holy to touch. Her lips brushed his, feather-light, burning.
"Go then," she whispered. "Before I lose my mind and beg you to stay."
Riser grinned, wolfish, dazzling. "Your mind is already mine, my Queen."
And with a final lingering kiss, he slipped from her chamber, silver boots silent on old stone.
⸻
The fortress seemed smaller when he strode through it now a gilded cage of granite and iron that bowed before him. Servants flinched, warriors bowed. Riser did not pause, only smiled, the monster king cloaked in flesh.
⸻
He found Ryzephar and Seorin in the private hall, a low room walled in ancient obsidian and lined with flickering braziers. A table was set, fine wine, roasted meat and warm bread. Comforts for devils who knew how close death had come.
They rose when he entered, as if a god had stepped across the threshold.
Ryzephar spoke first, voice careful and respectful. "Nephew. Please take a seat and break bread with us."
Riser sat. His crimson eyes gleamed in the braziers' glow, mirth and calculation dancing behind the smile.
"Uncle. Cousin." He inclined his head to Seorin, who flinched at his gaze but did not look away. Brave girl, he thought, amused.
⸻
They poured wine. Dark as blood, older than mortal kingdoms.
"How fares your wound, Uncle?" Riser asked lightly, voice smooth as silk. "Shadows and wolves leave marks."
Ryzephar cleared his throat, the old devil's fingers tightened on the goblet. "No fatal injuries, thank Lucifer. I remain hale enough, though I will need some time to be what I was."
"Good," Riser murmured, each word both blessing and judgment.
He let the pause linger, then tilted his head, eyes sharp as razors. "But what were you doing in that damned forest, Uncle? With so few devils at your side?"
Ryzephar's mouth worked. Seorin's eyes flicked between them, wary as a cornered doe.
The old devil sighed. "A folly. My folly. When you volunteered for that expedition, I… I allowed it." He grimaced, shame crawling over ancient features. "But when my mind cleared, I knew someone guided me. Bent my will. I was not my own."
Riser's smile did not waver but the glow behind his eyes turned cold.
Ryzephar pushed on, words tripping over each other like penitent monks. "I sent for a mind-breaker, they confirmed it. So I gathered my best trackers, the sharpest hounds, and went to find you. To redeem my mistake. We met wolves, ambushes, the shadow plague that hunted you. Had you not come when you did—"
Riser raised a hand, the room silenced. He leaned back, a king on a throne of simple wood and iron.
"And I may know the mind that touched yours, Uncle. Only one devil I know favors whispers over steel, Zarakura Saeros."
Seorin gasped. Ryzephar's hand clenched so hard the goblet cracked.
Riser's smile was all teeth now, a serpent's delight. "He betrayed me. Sold us to wolves. Tried to cut my throat in the dark."
He did not tell them of Kelzior, of ancient bone crowns and soul-crushing rituals. Some truths were the marrow of monsters.
⸻
They spoke a while longer, words swirling like smoke over blood-red wine. Ryzephar and Seorin asked questions they dared not voice outright. Where he had found such power, how he still was. But Riser only laughed, a soft and terrible thing and gave them nothing more.
When the wine was drained, he rose, cloak rustling like dragon's wings.
"Rest well, Uncle. Cousin."
He turned to go but Ryzephar called out, voice hoarse with some fragile hope.
"Riser, before you vanish into the dark again, your father, Lord Aurelius, sends word. There will be an annulet, a grand gathering in the capital. To celebrate the end of this tribulation."
Riser paused at the door. Crimson eyes gleaming like sunrise through a crimson sea.
"Good." He smiled, a promise, a threat, a crown forged in one word.
------------------------------------------
POV: Riser Phenex
Riser Phenex adjusted the silver armor that clung to him like liquid moonlight, catching the fire-glow of the fortress torches. Its polished plates gleamed with arcane runes, a subtle show of wealth, and more importantly, a reminder of what he had become. The corridor leading out of his uncle's keep was lined with devils. Warriors, maids, even old scribes, all bowing low as he passed, heads lowered so deeply they nearly kissed the black stone floor.
He did not slow. Let them feel the weight of the Phenex name now reforged in him. Let them fear it, envy it, worship it. Respect born of power was the only currency devils never devalued.
Behind him, Yubellana kept pace, her steps light, her eyes flicking between his armored back and the awed whispers that followed them. He caught the echo of her thoughts in the soft rustle of her breath: disbelief, adoration and the smallest quiver of fear, that new and delicious offering.
His uncle had been the one to suggest he wear the armor. "Let the family see with their eyes what words cannot hold," Ryzephar had said. Riser agreed. He was no fool, spectacle mattered. In a world where devils wrote their truths in fire and blood, you announced your legend with iron and radiance.
And now, as the teleportation circle shimmered before him, its runes old as the Phenex name itself. Riser Phenex prepared to step into the ancestral seat of his House, where marble halls rose like frozen flame and judgement waited behind a father's throne.
He turned once, glanced at Yubellana. She looked beautiful and breakable all at once and he loved that about her.
"Ready, my Queen?" he asked, voice warm, mocking and affectionate all at once.
She nodded, eyes shining. "Always."
The circle flared and the world twisted.
POV: Rahella Phenex
The great throne room of the Phenex ancestral hold was carved from white marble veined with gold and shaped by devils who had long since become myth. A thousand candles flickered in iron sconces shaped like wings. Velvet banners bearing the Phenex crest, the immortal bird, aflame but never ash, hung like crimson rivers from the vaulted ceiling.
Rahella Phenex stood beside the massive throne of her husband, Lord Aurelius Phenex. To his right, tall and brooding, stood their eldest son and heir, Ruval Phenex, his eyes hard as diamond, jaw tight. Beside him, Rionas Phenex. Second son, sharp-eyed and perpetually amused, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Ravel, her youngest, perched near Rionas, trying and failing to appear calm, one slim hand twisting the hem of her sleeve
The air was thick, curdled with disbelief and rage and dread. The message, that cursed, blessed message from her brother Ryzephar still weighed on Rahella's mind like a stone chained to her heart.
She remembered how her hands had trembled when she broke the seal. How her breath had caught when she read the first lines, her Riser, her youngest son, fighting a Minotaur. A Minotaur!
He was fifteen. In the eyes of their kind, a boy barely grown enough to survive a proper duel and he had thrown himself at a beast that could break ancient high-class devils over its knee like twigs.
She'd nearly burned the letter in a fit of rage. Only Aurelius' calm had steadied her, his voice like an anvil dropped on flame. "Read it all," he'd told her. "Then decide if you will weep or roar."
And so she read on. How her brother praised Riser's cunning, his devil's wit, how he had used the battlefield like a blade to weaken the Minotaur before striking its heart. For a moment, she'd allowed herself a fragile flicker of pride.
