The Epic Tale of Chaos vs Order

"Origathar, Lord of Debauchery!"

The voice of Dionisio thundered across the sky as his truest self emerged from the shattered ruins of the island.

He rose like a vision of corruption made flesh, his towering form capable of dwarfing stars and moons. Muscles sculpted with demonic might rippled beneath a skin of shadow and sinew. His presence radiated dominance and ruin in equal measure. Jagged black spines jutted from his shoulders, each one a grotesque reminder of his own torment and the destruction he carried within.

His face was hidden behind a macabre helm: the bleached skull of a horned beast, twisted into a crown of grotesque majesty. From within its sockets blazed two crimson eyes, unblinking and eternal, windows into the abyss of temptation and sin. Golden chains coiled around his arms and torso—not the marks of imprisonment, but ornaments of perversion, trophies stolen from those who had once dared to bind him.

Fire and ash swirled about him as though the inferno itself was his throne. Flames licked at his flesh yet never consumed him. His claws, long and curved like sickles, dripped with a corrosive, sinful energy—tools not only of slaughter but of violation.

The master of RainbowSky Heaven had not merely survived Cain's devastating strike; by devouring the life and souls of his own people, he had recovered enough strength to rejoin the battlefield. His aura burned with such intensity that the warriors of the Scarlet Path frowned.

"You took everything from me," Dionisio roared, his voice thick with hatred and hunger. "Now I will break your souls and defile your bodies!"

With a sweep of his wings of ash, he surged into the sky, joining the chaotic clash already raging above.

Leonidas, Amon, and Bael were seasoned warriors, each having fought countless life-and-death battles. Though Dionisio's sudden resurgence sent a ripple of shock through them, their instincts were sharp. They adapted instantly, turning their three separate duels into a single massive melee. Their movements shifted seamlessly into rhythm, relying on trust and teamwork.

But even their coordination could not completely balance the scales.

Cain's teeth clenched as he watched the tide turn. With Dionisio's addition, the battlefield tilted against them. Though the advantage was slight, the danger was immense: if Leonidas, Amon, or Bael faltered, even for a moment, one of the enemy ArchDeities would be free to aid Azazel. And Cain knew well—he could only hold the True Depravita at a stalemate. If Azazel gained support, Cain's life itself would be in jeopardy.

The Scarlet King's eyes burned with what seemed grim urgency. He could only hope his allies endured.

The battle intensified, each strike louder, heavier, brighter. Dionisio was many things—a tyrant, a devourer, a coward—but he was also undeniably powerful. His claws tore through divine flesh. His chains snapped like serpents across the battlefield, binding and choking with inescapable force. Even the strongest ArchDeities strained to avoid their touch, for once ensnared, escape was near impossible.

Blood and fire painted the sky. Wounds appeared on every side, scars of power etched into immortal flesh. And then—an opening.

Calypso surged through Amon's infernal tornado, her abyssal form cutting through darkness and flame. With a shriek, she blasted the Godslayer Human through the sky, sending him tumbling.

Amon reeled—straight into Dionisio's waiting chains.

"SNAP."

The golden coils tightened around his body, dragging him back like prey caught in a spider's web. Dionisio's smile widened beneath his skull mask, grotesque and gleeful. He laughed like a beast savoring its catch, striding forward with claws outstretched.

Like a spider descending upon its trapped victim, he hovered above the bound Amon, ready to tear him apart.

And Dionisio wanted them to see it. He turned his burning crimson eyes toward Cain, Leonidas, and Bael. He wanted their despair. He wanted them to watch helplessly as one of their brothers was crushed, defiled, and consumed before their very eyes.

But what he saw was not despair.

Not horror. Not rage. Not even frustration.

He saw smiles.

Cold, confident smiles.

It was at that moment. When the ArchDeity was lost in the sense of imminent triumph and focused solely on the prey beneath him, that is when it happened.

"ZNNNNNN!"

A tearing sound split the air. Dionisio's body stiffened. His crimson eyes widened.

A massive skeletal hand burst through his back and emerged from his chest, its claws crackling with cursed flame.

The battlefield froze.

Only then did the figure reveal himself. He had hidden until the perfect moment, cloaked in inevitability and dread. His skeletal visage grinned beneath a shadowed hood, an executioner of both flesh and soul. His body, cloaked in dark, tattered robes, radiated not frailty but strength—a terrifying blend of death and vitality. Tendrils of burning shadow streamed from his shoulders, glowing with embers that seared the air.

The skeletal hand buried in Dionisio's chest flared with unholy fire. Not flames of flesh, but of essence—fire that devoured body and soul alike.

"No…" Dionisio rasped, his voice breaking in disbelief.

The figure did not reply. His hand exploded, transforming into a torrent of cursed fire that spread across Dionisio's titanic form. The master of RainbowSky Heaven screamed as the inferno engulfed him, wrapping him in a blazing sphere that fused into the assassin's body.

The True Depravita's teeth clenched, his face dark with rage. Cain had pressed him so hard, forced him to commit so much power, that he had not sensed the assassin's arrival. That failure burned.

Calypso, Gilgamesh, and Juda froze, terror flashing in their eyes. It could have been any one of them pierced by that skeletal hand. Dionisio's fall was sudden, brutal, and complete.

"CRRRRKK!"

The chains binding Amon snapped apart. With Dionisio's fall, his power unraveled. Amon rose, his aura surging once more, and met the gaze of the skeletal figure.

The two nodded solemnly—silent acknowledgment, warriors recognizing one another.

Then, as one, they turned back toward the battlefield.

The balance had shifted.

The numbers remained four against three, but it was now the Scarlet Path who held the upper hand.