Chamber of Scarlet Flas
Laisa rose abruptly, her chair scraping against the marble floor. Her eyes sharpened as she turned to Cassy. "Do you hear that? The shockwaves… they've stopped."
Cassy placed a hand over her chest, bowing slightly. "Yes, my lady. That can only an one thing—Lord Azreal has already dealt with it. You need not worry. Trust in him."
Laisa's tense shoulders loosened. She exhaled slowly, a faint nod following. "…You're right."
---
First Gate of Hell
The ash settled like snow.
Malphas stood motionless in the still air, Zarkhalem's monstrous blade humming with faint cursed energy in his hand. He glanced down at the disintegrated ashes of Thorne, his once-vicious foe now nothing but a smoldering mory. Then, slowly, he let go of the blade.
Zarkhalem dissolved into a mist of dark ash, its presence fading into the wind.
"You should have just stayed dead," Malphas muttered, his voice low, tired.
He turned away from the remains of battle, shoulders slouched as if finally bearing the weight of the entire infernal war.
"I never wanted to use my soul weapon against you… but I guess this ends the infernal war." He sighed, rubbing a sar of blood from his cheek.
"Phew…" he exhaled, glancing up at the sky as smoke swirled above. "I'm exhausted. I need to eat more of Nena's food to recover…"
---
Second Gate of Hell
The battlefield was cracked and burned, the ground littered with rubble and scorched debris. Pools of blood boiled faintly under the residual heat.
Veymar laid back against a broken stone, his once-pristine armor now tattered and soaked in crimson. His face was bloodied, his left gauntlet cracked, and his chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths.
Across from him, Vorn walked forward slowly, flas flickering across his fists.
"You were just all talk after all," Vorn muttered coldly, shaking his head.
He turned to walk away—but paused.
His instincts scread.
A dark, choking aura pressed into his back. Slowly, he turned around.
Veymar hadn't moved much. But now… he was smiling.
Not a normal smile.
A creepy, wide grin that seed to stretch through the shadows themselves.
His face was mostly covered in darkness—but that smile…
That damn smile.
Vorn's body tensed involuntarily.
Black smoke began to drift from Veymar's body like a leaking curse.
"You incite more… Tenth Key," Veymar whispered, voice echoing like it was bouncing off a thousand walls.
Vorn growled and rushed forward, fla bursting from his fists as he launched a punch straight for Veymar's skull.
But—
CLINK!
His fist stopped midair. An invisible wall pulsed between them, shimring faintly with runes.
"Tch. Back to using your damn shield again?" Vorn snapped, stepping back.
But Veymar was already rising to his feet, laughter rumbling in his throat.
"I haven't felt this thrill in a long ti," he said, blood trickling down his neck. "To be wounded… in battle."
He stretched his arms, crackling his neck as the black smoke intensified, seeping into the ground and rising from his fingers.
"Be glad, Vorn. You'll be the second person I use it on…"
Vorn's eyes narrowed. "Quit your creepy tactics. You've lost already."
But the pressure in the air grew heavy—oppressive.
The smoke thickened like fog, choking the light out of the sky.
"Soul weapon…" Veymar whispered.
BOOM!
The entire field exploded in smoke, like a volcano of shadows had erupted.
The very atmosphere shifted.
Vorn ignited the flas in his hands. "This trick won't work on !"
He spun around, searching.
Then—
A laugh.
Low. Echoing.
Taunting.
He swung forward, but hit only smoke.
Another laugh, closer this ti.
His steps faltered. The fire around his fists flared—then sputtered.
Then went out.
Sweat poured down his face.
His knees buckled.
And in front of him—
A monstrous scythe, floating in the sky like a moon of death. It was massive, stretching high above the battlefield, its blade curved and gleaming like it had tasted gods.
And on it—
Sat Veymar.
He sat like a jester on a throne, slouched forward, swinging one leg lazily. His face was hidden in smoke—only his teeth could be seen in that twisted grin.
"Noctis Reaver," he announced.