But then the tale darkened. How Ryzephar, that old fool, had allowed her son to volunteer for a death march, an expedition deep into cursed territory teeming with demonic wolves and crawling with shadow warlocks. How he had been mind-controlled, a power so subtle and terrifying it froze Rahella's blood cold. If such arts could bend her brother, what chance did her bright, reckless boy have?
And then came the words that nearly drove her mad: ambush, massacre, betrayal. Zarakura Saeros, that snake. The betrayal, the kidnapping. How her son vanished, presumed dead while Ryzephar scoured the forests with what remained of his best.
She remembered gripping Aurelius' hand so tight her nails drew blood.
And then, the impossible twist. Her brother's words painted a picture that strained reason: her boy, clad in silver armor like some vengeful archangel, descending on the battlefield like a falling star. Five shadow warlocks, high-class beings, monstrous in cunning and cruelty cut down like wheat under a Flaming sword. Ryzephar swore it was no embellishment. Her brother was a man who did not gild horrors.
She remembered the line that made her breath catch in her throat: "…and then, when hope was lost, a figure clad in silver fell from the sky like a burning star. He alone stood against five of the Shadow Warlocks, and he alone stood when the ashes cleared."
It sounded like a tale told by trembling mortal bards, not a mother's truth.
Her mind reeled. A month ago, Riser had barely grasped the raw edge of high-class power. Now he wielded it like a crown. How? How did her foolish, bright-eyed son grow teeth so quickly?
A mother's pride battled a mother's fury. The moment she saw him, that beautiful, reckless boy. She would hold him tight and then shake him until his bones rattled.
⸻
A sound broke her thoughts, a flicker of rune-fire. The air shimmered at the heart of the throne room. The family turned as one, devils of ancient blood holding their breath.
From the spiral of white flame stepped Him.
⸻
At first she thought the rune-fire tricked her. Surely no flesh could bear such a sculpted cruelty of beauty. Yet there he was. No flicker, no mirage. Tall, taller than when he'd left, impossibly so, now near six and a half feet of sinuous power. His hair spilled like molten gold, each strand catching the torchlight and throwing it back tenfold. His skin pale, near porcelain, the sheen of pearl beneath an ancient moon. He moved like a blade unsheathed, gliding across the cold marble as if the ground itself bent to bear him gently.
His armor, silver wrought in flowing lines, runes dancing along the plates like captive embers. It clung to him perfectly. Not heavy, but regal, a second skin of war and legend. His face, Rahella could scarcely name the horror and awe it conjured. Cheekbones sharp as truth, lips curved with a softness that mocked the edges of the world. Eyes, crimson suns, burning with a mirth that made one wish to kneel and avert the gaze lest it see too deeply.
He looked like the Archangel Michael, she thought dazedly, if Michael had grown tired of Heaven and carved himself a throne in Hell instead.
There were no illusions here. Devils were masters of mask and glamour, but what he wore was more terrible: truth. There was no trick, no borrowed flame. This was what her son had become: the crown of fire that devours its own ashes and is reborn brighter.
Riser Phenex smiled.
And in that single gesture, so gentle, so effortless, the room's cold dread fractured. His smile was spring rain on scorched earth, a summer wind through endless dusk. It made fools forget the blades he carried behind his teeth.
"Father. Mother. Brother. Sister."
His voice was music, soft yet ringing like a blade unsheathed. He stepped forward, boots silent as falling stars, and bowed just enough, perfectly judged, perfectly poised. Not submission. Not quite defiance. Something else: a reminder that they would find no boy here now, only something they had forged in fire and fear, only to lose control of it.
He turned that smile to his father, his brothers, his sister and each found themselves caught in its impossible warmth, wondering where the line lay between devotion and dread.
⸻
Rahella felt tears burning the corners of her eyes. Pride, fury, fear. All a mother's weapons turned against herself.
He is beautiful, she thought numbly. Terrible, terrible and beautiful. The devil's child, now the devils' king in waiting.
Aurelius Phenex, iron-eyed lord of their immortal line, opened his mouth to speak, to question, to scold, to demand the truth behind this impossible creature that now wore his son's face.
But Riser only tilted his head and the smile that danced on his lips made his words die on his throat.
AN: Here we are again folks—a new chapter has dropped and hoo boy, this one's a beast. Easily the longest I've written so far, but hey, the arc is finally done. Time to exhale dramatically.
Yes, there was a lot of "Oh my god, Riser is so hot" and a bit of fangirling sprinkled throughout. I regret nothing. Blame the characters. They're just very enthusiastic about their flaming bird boy.
I hope the mental battle conclusion felt satisfying and not like Riser was wrapped in five layers of indestructible plot armor. And I really hope you enjoyed the fight with the shadow warlocks. It was my first time ever writing a full action scene, and I went full mad scientist mode with Riser's fire manipulation and weird new techniques.
Anyway, as always, throw whatever you've got at me—feedback, criticism, compliments, dramatic rants, or well-aimed tomatoes. I'd love to hear what you think and how I can keep improving.
Chapter 6: Amor Fati
When the ritual's last echoes had scattered like dying embers, there remained only silence or what passed for silence in the battered corridors of Riser Phenex's mind.
Yet it was no true silence that pressed upon him now, but the hush of a storm before it speaks. Beneath that hush came the whispering of the broken, mad voices gathered where the borders of thought frayed and bled into one another. At first they were distant: a babble of tongues, half-formed prayers or curses gnawed to bone by the centuries.
Then they swelled. The hush broke.
Their ravings rose about him like a flood: words without meaning, syllables that scraped the air raw, laughter gurgling where laughter had no place. The voices wept and gnashed and called him by names he had never worn, father, thief, king, meat. They begged him to drown, to drink them, to let them shatter him into a thousand shards of mirrored thought.
Sound split apart from sound. Light bled through color until he heard red like the peal of cracked bells. The scent of burning leaves and old blood flickered across his vision in streaks of blue flame. His mind trembled at the edges, drawn thin as a blade left too long in the forge.
Riser stood beneath what remained of his anchor: the tree, gnarled and beautiful, once vast with branches like the arms of a god. Now its trunk was blackened, leaves torn and drifting away into the cavernous dark of this mindscape that no longer obeyed shape or reason.
"I do not have much time", he thought, though the thought itself felt as though it had been spoken by a stranger's lips.
Madness coiled around him, not as an enemy to strike him down in open battle, but as a lover whispering seduction at the ear of his reason. Let go, it seemed to say in a thousand voices. Slip beneath the tide. Rest.
But rest was a stranger to Riser Phenex, and pity had no throne within him.
