Book 11 - Universal Public Enemy N°1
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There rose a colossal golden stairway, each step so vast that an entire city could rest upon it. There were not hundreds, nor thousands, nor even tens of thousands of steps — but millions, stretching upward beyond sight, vanishing into the glowing firmant. Each radiant tier pulsed with a different law of creation, a distinct cosmic principle that resonated through reality itself.
The might of the staircase was so imnse that even a Legend — one who could fly across a small world in a matter of hours— would find their lifespan extinguished long before reaching the halfway point. It was not rely a structure; it was a cosmic law given form, a path forged from divine order.
Yet even this miraculous stairway paled before what awaited at its summit.
There, at the end of eternity’s ascent, stood a gate — the greatest and most magnificent portal in existence. It was the embodint of majesty, the fusion of sculpture and architecture, radiant with impossible beauty.
Its surface shimred with carvings so intricate they seed alive. Divine figures adorned the panels, their faces serene yet powerful, as though their very souls had been woven into the tal. The craftsmanship was beyond mortal understanding — no hand, no matter how skilled, could have forged it. Only the light of creation itself could have created such perfection.
Several towering, robed humanoid figures were carved into the gate’s structure. Their visages were solemn and wise, their hair long and flowing like rivers of light. Their vast hands extended toward the center of the gate, palms nearly touching — as though sealing whatever lay beyond. Above them, a winged being watched over all, its mane flowing like solar fire, its wings rging seamlessly with the clouds and the light of heaven.
For tens of thousands of years, silence had reigned before the Pearly Gates. Not a single being had dared ascend the Golden Road.
Until today.
A figure erged from the stairway’s final step. He wore butler’s clothes . A dark mask obscured his face, and the aura surrounding him was twisted — evil yet alien, not belonging to any known fiend races.
Cold determination glimred in his eyes as he approached the gate. His presence was an aberration, an offense against the sanctity of Heaven.
The silence broke.
The colossal statue crowning the gate began to glow, its wings unfurling as divine power cascaded downward like sunlight turned to fire. The ground trembled as the being’s massive form descended, eyes blazing with the weight of the cosmos.
"Ant with the stench of fiends," the being thundered, its voice a living command that made reality itself quake. "You dare stand before the Pearly Gates?"
The sound alone forced the intruder to his knees. Cracks spread across the marble beneath him as pressure unlike any Legend could withstand bore down.
"I, Saint Peter, should crush your body and burn your soul for eternity," the guardian declared, his eyes burning with holy wrath. "But since you have crossed the Golden Road, I will grant you a rcy — the honor of destroying yourself."
The words carried such arrogance, such divine disdain, that lesser beings would have perished just from hearing them.
Yet the masked figure did not falter. His gaze remained fixed, his voice cold and steady as he replied. "I am Emanon. And I know the fate of the Voice of Heaven."
For the first ti in countless eons, the statue’s eyes widened. The divine flas in its gaze shifted — from fury to curiosity, from wrath to sothing like alarm.
"Speak!"
The single word cracked the firmant. Emanon’s body shuddered; blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, yet his resolve did not waver.
"The Voice of Heaven is dead," he said. "Taken not by Hell, not by Abyss, nor by the lower dinsions, but by a new race — a power beyond what Heaven has yet recognized. They call themselves the Depravitas. I bring this ssage not for you, Saint Peter, but for the Thrones themselves. They must hear what has happened — and they must hear it from ."
For a long mont, the guardian of Heaven stared at him, divine light flickering across his carved features. The air humd with restrained destruction, as if Saint Peter’s power could obliterate Emanon at any instant.
But at last, the entity nodded. The judgnt in his eyes gave way to solemn recognition.
"Very well."
The ground shook as the Gates of Heaven began to open. Brilliant light poured from the widening crack, so intense that even a Lord’s eyes would need ti to adjust. Beyond the threshold lay a realm of boundless radiance, where divine cities floated upon seas of starlight.
"The Thrones await you," Saint Peter said.
Emanon rose to his feet. The corners of his mouth curled beneath his mask — not in reverence, but in sothing darker. His eyes glead with malice and cunning as he stepped forward, crossing into the realm of the Archangels.
...
While the radiant kingdom of Heaven stirred, a place of absolute malice churned in the depths below creation.
A realm of broken bodies and dismbered souls stretched endlessly across a crimson wasteland. The air was thick with screams — echoes of agony and fury. Here, the ground itself pulsed like living flesh, and rivers of molten despair cut across the land.
This was no re battlefield; it was the Arena of the High Lords of Hell, where the mightiest among the devil’s hierarchy t to clash and to deliberate. Their power was so overwhelming that it could fracture even Hell’s own unyielding laws. Thus, they gathered here — a place built to contain their wrath.
Now, four colossal figures stood in the center of the arena. Each was a Lord of Hell, their bodies monstrous, their auras enough to unmake worlds. Their gazes locked, filled with hatred and disdain. They despised one another, as was their nature, yet for once they were not fighting.
They were discussing.
Between them hovered a colossal projection — a virtual image showing six fiendish figures. A young man and a woman, a small yellow cat, a dragon, a werewolf, and a man whose eyes seem full of code.
The images flickered for a mont — and then the disguises fell away, revealing their true forms.
The first to speak was Nebolex, the Spider Lord, his massive form covered in chitinous armor that glistened like obsidian. His voice was like silk over steel.
"These," he hissed, "are our enemies. The ants who dared cripple entire sectors of the Third Layer — including Sector Three. They ca disguised, but their true identity is clear. They are mbers of the Graecia Empire, rulers of the Xaos Kingdom. They call themselves the Depravitas."
The other three Lords of Hell regarded the images with growing fury. Flas of hatred burned in their eyes.
Had the Depravitas rely ruined Nebolex’s sches, the others might have laughed. Rivalries among Hell’s nobility were constant, and treachery was almost a tradition. But this was different.
These outsiders had drained the Origin Power of Sector Three — the fundantal essence that sustained an entire layer of Hell. That act was not defiance. It was blasphemy.
Even among demons, there were cris that could not be ignored.
A silence fell across the Lords of Hell, so deep that the wails of the damned seed to vanish. Then, slowly, the flas of the underworld flared anew.
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