Infernal Ascendancy

Third Gate of Hell

The air in the Third Gate of Hell was thick with despair. Rusted chains dragged across the cracked obsidian floor, their clanging echoing like a funeral bell in the silence. Damned souls wandered aimlessly, their hollow eyes staring into nothing, their shackles burning faintly with infernal fire as they stumbled forward in eternal torment.

Xaltheon stood tall among them, his dark cloak rippling with an unseen wind. His piercing gaze followed the movements of the chained souls, his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between cold apathy and grim contemplation.

Then—FWOOOSH!

Flames erupted into the air, twisting violently before condensing into a humanoid form. Aron stepped out from the infernal blaze, dropping to one knee. His voice carried urgency.

"My lord… Lord Veymar is here."

Xaltheon's golden eyes narrowed slightly. He let out a quiet sigh, heavy with annoyance.

"And what," he muttered, his tone sharp as a blade, "what is his reason for coming here now?"

Aron lowered his head further. "Shall I send him away?"

"No," Xaltheon replied after a pause. His deep voice carried authority that made even the wailing souls fall silent for a heartbeat. "Let him in."

Aron bowed, vanishing in a flicker of fire.

Moments later, the air shifted. The sound of boots striking the stone floor echoed as Veymar emerged from the shadows, his presence brimming with restless energy. He stopped beside Xaltheon, his eyes flicking briefly to the suffering souls before fixing on the Pillar himself.

Veymar smirked. "You look as grim as ever, Xaltheon. What brings me here?" He gestured vaguely to the prisoners below. "Boredom, perhaps. Or maybe… curiosity. I believe you've already heard about Lord Azreal's mission."

Xaltheon didn't look at him. His eyes remained on the chained souls as he spoke, voice steady and cold.

"Yes. I was informed."

Veymar leaned forward slightly, his grin widening. "And? Don't you feel the urge to go along? To taste the chaos in the world of the living?"

Xaltheon finally turned his head, his gaze cutting through Veymar like a blade.

"No," he said flatly. "I have no desire to walk in that realm. The mission concerns humans turning into infernals and dying in the process. Let Lord Azreal and the Six investigate. My focus lies here." He folded his arms, his tone darkening. "Do not forget, Veymar. The Evolutionalists may still be moving in the shadows. They could strike at any time. We, as the Pillars, are the last line of defense. If they appear, we must be here."

Veymar's smirk twisted into something sharper, his voice dripping with thrill.

"But there could be stronger enemies waiting in the world of the living. Enemies begging to be crushed. Doesn't that stir anything inside you?"

Xaltheon let out a slow exhale, his patience thinning. He turned back toward the damned souls.

"Go back to your Gate, Veymar. If it is battle you crave, there are other ways." His gaze sharpened. "Perform a ritual with Dragos. The same kind of ritual he once conducted with Lord Azreal. You and Dragos… you would both benefit from clashing blades again."

Veymar's eyes lit up with mischief, his smile widening dangerously.

"A ritual with Dragos, huh?" He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "That's right. He's always sulking, always losing to Lord Azreal. He'll be desperate for another fight. You're right, Xaltheon. Dragos was the answer all along. I shouldn't have wasted my time with Selmora and Malphas."

Xaltheon's eyes flickered. "So you planned to visit each Gate in turn?"

Veymar waved a hand dismissively. "Leave that aside. I'll be leaving now."

He turned, walking away with a confident stride. His presence radiated danger—like a blade unsheathed, gleaming under firelight.

"Whatever you do," Xaltheon called after him, his voice echoing across the chamber, "don't enrage Dragos. You and he are not on good terms. Your clash could spiral out of control."

Veymar didn't even glance back. With a snap of his fingers, a glowing portal of burning crimson light split open before him. He stepped toward it without hesitation, his laughter low and dangerous.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice fading as he entered the portal. "Trust me."

The gate sealed shut behind him with a resounding THOOM, leaving only silence.

Xaltheon's gaze lingered on the spot. His lips curled into a grim frown, and his voice was low, almost a whisper.

"That's the issue, Veymar… you can't be trusted. No one knows what you might do when you get there."

---

Fifth Gate of Hell — Dragon Hall

The Dragon Hall was vast and overwhelming, an ocean of stone and shadow. Its towering pillars stretched toward the abyssal ceiling, carved with the ancient markings of dragons—scales, wings, fangs, each etching alive with faint embers as though the beasts themselves still breathed through the stone. The air reeked of smoke and power, heavy with the weight of ages.