His eyes swept the ruin, the smoldering roots, the drifting ash, the branches that bent beneath an unseen wind. There, within that ruin, flickered a light: splinters of something not his own. They glimmered like coals scattered by a broken hearth. Soul-shards. Pieces of Kelzior Saeros, that ancient devil who had once thought himself eternal.
Any sane men, standing at the edge of their mind's oblivion, would have recoiled at that sight. They would have fled into forgetfulness, or clutched what little of themselves remained until they withered beneath the weight.
But Riser Phenex was no sane man. He was no man at all. He was becoming.
He did not reach for these fragments as a priest might reach for holy relics. He did not bow to them, nor weep for the knowledge they carried. He looked upon them as a starving wanderer might look upon a poisoned spring, to be drunk, risk and all.
So be it, he thought. Better poison than the desert's thirst.
He drew the first fragment into himself. It struck him like a blade drawn across his ribs, visions of ancient betrayal, forbidden rites spoken in palaces where the ceiling dripped with human ash. Secrets hissed in the dark. Pain older than cities. Curses uttered beneath a blood eclipse.
Madness howled at the edges of this offering, gnawed at the thread that was his name. He felt it tug, whispering that it could unmake him if only he would yield. Yield, it said. Yield and be silent.
But Riser's will did not yield. It folded the whisper into silence, pinned it like an insect beneath glass.
Then came the second fragment, then the third, and still he fed upon them. They did not heal him. They did not mend the cracks that split the walls of his mindscape. Instead, they formed new struts, crooked and jagged, upon which he laid the weight of his will.
I do not worship chaos, he thought, as the hush of Kelzior's soul bled through him. I harness it.
He saw himself as if from afar, a figure alone beneath the dying tree, light flickering behind his eyes like the last flame in a ruined citadel. He thought back, not to the abyss that gaped at him now, but to the moment this second life began.
One month. A heartbeat of time by the measure of devils. He had awoken then in a bed too soft for the trials that lay ahead. He had looked upon a world that fed its children to monsters, where kings knelt before claws and shadows spoke in old tongues. Some would have wept then, cursed the fate that cast them from one world into another's teeth.
He had not.
Amor fati. The words rang within him as he drew the last shard of Kelzior's essence into the citadel of his thought. To love one's fate, not merely bear it but to greet the jaws of the beast laughing.
What meaning was there in life unending, rebirth without boundary? Many had broken upon that question. They called it cruelty, proof that nothing endured but pain and entropy. They clutched at gods and duty, nation and kin, as anchors against the storm.
Riser spat upon such chains.
Meaning? he thought, as the last of Kelzior's cunning screamed within him before it fell quiet, bound by the iron of his will. Let lesser men beg for meaning. I am my own purpose. I name my own summit. To conquer, not others only, but myself.
He stood then in the ruin of his mindscape, a storm raging about him, but the core of him glowed like a black star. The tree above him cracked, not with the promise of collapse, but with a promise of rebirth.
He was not saved by these fragments. He made no shrine to them. He bent them to his shape, forged ruin into scaffold. What had been Kelzior's crown became Riser's throne. The whispering madness found no purchase but what he gave it and what he gave it was nothing but obedience.
I am the storm, he thought. I do not stand against it. I ride it to the world's end.
⸻
POV: Zarakura Saeros
In the cavern beyond thought, stone wept with the cold breath of the Dead River.
Zarkaura Saeros lingered at the banks. The torches that lit the cavern guttered, fed by air heavy with sulfur and old secrets. He stood alone, armor polished, hands folded behind his back like a sentinel who believed himself master of what he watched.
The second head did not whisper now, nor the third. Those husks, once vessels for an ancient mind's cunning, were gone. The river's surface rippled with a darkness that never slept, as if it dreamed of mouths waiting below the stone.
Zarkaura pitied the boy, though he would not have named it pity aloud. Such is the fate of the weak, he told himself, watching the black tide shift. Better that they be consumed by the strong. So it has always been. So it shall ever be.
He dreamed of the future then, of a house restored to their glory and beyond, draped in banners that sang of flame and rebirth. His lips parted in a smile that showed more teeth than warmth.
Then the river split.
A shape rose from the depths, as if the black water had grown weary of keeping secrets. Zarkaura stepped back, breath caught in his throat.
What emerged was no trembling wretch, no broken vessel leaking scraps of soul.
Naked.Tall. Perfect
It was a figure fairer than any painted saint. Hair gold as the crown of dawn, skin pale where the torchlight dared touch it. His muscles flowed like divine geometry. Eyes deep crimson, deeper than the river, deeper than the old abyss that birthed devils in days forgotten. They glowed not with hunger, but with dominion.
Power poured from him in silence. It pressed upon Zarkaura's shoulders like a mountain's weight.
At the very least, Peak High-Class, he thought, heart thundering like drums at a sacrificial rite. Grandfather lives.
The figure took three steps forward. The water clung to his bare limbs like reverence.
"Grandfather," Zarkaura whispered, sinking to one knee. His armor clanged against stone slick with ancient blood. Who else could it be? The boy had no chance.
The figure stepped onto land. He walked like royalty. Like destiny.
Zarakura bowed deeper.
This was the rebirth of the Saeros line. Finally, their house would return to glory.
The figure's gaze fell upon him, steady, unblinking. In that gaze, kingdoms might kneel. In that gaze, old gods might find cause to pray.
One pale finger rose. A single word fell, bright and cruel as a star made iron.
"Bang."
Zarkaura's thoughts ended there.
⸻
POV: Riser
When the echo faded, Riser Phenex stepped from the river's hush. Steam rose from his skin where the darkness fled his touch. He reached for the robe Zarkaura had laid out, silk dyed deep with silver thread, fine enough for the shoulders of a king.
He slipped it over his bare frame with no haste. His eyes did not linger upon the ash that once was Zarkaura. He did not need to.
A whisper of laughter flickered past his lips, bright, almost gentle.
"He really thought I was his grandfather," Riser mused aloud, voice like honey and knives.
"I didn't even have to act. He'd convinced himself Kelzior couldn't lose. He let his guard down."
He chuckled.
"Pride always comes before the fall."
Then he laughed harder, shoulders shaking with something between cruelty and joy.
He flexed a hand, curling and uncurling the fingers as if testing their truth.
Power hummed beneath his ribs. Not the stolen shade of Kelzior's cruelty, but the raw, singing promise of new dominion. Peak High-Class, at the least, and yet only a single stone upon a stairway without summit.
Riser Phenex looked down at the silver armor prepared by Zarkaura's trembling hope, a promise of borrowed greatness. He ran a finger along its polished edge, and a smile, bright and cold, flickered across his face.
