Chapter 118: The Demon’s Response

Chapter 118: The Demon’s ResponseThe crimson sky above the Rift churned with storm clouds like blood circling a drain. Lightning spidered through the heavens, flashing purple and green. At the heart of this blighted realm, Rift Castle loomed as it always had—silent, imposing, eternal. But within its throne hall, silence had become tension. The Lady of Illusion was gone. And her death—at the hands of a mortal—echoed like a gong of war through the obsidian spires. The Demon King sat unmoving on his throne, the lightless black stone cradling his armored form like a coffin lid. He did not speak. He didn’t need to. His generals had already gathered, summoned by the moment the Lady’s essence had vanished. Lord Destruction was the first to kneel. Massive and imposing, he wore armor seared with the runes of extinct war gods, and his warhammer clanked heavily on the floor as he bowed his head. "She is dead," Destruction said flatly, as if to confirm what all already knew. Lady Death followed, silent and shadowed. Her skeletal mask showed no emotion, but the way she moved—slower, heavier—said everything. The Fourth was gone. One of their own. A piece of the Rift broken. Then came Lord Fate, his deck of cards floating and swirling about his fingers in a restless dance. He said nothing, not yet. He didn’t have to. His deck would speak for him soon enough. "Speak," the Demon King finally ordered, his voice low, vibrating through the stone walls like thunder buried deep underground. Fate stepped forward. "We’ve confirmed it. Her final breath burned away in the human realm. She died in Elandra." "By whose hand?" the King asked, though he already knew. Fate raised a single card. It bore no symbol. Just jagged lines. Chaos. A wild variable. "The unbound soul." Destruction clenched his fist, fire licking through the seams in his gauntlet. "Then name him. And give me leave. I will bring back his broken corpse, chained and begging for mercy." "No," Death said softly. "This was no ordinary battle. I’ve seen echoes of her fall. She died laughing. Believing she had won. But something changed." The King leaned forward slightly. "Explain." "Something he did. Something... unexpected. He shot her. Not with magic. Not with a blade. But with a weapon I do not understand. It was loud. Like thunder. It tore her illusions apart like paper." Fate nodded. "Yes. He wields tools not from this world. And more importantly—he remembers that world. He is not like other heroes summoned or chosen. He is imported. Whole." Destruction growled. "So we do nothing?" "No," the Demon King said, rising slowly from his throne. "We do something. Something bold." He stepped down the black stairs of the dais, each footfall sending ripples of pressure through the floor. "We send a message." Fate looked wary. "To the city?" "To him," the King clarified. "But the gods still watch," Death warned. "If we strike too hard, too openly, we risk a war we aren’t ready for." "We won’t destroy the city," the King said. "We will extract the anomaly." Destruction grinned behind his flame-scarred helmet. "At last." "You will go alone," the King said, turning to him. "No legions. No beasts. No demonspawn. One general. One target." Destruction paused, the grin vanishing. "Alone?" "Yes. You will enter the city by night. Locate the unbound soul. And bring him here—alive, if possible. Dead, if necessary." Fate pulled another card from his deck—one depicting a man falling, pierced through the heart by multiple hands. "That path is thin," he said quietly. "There’s interference. Threads breaking. The gods may intervene." "Let them try," the King said. "The Lady of Illusion underestimated him. You will not." Destruction gave a sharp nod. "As you command." The Demon King turned to Fate. "Can you locate him?" Fate closed his eyes. The cards spun into the air around him and began flipping, glowing faintly as they aligned. "He is near the Adventurer’s Guild in Elandra. Resting. Grieving. Vulnerable." The King gave a single nod. "Good. You leave tonight." Death tilted her head. "What if the humans interfere? Or worse—the angels?" "They won’t. Not yet," the King replied. "The humans are still blind. And the angels have grown slow. They will not see the storm until it’s too late." Destruction slammed his warhammer onto the floor, sparks erupting from the impact. "Then I’ll bring him back. I’ll drag him through the dirt by his hair if I must." "No," the King said. "You will