Vorn stood frozen. Trembling.
The scythe pulsed once.
Boom.
Five glowing eyes opened along the blade. Ominous. Alive. Watching.
The pressure in the air beca unbearable.
Vorn saw a vision—
Himself charging.
Then—
His own head flying.
He snapped back to reality, gasping. Sweat hit the ground.
"What is this thing…? This isn't the Noctis Reaver from before…"
He clenched his fists.
"I… I have to run," he whispered.
"I'll die if I stay…"
And then—he ran.
Faster than he ever had.
But behind him, Veymar's voice rang.
"Ti for a soul… harvest."
Vorn scread as his legs pumped harder, but then—
A burn.
Deep inside.
"Ugh—what… what's…?!"
His chest glowed. His skin cracked. His body twisted unnaturally.
"AAAAARGH!"
He scread as his entire form disintegrated into fire and rose.
A fire soul.
It floated into the air—towards the scythe.
As it reached the blade, the five eyes blinked once.
Then closed.
And Veymar's body glowed.
He let out a long exhale, licking the blood from his lips.
"The soul of the damned…" he said, voice low. "Tastes better than any other, don't you think?"
The eyes blinked once more.
Then—
The scythe vanished in a blur of smoke.
The battlefield fell into silence.
Veymar landed lightly on his feet.
"...I'm bored now."
He dusted off his cloak, not even glancing back at the spot where Vorn had once stood.
He stretched his arms, then began walking forward through the ruins.
"A party isn't complete without a joker… now is it?"
He whistled lazily as he walked past Blight's body. Without stopping, he snapped his fingers.
Blight's corpse burst into flas and vanished into ashes.
Veymar didn't look back.
He stopped, standing at the edge of a cliff.
Looking down at the broken battlefield, the gates of hell burning in the distance, he tilted his head.
"Now then…"
He raised his hand, pointing forward.
"Which gate… should I go to first?"
---
Fourth Gate of Hell
The ground was cracked and dry, blood and ash painting the stones.
Selmora stood, green flas swirling around her. Her eyes—hungry. Her whip coiled like a serpent at her side.
In the distance, Jarek approached—blade glowing with searing heat. His armor glead, but his face was battered, his steps tense.
Nyssara stood beside Selmora.
Selmora didn't look at her. "Go."
"Yes, my lady." Nyssara ran.
But Jarek appeared instantly in front of her.
"You're not going anywhere."
His sword arced toward her.
But—WHIP!
His hand was caught mid-strike.
Selmora stood with a grin. "Don't ignore ."
She yanked hard—Jarek flew backward, crashing into the earth.
Nyssara vanished.
Dust billowed.
Selmora grinned wide. "Let's play."
"Let's dance."
She vanished.
Jarek's eyes snapped to the side, swinging his blade just in ti to block the crackling whip. The green fla sizzled against his blade, and sparks burst with the impact.
BOOM!
The ground split beneath them.
Selmora danced back, her whip slithering around her like a snake. She twisted her body, then lashed out again.
Crack!
The whip surged forward like a serpent of pure fla. Jarek ducked and rolled, slicing the whip in half.
But—
"dusa's Whip," Selmora whispered, eyes glowing.
The sliced ends of the whip hissed… then doubled. Two new whips ford. Now she had four.
Jarek narrowed his eyes. "Tch. I knew it."
He jumped backward, fla gathering on his sword. "Crimson Claw!"
He slashed the air, sending a wave of fire toward Selmora. She twirled mid-air, dodging with eerie grace. The fla wave struck a boulder behind her, vaporizing it.
She landed on her toes like a dancer, smiling wide. "More! Yes, more!"
Jarek gritted his teeth. "What's with this woman… she's smiling like she's enjoying being pushed back!"
He charged in, blade roaring.
Selmora t him halfway, the four whips flying in all directions. One cracked at his feet, another at his face. He parried two, leapt over one, and slashed at her mid-air.
Clang!
Fla against fla. Heat surged around them, the air shimring like a furnace.