"One step," he said to the dark cavern that once housed monsters and prayers alike. "One step toward my true ambition."
With the robe about his shoulders and the armor at his feet, he turned from the river's hush.
Back to the world he went, laughing not for the world's sake, but for his own.
For what was fate but another stone to tread upon?
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POV: Ryzephar Phenex
It had been three weeks.
Three weeks since Ryzephar Phenex watched his youngest nephew ride out with thirty devils, banners proud and hearts eager for glory. Three weeks since he'd let the boy talk him into it, so easy, so smooth, so unnaturally persuasive.
Why had he agreed?
Why indeed.
Why had I let him go? The question was poison, bitter upon the tongue of thought. He had replayed that hour endlessly: Riser, that bold spark of reckless fire, standing before him in the meeting chambers, voice steady as any captain thrice his years. He had asked to join the expedition into the Northern Reach, the old forests where legends were said to rot among twisted roots. And Ryzephar, the Warden of the North, eldest of his line save for Lord Aurelius himself, had given leave. Freely, yes. Or so he had believed.
Yet even now, seated in the hush that follows folly, he knew that he had not been himself when he spoke that fateful consent. His thoughts had been gauzy, as though steeped in some heavy wine. A warmth had weighed his reason, blurring caution, singing him toward ruin with the soft promise of destiny. As though fate itself or some hand masquerading in its cloak, had guided him to betray his own blood.
A fog had wrapped his mind. He saw it now for what it was: a trick.
A puppet string wound into his very thoughts. And when the fog lifted, horror came with it.
Someone had bent his will. Someone had made him send Riser Phenex, his brother's son, into the mouth of Hell itself.
When the truth cracked open, Ryzephar had acted fast.He had summoned the messengers at once, pale devils clad in the runes of secrecy and sent them winging toward the capital where his brother Aurelius Phenex kept his court. No word of the trespass. Not yet. Only a request for an adept in the mind-arts, one skilled in unweaving the curses that bind thought to foreign hands. .
Aurelius, bound by blood older than any kingdom now breathing, asked no needless question. Within days the adept had come, faceless behind a mask of silver, robed in the dusk-light of ancient runes. In the hush of his chamber, Ryzephar had bared his skull like a penitent before a surgeon's blade.
"Yes," the old devil confirmed, voice soft with pity. "You were made to want it. The strings are cut now, but the knife remains."
So Ryzephar made himself a promise: If there was even a breath left in his nephew's chest — he would find it. Or bring vengeance enough to drown Hell in blood.
⸻
They gathered at dawn: ten devils of high rank, who could level a mountain with their might, twenty elite hunters and mind-wardens with hellhounds foaming at the leash.
They hunted into the forest's veins, old woods where the sun never shone, roots tangled in old sins, trees that wept pitch instead of sap. They found signs: hoofprints like claw-marks, a dead wolf here and there, stripped of color, skin like brittle parchment.
Then came the corpses.
A devil crucified upside-down on a spear of black iron. Another split open and stuffed with ravens. The symbols on the trees were not words but wounds, bleeding meaning into the earth.
Some horrors made even Ryzephar's soul flinch and he had seen centuries.
And yet they pressed on.
⸻
They found the last stand at dusk:
A clearing where severed hands bloomed like flowers, eyes nailed to bark in a ring of silent witness.
He recognized the faces, Abygral of House Mengis, Tenebrael's jaw lying open in a circle of flies.
"Ambushed by demonic wolves and something else," someone whispered.
Ryzephar did not answer. He felt no wind, only the iron taste of finality. The last hope that his nephew might walk out of this forest whole began to flicker.
And then the shadows came.
⸻
They rose from the roots and the black air: four shapes of shadow and flame. Shadow Warlocks. He knew the tales, and the price they demanded in flesh.
"Formation!" Ryzephar barked.
The Phenex elites moved like one: circle tight, weapons drawn, wards flaring bright in the dusk.
The first blow fell — a snap of hellfire against sigils of defense. They met force with force, strategy with cold resolve.
Divide them, that was the only way. A hive-mind must be splintered, broken like a brittle bone.
They clashed in silence broken only by roars and the wet tearing of reality itself.
They killed one. A good sign. But the cost was time.
Ryzephar felt it before he saw it, a chill, a ripple of unseen knives pressing against the back of his neck.
The warlock hissed in a tongue that hated the world.
And the forest answered.
A sea of eyes blinked open between the trees. Demonic wolves, thousands.
"We are surrounded…" someone breathed.
"You don't say." Ryzephar bit it back, lips pressed to a grim line. His mind raced. The strategy shifted: hold the line, buy the mages time, draw their strength into one final obliteration.
The wolves came in waves, a red tide over black soil.
Steel and flame met fur and fang. A high-class devil split ten at a time, but for every beast slain, ten more slithered free from the dark.
They fought thirty minutes, thirty years in a heartbeat. Ryzephar did deeds surpassing of valour, holding the line where it should have broken, carving down wolves and flinging shadow back into shadow.
Then, the two devils in the middle, guarded by their kin, shouted their spell complete. Ryzephar's hand rose. The sign given.
The forest turned white.
An explosion carved a new crater in Hell's skin, two kilometers wide, a sun of ruin that devoured trees, wolves, shadows.
When the thunder faded, the silence mocked them.
Five shapes still stood.
Five Shadow Warlocks, fresh as newborn flame, glaring with molten hate.
Ryzephar's heart sank. His devils bled around him, only six high-class left standing, two middle-class crouched behind them, wide-eyed.
The rest?
Fuel for the forest now.
The Warlocks hissed as one, a sound like knives under the tongue. They moved as a single will, circling.
Ryzephar read the truth in that molten halo of hate: Death.
There would be no legend sung of this place. No grave for his nephew. No redemption for his own folly. Only shadow and ruin.
⸻
But then, the world cracked.
Something faster than thought, faster than sound, hit one of the Warlocks like a thunderbolt from the black sky.
A crater bloomed where its chest had been.
The hive-mind shrieked, momentarily severed.
Dust rolled like stormclouds, and from that ruin stepped a figure.
From the ruin rose a tall figure clad in silver like moonlight upon a stormy tide. Hair bright as dawn's first flame. Eyes crimson as the birth of suns.
Riser Phenex.
He raised two fingers to his temple, mock salute. Smirked.
"Miss me?" he said, as if the whole forest wasn't watching him reborn.
----------------------------------------------
POV: Riser Phenex
The wolves were the first to flee. One heartbeat, they snarled and circled, the next, they vanished, tails tucked between legs, eyes wide with primal dread.
Riser let his demonic aura unfurl, a blazing storm of golden flame laced with something colder, older, stitched from Kelzior's bones and his own sovereign will. The forest itself seemed to recoil.