bring him back with precision. Do not level the city. Do not alert the temples. You are not a destroyer tonight. You are a hunter." Destruction grunted. "Fine. I’ll use the shadows." Fate raised one final warning. "If he has otherworldly tools... be cautious. His weapons may not follow our rules." "I fear no toy," Destruction muttered. The King turned from them, walking back toward the mirror of fate that hovered near his throne. Within its swirling surface, the streets of Elandra shimmered. He saw Inigo—leaning against a window, his rifle resting beside him, eyes darkened with exhaustion. "He doesn’t know what he’s waking up," the King said softly. "He thinks this is over. He thinks he’s survived." Death’s voice came quiet behind him. "And if Destruction fails?" "Then I will go myself." That silenced the room. The Demon King rarely left the Rift. If he stepped onto the mortal plane, it meant one thing—war. And the balance of heaven and hell would tip. "No one has touched one of the Four in a thousand years," the King said. "This... Inigo... has done so without knowing what he is. Or what he’s angered." He turned toward them all. "Send him fear. Send him dreams. Let the shadows whisper. And if he still doesn’t listen..." The red sky outside cracked with thunder. "...we will burn the world around him until he crawls to us." Destruction turned, flames licking around his shoulders as he marched toward the exit. Fate gathered his cards and bowed once before vanishing into a ripple of air. Only Death remained a moment longer. "I wonder..." she said softly. "Will he become our enemy... or our heir?" The King said nothing. He simply stared into the mirror, watching the unbound soul sleep. And in the streets of Elandra, the shadows began to move. Beyond the throne hall, in the deep caverns beneath Rift Castle, a forge flared to life. Destruction had gone to prepare. Black-armored smiths—mute creatures birthed from ash and brimstone—hurried to his side. They brought out his night-gear: a cloak woven from the skin of a fallen void wyrm, boots that silenced even the clatter of his weight, and an obsidian blade forged not to kill, but to cut through barriers—walls, shields, or spirit wards. He would not be bringing his warhammer. Not this time. "I walk where silence falls," Destruction murmured, fastening the blade to his back. "I walk where prey forgets it is prey." When the cloak fell over his shoulders, the flames in the forge dimmed, as if the room itself understood what was being unleashed. He was no longer the general of fire and fury. He was now a shadow stitched to purpose. High above, in the realm of mortal sleep, Inigo stirred in his bed. He turned once, then again. His breath quickened. Sweat beaded across his brow. The dreams had begun. Inigo’s dream twisted. At first, he stood at the gates of Elandra, watching the streets bustle with life. Then, in a blink, everyone was gone. Empty stalls. Silent bells. The sun flickered, turned red, then black. A voice echoed, not from around him—but inside him. "You killed one of us." He turned. Shadows moved like ink, crawling up the buildings, coiling into monstrous shapes. "She laughed when she died. She thought you were a joke. But the Rift remembers." Inigo raised his M4 instinctively, but the dream warped around it. The rifle melted into shadow. He was unarmed. "You brought war to your doorstep, little soul." Then a figure stepped forward—massive, armored, glowing like a furnace behind slits in its helmet. Its eyes burned straight through the dreamscape. "I am Destruction. And I have come for you." Inigo shot upright in bed, gasping, hand snapping to his rifle beside the nightstand. The inn room was dark. Moonlight spilled through the window, and the city beyond was calm. But his breath wouldn’t slow. He stared at the door. Something was coming. Far beneath the Rift, the Demon King stood once more before the mirror. The vision faded now, flickering back to darkness. He didn’t need to see more. He had sent his message. If the unbound soul still chose to stand defiant—then the game would escalate. Let the mortal heroes gather. Let the angels watch. Let the gods debate. The King turned from the mirror, descending into the black corridors that fed the veins of the Rift. He moved without a word, vanishing into the dark. Because the next time he appeared, it would not be in council. It would be on the battlefield. And the world would know what it truly meant to awaken the wrath of the Rift.