At the highest seat, upon a throne forged of black wyrm-bone and flame, sat Dragos, immense, broad-shouldered, his golden eyes glowing like molten suns. Behind him loomed Drago, his ever-silent guard, a living shadow with eyes like burning coals. Below them were five other thrones, occupied by the Dragon Elders, each presence commanding and fearsome in its own right.

The silence broke when Elder Vaelith leaned forward, his scaled arm resting against the throne's armrest. His voice rasped with the tone of authority.

"The key to the Hollow Realm still hasn't been found. I believe it has already fallen into the hands of another enemy."

Elder Zyronax nodded, his serpentine features grim. "That is true. As it stands, the key is no longer just an ancient artifact—it has become a divine treasure. But it remains lost. Which means…" His eyes narrowed. "It must be in the wrong hands."

A murmur of agreement rippled across the Elders.

Dragos finally spoke, his deep voice shaking the hall like thunder.

"That is a fair consideration. But our reconnaissance teams are still searching. All have returned alive, but still empty-handed. Even when they scoured the ruins of Val'karas, the key was not there."

His eyes narrowed, the glow intensifying.

"And to add to this… a new problem has emerged in the world of the living. Humans are turning into infernals."

The Elders stirred. Elder Xaryndor raised his voice, scales glinting under the dim light.

"Could it be the work of the Evolutionalists? They once pursued the evolution of infernals. Perhaps now they have found a way to twist humans into infernals as well."

But Elder Krazmyr slammed a clawed fist against his throne, shaking the stone. "Impossible. That chapter ended during the Infernal War. We all know this—Lord Azreal destroyed their leader. The Pillars crushed their final evolved infernals. That threat was buried when the war ended."

Dragos' voice rumbled low.

"Then we face a new uprising. A new enemy rising in the world of the living."

Elder Nythrala tilted her head, voice calm and cold.

"It was wise of Lord Azreal to choose carefully who would accompany him. The Pillars remain here. That is how it should be."

Zyronax inclined his head. "Yes. It is the best course. We cannot risk leaving Hell vulnerable. If the Evolutionalists return, we must be ready."

Dragos leaned forward, his gaze heavy.

"Even if Lord Azreal had asked me to accompany him, I would have declined. My duty lies here. I cannot abandon my responsibility to the people."

The Elders nodded, their agreement thunderous in its silence.

Then—BOOOOM.

The massive iron doors of the Dragon Hall groaned open, shaking the chamber. A guard stumbled in, bowing low, his voice trembling.

"My lords… forgive me for interrupting."

Every Elder turned their burning eyes on him. Krazmyr snarled.

"What matter dares break into this council?"

The guard swallowed hard, bowing lower.

"I beg forgiveness… but… Lord Veymar is here to see you, my lord." He directed the words to Dragos.

A flash of irritation crossed Dragos' face. His voice thundered.

"Tell him I am busy. I will attend to him later."

The guard's hands trembled. "We told him so, my lord. But… he insisted."

The Elders shifted, muttering among themselves. Dragos rose to his full towering height, his shadow stretching across the entire hall. He cast a long glance at the Elders, then rumbled:

"I will be right back."

He strode out, the guard trailing nervously behind. The immense corridors echoed with his heavy steps until they arrived at the antechamber.

And there—waiting—stood Veymar.

His crimson eyes glimmered with amusement, his smile sharp as a blade. As Dragos entered, Veymar spread his arms wide.

"Dragos. I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you."

Dragos' voice dropped cold as frost.

"Why are you here, Veymar? Don't waste my time. I have greater matters to attend."

Veymar tilted his head, smirk widening.

"Greater matters, yes… speaking of which—I need you to accompany me. To see Lord Azreal."

Dragos' eyes narrowed. "And why would I do that?"

"So we can both go along with him on his mission."

Dragos' reply came like a blade to the throat.

"I have no intention of doing so. If you wish to join Lord Azreal, then do it yourself. Don't drag me into your schemes."

Veymar's smirk darkened, voice dripping with mockery.

"Why not? You never know how long Azreal might linger there. What about your sacred ritual with him? Surely you wouldn't want to miss such an opportunity."

Dragos turned his back on him, his patience snapping. His voice cut like thunder.

"And what has that to do with you? Enough. You clearly came here with nothing of importance to say."

He began to walk away.

But then—

"I came," Veymar said softly, his grin widening into something feral, "to fight you, Dragos."

Dragos froze mid-step.

Veymar's hand landed casually on his massive shoulder, fingers curling as his crimson aura began to bleed into the air. His voice dripped with challenge.

"What do you say… old man?"

The ground cracked. A sudden surge of heat rippled through the air as Dragos' killing intent exploded outward. His aura roared like a dragon breaking its chains.

He turned slowly, his golden eyes burning locked onto Veymar's smirk.

"Let. Go."