Only five shapes remained. Cloaked in smoke, rimmed in dull flame, the Shadow Warlocks held their ground. No mortal foe, these — but something older, a hive bound by ruin and pact, five bodies moved by one feral mind. Even wolves had fled their presence before. Even lords of lesser rank would turn back at the sight of their slithering flame.
Riser rolled his neck, silver armor whispering over skin still wet from the river of the dead. His crimson eyes gleamed with manic delight.
"Well then…" he purred, voice like velvet over a dagger's edge. "…Shall we dance?"
They lunged, five as one, the swarm-mind howling silent in the air. They were fast, devils born of nightmare and abyss, flame and shadow stitched into muscle that moved at twice the speed of thunder.
But Riser was faster. He blurred forward, a streak of gold and silver.
The first Warlock's claw came, trailing a wake of shadow-fire meant to shear through the marrow of lesser devils. Riser's palm flicked up, flame gathering at his knuckles like a jewelled gauntlet, and he struck aside the blow with a contemptuous twist. Another Warlock flanked him from the left, shadow tendrils blooming like roots seeking his throat.
Too slow.
Riser vanished, the world swallowing his presence in a heartbeat, then reappeared behind the Warlock, a flaming spear forming in his hand mid-lunge. It was the Blazing Spear, conjured with the ease of a noble plucking wine from a feast-table. The spear punched through layered shadows, pinned the shrieking creature to the black earth. Its flame roared inward, a hateful bloom that devoured what should not burn.
He turned before the corpse struck the moss, already smiling at the next two.
They came at angles, one high, one low, moving faster now, driven by rage and the tearing loss in their collective mind. But for every speed they found, Riser found greater. His body, reshaped by Kelzior Saeros' mad rituals, was not merely that of a Phenex but a vessel tuned to bear ruin. His limbs blurred, his steps struck roots to cinders.
A claw grazed his cheek, flame hissed, the wound gone before pain could register. In its place: laughter. A flick of his hand, and he wove flames into ravens, Fire Ravens screaming from his outstretched fingers. They tore through the clearing like burning omens, harrying the Warlocks, pecking and exploding in sudden bursts. One raven crashed into the skull of the closest, detonating with a shriek that shook branches overhead.
As the Warlock reeled, Riser closed in, faster than the hush between two heartbeats, and drove his fist into its chest. Fire Infusion: the blow not only broke bone but spilled flame inside. He twisted, a lover's grace turned to slaughter, and triggered the bloom. The Warlock erupted from within, its shriek cut short by cleansing fire.
Three left. Still they circled him, but now a trace of uncertainty fluttered at the edges of their unity. Riser sensed it. He smelled it like a beast scents blood.
"Ah," he mocked, rolling his shoulders beneath the gleaming plate. "Where is the fabled strength of the mighty warlocks? You lunge like curs without a leash or master."
One lunged, driven by that same spark of rage. Riser met it head-on, body clad in Fire Armor, a corona of white flame that melted the warlocks' claws on contact. His fists cracked ribs made of dusk and memory — each blow infused with embers that burrowed deeper, blooming into sudden, vicious eruptions. From nothing, flame congealed into a blade, a scimitar of crimson heat, its edge flickering with runes too ancient for mortal tongues. They clashed: the Warlock's claws sparked against the conjured blade. Sparks burst like embers caught in the wind.
Riser's grin widened as he parried a savage blow. "Weakness investigation," he murmured. His eyes flickered, the Cull sang through his veins, pinpointing flaws in their churning shadows.
He traced the Warlock's core beneath the tangled shadows, a knot of devouring flame that pulsed within its chest.
"Found you," he whispered. His sword flicked, a blur of motion, and the blade's edge turned to his stolen art: Dismantle. The cut seemed slight. But a heartbeat later the Warlock's chest peeled open, parted like silk to the blade's passing, and a gout of searing fire devoured it from within.
Two left now.
The last pair came together, shadows fusing into a single monstrous shape, arms doubling, claws blacker than tomb-soil, its flame fused with void-light that cracked the air like a storm. They charged. The forest trembled at their roar. This was the full might of the hive, the living knot that had undone the expedition, that had hollowed the devils whose bones still decorated this glade of nightmares.
Riser only bared his teeth, a grin carved of arrogance, flame and old delight. He lifted his free palm. Flame gathered, folding in upon itself like a star birthing its own ruin.
Compression.
Deeper. Denser. The fire hissed as though alive, the air warping around it. A Giant Fireball, but one compressed so tightly that its light was a core of white within the palm, a miniature sun caged in his fist. He spoke no incantation. He needed none. The flame obeyed because it remembered him, a phenex, and it was eager to devour.
As the fused Warlocks came within a blade's length, Riser thrust the orb into the soil between them. He stepped back, and his smile was wicked with promise.
"Boom," he whispered.
The ground cracked open. Flame swallowed root and bone alike. The Giant Fireball burst outward with surgical violence, not scattered chaos, but precise ruin. A ring of white flame erupted around the Warlocks, searing their shadows apart even as they howled, splitting in pain that could not be uttered by mortal tongue.
They stumbled from the ruin. One tried to flee, dragging what remained of its conjoined half. But Riser was already moving, faster than the eye, the mind, the soul. He reappeared at its back, hand outstretched. The space around his palm shimmered, Kelzior's legacy made manifest.
Dismantle.
An invisible slash parted the Warlock from throat to spine, no flame, no roar, only the whisper of air giving way to will. The Warlock fell in halves, both still alight with ruinous flame.
And so, silence. The forest, still dripping with the hush of ancient rot, now echoed with only Riser's laughter, softer now, though no less terrible.
The blast turned the glade into a sunrise. When the light faded, nothing remained but drifting embers.
Riser stood there, chest heaving, silver armor cracked but whole, flesh knitting itself back together as fast as it split. He tasted the char in the air, grinned, flexing fingers that trembled not with weakness but with victory.
Behind him, Ryzephar Phenex and the battered survivors stared, not at their enemy but at the thing they had reclaimed. The nephew who stood laughing amid ruin , golden, terrible.
Riser turned to them, eyes gleaming like a predator's in dawn's fire.
He smiled wide, perfect and terrible, his eyes alight with a madness that danced like a prophecy yet to be spoken.
-----------------------------------------
POV: Ryzephar Phenex
Ryzephar stood frozen, breath caught halfway in his lungs. The air trembled around him, as if the forest's charred earth itself bent its knees to the figure clad in silver flame.
The wolves had fled, the Shadow Warlocks were ash, but what remained was worse. The devil who gazed with madness.