They broke apart, and Selmora spun in the air, her whip extending like a ribbon. It wrapped around a nearby pillar and yanked her forward. She ca spinning toward Jarek like a cyclone.
He barely blocked the flurry of attacks. One whip slamd into his side, another scorched his thigh. Blood sprayed.
Selmora licked her lips again.
"That's more like it."
Jarek roared, "I'm ending this!"
He slamd his blade into the ground. A pillar of fla erupted beneath Selmora—she was swallowed in fire.
BOOOOM!
The ground cracked, flas shooting into the sky like a volcano erupting.
Jarek panted, kneeling, gripping his sword tightly. "Hah… hah…"
The smoke cleared.
Selmora stepped out of the fire, her clothes tattered, blood on her lip. But her smile—unchanged.
"You really got there," she said, voice breathy.
Then her voice deepened. Cold. Whispering.
"But now… you've made excited."
She extended her arm, blood dripping from it.
A twisted whip of green fla and mouths burst from her back.
Soul weapon—Nàrhr'zul.
It let out a screech that made the air tremble. Its body coiled like a massive anaconda, eyes glowing like molten eralds.
Selmora's voice turned low. "Now… scream for ."
Jarek tried to run—he leapt into the air, fla igniting around him.
Too late.
Nàrhr'zul whipped around his leg and slamd him into the ground with a bone-shattering CRACK!
Jarek coughed blood, eyes wide.
He slashed desperately, trying to cut himself free. Flas erupted—but Nàrhr'zul slithered around them, unaffected.
The serpent coiled tighter.
Around his chest.
His ribs.
His arms.
Jarek scread.
Selmora walked slowly toward him, her smile widening into madness.
"Yes… yes, that's it… scream more. Scream for …"
Nàrhr'zul tightened.
Jarek's voice cracked into a howl of agony.
Then—
CRACK.
His bones snapped.
One by one.
Selmora's smile vanished.
She stared down coldly, her voice turning icy.
"I see. That's your limit."
Nàrhr'zul opened its mouth, jaws stretching unnaturally wide. It bit down, swallowing Jarek's broken body whole—his form slowly vanishing into flas and smoke.
Her whip slithered across the ground and followed, wrapping around what remained like a snake. Together, whip and soul weapon devoured him—leaving only silence.
Selmora stood there in the middle of scorched, blood-soaked earth. The smoke parted. Her breathing slowed.
She turned away, yawning.
"All this fighting's got tired. I need a nap."
With a snap, Nàrhr'zul vanished.
---
Fifth Gate of Hell
The battlefield was a smoldering wasteland. Flas danced in the wind. Craters scorched the earth, and smoke curled into the blood-red sky like dying breaths of the damned.
In the heart of the destruction, two figures remained.
Dragos stood tall—his body covered in thick, dark crimson scales that shimred like armor forged in hellfire. His golden eyes burned with a cold, reptilian fury.
In his clawed hand, he held Lioran—dangling high in the air by his neck.
Lioran's arms flailed, his feet kicking wildly, trying to break free. His sword had long fallen. His body was bruised, burned, his armor shattered. Blood dripped from his lips as he struggled to breathe.
Dragos' grip tightened.
The scales on his arms slowly receded, fading back into skin as the flas around him pulsed with heat. The ground cracked beneath his feet from the raw force of his aura.
Lioran gasped. "Let... Go".
But Dragos didn't flinch.
His eyes stared into Lioran's, devoid of rcy.
"You disgust ," Dragos muttered, his voice low and thunderous—like the growl of an ancient beast.
Then—
WHOOSH!
Green flas erupted from his palm, consuming Lioran in a fiery blaze. The scream was brief—cut short—as the body burned to ash in seconds.
Only embers remained, falling like cursed snow.
Dragos stood still for a mont, breathing deeply, smoke rising from his skin.
The flas around the battlefield began to die.
The echoes of battle faded.
He turned slowly, his back to the carnage, his silhouette bathed in hellfire.
The war…
…had finally co to an end.
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