The aura Riser exuded was wrong. It was not the savage, crawling dread of the Warlocks' abyssal shadows. It was bright, terrible, royal. It pierced flesh like a thousand blades. It whispered ruin and triumph in the same breath. Ryzephar, a devil near a millennium old, found himself fearing the very air that touched his skin.
He dared speak. His voice rasped like old parchment. "Riser?"
And the vision turned smiling, beautiful, lethal.
"Hello there, Uncle."
A voice like honey over coals, beautiful, melodic, yet brimming with something that refused to be named.
Ryzephar drank in the sight. This impossible thing that claimed to be his kin. Taller, easily six and a half feet now with golden hair falling in perfect waves, framing a face that mocked marble with its cruel perfection. His features were sculpted too finely for nature's chisel. Fae-like, dreamlike, but more than that: they were alive, every subtle flicker of the brow, the twist of his lips, the iron alertness in crimson eyes.
It was the bearing that struck him dumb. Riser stood not like a boy, nor a scion, nor even a prince. He stood like a king. No, a conqueror. No tremor of doubt, no humility to mask the tyrant in his veins.
His silver armor shimmered under the bloodied sky. Ryzephar's mind, ever the scholar, marked runes and arcane lattices forged of metals rarer than phoenix's ash. This was no mere armor, it was testament.
And then Riser spoke, voice clear enough to make the wind stand still.
"The tribulation is over."
The words rolled across the scorched clearing like a royal decree. Ryzephar felt, absurdly, that Hell itself would bow its horned head if commanded.
He did not argue. He could not. Not after seeing five High-Class monsters swatted aside like children.
He turned, voice booming with what command his battered soul could muster. "We move! Back to the stronghold, now! Carry the wounded and burn what remains, this ground is cursed."
His devils obeyed with grateful desperation. Even in ruin, they found renewed purpose in the monstrous shadow of the new Riser Phenex.
⸻
It took hours to trudge back through the gnarled woods, the horror of the forest left behind, the shadow of warlocks replaced by whispers of a rumor no one dared speak aloud. Beside him, Riser glided rather than walked, as though the earth feared to stain him.
At the gates of the fortress, Seorin, his daughter, first of his blood and his hope for their House's future, awaited with her retinue. She wore black mail and a blade at her hip, yet when she saw her father alive, dignity melted in an instant.
"Father!"
She flew into his arms, armor clanging against his. He held her tightly, feeling the mortal warmth of family for a heartbeat longer than he should have.
Then her gaze lifted and found him.
Riser Phenex stepped through the dusk, flames dancing across his silver chestplate, crimson eyes glinting with a mirth too sharp to touch. Seorin's breath caught in her throat. Ryzephar felt it, the way the devils behind her stilled. It was as if an archangel or a demon-lord masquerading as one had stepped through Hell's gate.
Riser tilted his head, a sly half-smile curling his mouth. "You'll catch flies, cousin. And I'm hardly that holy … yet."
Seorin startled, color rose to her cheeks so fast Ryzephar almost laughed. She regained herself in a rush, stepped forward and, daring what the air told her not to dare, flung her arms around the Phenex reborn.
Riser let out a soft, bemused chuckle, one hand brushing over her back like a priest blessing a penitent. When she stepped away, dazed but radiant. Ryzephar knew there would be songs sung of this moment before dawn broke.
⸻
He cleared his throat, the fortress quieted, all eyes fixed on him. His old voice boomed with the weight of centuries and a theater devil-kind adored.
"Hear me! Devils of House Phenex, hear what befell in the accursed woods!"
He spun them a tale as old as their blood, of wolves and shadows, betrayal and slaughter. He spoke of how they, the faithful, carved a path through horror with fang and flame. He told of sacrifice "More than half our strength, gone but not in vain!"
Then his voice rose, thunder cracking the hush of night.
"For when our ruin seemed certain, when the abyss yawned wide, who returned from the jaws of death? Who burned the shadows to cinder? Who stands before you now stronger, brighter, terrible and glorious, our scion, our hope?"
He turned , pointed, the gesture more dramatic than any stage.
"Riser Phenex!"
They cheered, how could they not? Devils are creatures of spectacle and what spectacle stood before them now?
Ryzephar caught the briefest flicker of amusement in Riser's eye, a prince pleased with his court, perhaps. When the roar of adoration quieted, Ryzephar bellowed:
"Spread the word! Spread it through every hall and hearth, the tribulation is over!"
⸻
When the clamor faded, Ryzephar turned, a quiet word perched on his lips.
"Nephew, we must speak. There is much—"
Riser held up a hand, graceful, imperious. His crimson eyes gleamed like sunset reflected in a blade.
"Later, Uncle. I must see my Queen."
No apology. None was needed nor dared be demanded.
Ryzephar only bowed his head. The Mad Phenex had returned. There would be no commanding him now.
⸻
And so the devils parted, a tide making way for a storm. Riser Phenex, clad in silver and crowned in flame, strode toward the heart of the stronghold, where Yubellana waited.
He did not look back.
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POV: Riser Phenex
Riser strode down the fortress corridor, silver boots echoing against ancient stone. Eyes followed him, devils in black mail and crimson cloaks parted like mortal waves before a storm. Some bowed their heads, some dared not breathe. A few, braver or more foolish, let their gaze linger on the impossible symmetry of his face, then quickly looked away, cheeks burning, hearts drumming.
He felt it, the hush in the air, the reverence born not of love but of fear and awe. As it should be, he mused, a flicker of amusement curling the corner of his lips. Among devils, strength is the iron coin that buys respect. Without it, one is nothing but mocked, toyed with, devoured. He smiled as he walked. How swiftly they learn to kneel when power stands before them.
Ahead, the carved doors of his Queen's chamber rose like a promise. He rapped his knuckles against them, gentle, polite. A faint voice, warm yet weary: "Enter."
He did and felt the world catch its breath.
Yubellana Phenex, his beautiful Queen, sat wrapped in a silken robe. Her hair, glowing purple and soft as midnight, tumbled down her shoulders. She turned and the shock that flooded her face was almost comical.
Riser bit down a laugh. I suppose I'll have to grow used to this, he thought wryly. Beauty, power, devils worship them both. And I am both.
⸻
Yubellana's stupor broke like glass under a storm. She leapt from the bed, a blur of silken limbs and tremulous sobs and threw herself into his arms.
"Master— Riser— I—" Her words broke against his chest as laughter and tears spilled together. "I was so worried— when I woke they told me— you'd volunteered— some damned suicide mission— What were they thinking— what were you thinking—"
Her voice trembled. Her fingers dug into his back as though to swear he'd never vanish again.
Riser said nothing, he only held her. Sometimes, a king's comfort was not in words but in silence and in the unyielding strength of an embrace that promised I remain.
For long minutes she wept until the tremors softened, the sobs turned to small, broken laughs muffled against his chest.
⸻
He drew her gently to the bed, silk sheets, the hush of a chamber made for whispered confessions.
"Are you well now?" he asked softly and not of her tears, but of the exhaustion that had hollowed her when last he saw her. That felt like a lifetime ago.
She sniffed, wiping her cheeks. Her eyes shone, bright, alive. "Ye- yes, my demonic energy's back. The drain from the last ritual, it's healed. My technique, Explosion Creation, I'll be able to use it again soon."
He smiled, radiant, careless. "Good. I'd hate to think my Queen was anything less than terrifying in her own right."
She laughed, a flush rising under pale skin. Then her eyes flicked up, curious but shy. "And you…? this…this change. This… power? Master…forgive me but how…?"
He chuckled, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. "Curiosity suits you. The forest was… educational, let's say."
So he told her, in the broad strokes devils love. Of wolves with fangs like black glass. Of shadow-warlocks lurking like cancerous veins in the roots of the world. Of betrayal, a captain named Zarakura Saeros who betrayed them.
He did not speak of the ancient devil that wore his face. Nor of the mindscape war and the tormented choir of souls he devoured. Some truths were for kings alone.
Yubellana listened, rapt, lips parted, breathing shallow. Not just love now in her eyes but something more. Worship, raw and unblinking. A queen undone by the sheer certainty of the tyrant she called her master.
They spoke of other things, softer things, old memories, small jests. He teased her and she laughed until her shoulders trembled. When he rose at last, she clung to him once more, timid now, as though he were a relic too holy to touch. Her lips brushed his, feather-light, burning.
"Go then," she whispered. "Before I lose my mind and beg you to stay."
Riser grinned, wolfish, dazzling. "Your mind is already mine, my Queen."
And with a final lingering kiss, he slipped from her chamber, silver boots silent on old stone.
⸻
The fortress seemed smaller when he strode through it now a gilded cage of granite and iron that bowed before him. Servants flinched, warriors bowed. Riser did not pause, only smiled, the monster king cloaked in flesh.
⸻
He found Ryzephar and Seorin in the private hall, a low room walled in ancient obsidian and lined with flickering braziers. A table was set, fine wine, roasted meat and warm bread. Comforts for devils who knew how close death had come.
They rose when he entered, as if a god had stepped across the threshold.
Ryzephar spoke first, voice careful and respectful. "Nephew. Please take a seat and break bread with us."
Riser sat. His crimson eyes gleamed in the braziers' glow, mirth and calculation dancing behind the smile.
"Uncle. Cousin." He inclined his head to Seorin, who flinched at his gaze but did not look away. Brave girl, he thought, amused.
⸻
They poured wine. Dark as blood, older than mortal kingdoms.
"How fares your wound, Uncle?" Riser asked lightly, voice smooth as silk. "Shadows and wolves leave marks."
Ryzephar cleared his throat, the old devil's fingers tightened on the goblet. "No fatal injuries, thank Lucifer. I remain hale enough, though I will need some time to be what I was."
"Good," Riser murmured, each word both blessing and judgment.
He let the pause linger, then tilted his head, eyes sharp as razors. "But what were you doing in that damned forest, Uncle? With so few devils at your side?"
Ryzephar's mouth worked. Seorin's eyes flicked between them, wary as a cornered doe.
The old devil sighed. "A folly. My folly. When you volunteered for that expedition, I… I allowed it." He grimaced, shame crawling over ancient features. "But when my mind cleared, I knew someone guided me. Bent my will. I was not my own."
Riser's smile did not waver but the glow behind his eyes turned cold.
Ryzephar pushed on, words tripping over each other like penitent monks. "I sent for a mind-breaker, they confirmed it. So I gathered my best trackers, the sharpest hounds, and went to find you. To redeem my mistake. We met wolves, ambushes, the shadow plague that hunted you. Had you not come when you did—"
Riser raised a hand, the room silenced. He leaned back, a king on a throne of simple wood and iron.
"And I may know the mind that touched yours, Uncle. Only one devil I know favors whispers over steel, Zarakura Saeros."
Seorin gasped. Ryzephar's hand clenched so hard the goblet cracked.
Riser's smile was all teeth now, a serpent's delight. "He betrayed me. Sold us to wolves. Tried to cut my throat in the dark."
He did not tell them of Kelzior, of ancient bone crowns and soul-crushing rituals. Some truths were the marrow of monsters.
⸻
They spoke a while longer, words swirling like smoke over blood-red wine. Ryzephar and Seorin asked questions they dared not voice outright. Where he had found such power, how he still was. But Riser only laughed, a soft and terrible thing and gave them nothing more.
When the wine was drained, he rose, cloak rustling like dragon's wings.
"Rest well, Uncle. Cousin."
He turned to go but Ryzephar called out, voice hoarse with some fragile hope.
"Riser, before you vanish into the dark again, your father, Lord Aurelius, sends word. There will be an annulet, a grand gathering in the capital. To celebrate the end of this tribulation."
Riser paused at the door. Crimson eyes gleaming like sunrise through a crimson sea.
"Good." He smiled, a promise, a threat, a crown forged in one word.
------------------------------------------
POV: Riser Phenex
Riser Phenex adjusted the silver armor that clung to him like liquid moonlight, catching the fire-glow of the fortress torches. Its polished plates gleamed with arcane runes, a subtle show of wealth, and more importantly, a reminder of what he had become. The corridor leading out of his uncle's keep was lined with devils. Warriors, maids, even old scribes, all bowing low as he passed, heads lowered so deeply they nearly kissed the black stone floor.
He did not slow. Let them feel the weight of the Phenex name now reforged in him. Let them fear it, envy it, worship it. Respect born of power was the only currency devils never devalued.
Behind him, Yubellana kept pace, her steps light, her eyes flicking between his armored back and the awed whispers that followed them. He caught the echo of her thoughts in the soft rustle of her breath: disbelief, adoration and the smallest quiver of fear, that new and delicious offering.
His uncle had been the one to suggest he wear the armor. "Let the family see with their eyes what words cannot hold," Ryzephar had said. Riser agreed. He was no fool, spectacle mattered. In a world where devils wrote their truths in fire and blood, you announced your legend with iron and radiance.
And now, as the teleportation circle shimmered before him, its runes old as the Phenex name itself. Riser Phenex prepared to step into the ancestral seat of his House, where marble halls rose like frozen flame and judgement waited behind a father's throne.
He turned once, glanced at Yubellana. She looked beautiful and breakable all at once and he loved that about her.
"Ready, my Queen?" he asked, voice warm, mocking and affectionate all at once.
She nodded, eyes shining. "Always."
The circle flared and the world twisted.
POV: Rahella Phenex
The great throne room of the Phenex ancestral hold was carved from white marble veined with gold and shaped by devils who had long since become myth. A thousand candles flickered in iron sconces shaped like wings. Velvet banners bearing the Phenex crest, the immortal bird, aflame but never ash, hung like crimson rivers from the vaulted ceiling.
Rahella Phenex stood beside the massive throne of her husband, Lord Aurelius Phenex. To his right, tall and brooding, stood their eldest son and heir, Ruval Phenex, his eyes hard as diamond, jaw tight. Beside him, Rionas Phenex. Second son, sharp-eyed and perpetually amused, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Ravel, her youngest, perched near Rionas, trying and failing to appear calm, one slim hand twisting the hem of her sleeve
The air was thick, curdled with disbelief and rage and dread. The message, that cursed, blessed message from her brother Ryzephar still weighed on Rahella's mind like a stone chained to her heart.
She remembered how her hands had trembled when she broke the seal. How her breath had caught when she read the first lines, her Riser, her youngest son, fighting a Minotaur. A Minotaur!
He was fifteen. In the eyes of their kind, a boy barely grown enough to survive a proper duel and he had thrown himself at a beast that could break ancient high-class devils over its knee like twigs.
She'd nearly burned the letter in a fit of rage. Only Aurelius' calm had steadied her, his voice like an anvil dropped on flame. "Read it all," he'd told her. "Then decide if you will weep or roar."
And so she read on. How her brother praised Riser's cunning, his devil's wit, how he had used the battlefield like a blade to weaken the Minotaur before striking its heart. For a moment, she'd allowed herself a fragile flicker of pride.
But then the tale darkened. How Ryzephar, that old fool, had allowed her son to volunteer for a death march, an expedition deep into cursed territory teeming with demonic wolves and crawling with shadow warlocks. How he had been mind-controlled, a power so subtle and terrifying it froze Rahella's blood cold. If such arts could bend her brother, what chance did her bright, reckless boy have?
And then came the words that nearly drove her mad: ambush, massacre, betrayal. Zarakura Saeros, that snake. The betrayal, the kidnapping. How her son vanished, presumed dead while Ryzephar scoured the forests with what remained of his best.
She remembered gripping Aurelius' hand so tight her nails drew blood.
And then, the impossible twist. Her brother's words painted a picture that strained reason: her boy, clad in silver armor like some vengeful archangel, descending on the battlefield like a falling star. Five shadow warlocks, high-class beings, monstrous in cunning and cruelty cut down like wheat under a Flaming sword. Ryzephar swore it was no embellishment. Her brother was a man who did not gild horrors.
She remembered the line that made her breath catch in her throat: "…and then, when hope was lost, a figure clad in silver fell from the sky like a burning star. He alone stood against five of the Shadow Warlocks, and he alone stood when the ashes cleared."
It sounded like a tale told by trembling mortal bards, not a mother's truth.
Her mind reeled. A month ago, Riser had barely grasped the raw edge of high-class power. Now he wielded it like a crown. How? How did her foolish, bright-eyed son grow teeth so quickly?
A mother's pride battled a mother's fury. The moment she saw him, that beautiful, reckless boy. She would hold him tight and then shake him until his bones rattled.
⸻
A sound broke her thoughts, a flicker of rune-fire. The air shimmered at the heart of the throne room. The family turned as one, devils of ancient blood holding their breath.
From the spiral of white flame stepped Him.
⸻
At first she thought the rune-fire tricked her. Surely no flesh could bear such a sculpted cruelty of beauty. Yet there he was. No flicker, no mirage. Tall, taller than when he'd left, impossibly so, now near six and a half feet of sinuous power. His hair spilled like molten gold, each strand catching the torchlight and throwing it back tenfold. His skin pale, near porcelain, the sheen of pearl beneath an ancient moon. He moved like a blade unsheathed, gliding across the cold marble as if the ground itself bent to bear him gently.
His armor, silver wrought in flowing lines, runes dancing along the plates like captive embers. It clung to him perfectly. Not heavy, but regal, a second skin of war and legend. His face, Rahella could scarcely name the horror and awe it conjured. Cheekbones sharp as truth, lips curved with a softness that mocked the edges of the world. Eyes, crimson suns, burning with a mirth that made one wish to kneel and avert the gaze lest it see too deeply.
He looked like the Archangel Michael, she thought dazedly, if Michael had grown tired of Heaven and carved himself a throne in Hell instead.
There were no illusions here. Devils were masters of mask and glamour, but what he wore was more terrible: truth. There was no trick, no borrowed flame. This was what her son had become: the crown of fire that devours its own ashes and is reborn brighter.
Riser Phenex smiled.
And in that single gesture, so gentle, so effortless, the room's cold dread fractured. His smile was spring rain on scorched earth, a summer wind through endless dusk. It made fools forget the blades he carried behind his teeth.
"Father. Mother. Brother. Sister."
His voice was music, soft yet ringing like a blade unsheathed. He stepped forward, boots silent as falling stars, and bowed just enough, perfectly judged, perfectly poised. Not submission. Not quite defiance. Something else: a reminder that they would find no boy here now, only something they had forged in fire and fear, only to lose control of it.
He turned that smile to his father, his brothers, his sister and each found themselves caught in its impossible warmth, wondering where the line lay between devotion and dread.
⸻
Rahella felt tears burning the corners of her eyes. Pride, fury, fear. All a mother's weapons turned against herself.
He is beautiful, she thought numbly. Terrible, terrible and beautiful. The devil's child, now the devils' king in waiting.
Aurelius Phenex, iron-eyed lord of their immortal line, opened his mouth to speak, to question, to scold, to demand the truth behind this impossible creature that now wore his son's face.
But Riser only tilted his head and the smile that danced on his lips made his words die on his throat.
AN: Here we are again folks—a new chapter has dropped and hoo boy, this one's a beast. Easily the longest I've written so far, but hey, the arc is finally done. Time to exhale dramatically.
Yes, there was a lot of "Oh my god, Riser is so hot" and a bit of fangirling sprinkled throughout. I regret nothing. Blame the characters. They're just very enthusiastic about their flaming bird boy.
I hope the mental battle conclusion felt satisfying and not like Riser was wrapped in five layers of indestructible plot armor. And I really hope you enjoyed the fight with the shadow warlocks. It was my first time ever writing a full action scene, and I went full mad scientist mode with Riser's fire manipulation and weird new techniques.
Anyway, as always, throw whatever you've got at me—feedback, criticism, compliments, dramatic rants, or well-aimed tomatoes. I'd love to hear what you think and how I can keep improving.