The Epic Tale of Chaos vs Order

"Crimson Throne."

A thunderous hum filled the chamber, and from the crystalline ceiling above, reality itself seemed to split apart. A massive circular gate materialized — a construct of red stone and molten metal, etched with a thousand glowing runes. The symbols formed a seamless ring of otherworldly script, pulsing like a heartbeat, shifting between languages older than time.

Inside the circle, interlocking geometric shapes rotated in cryptic patterns, a labyrinth of light and shadow that defied the eye's attempt to follow. Rivers of molten energy flowed through the gate's lines like liquid fire. It wasn't just a doorway; it was judgment given form.

The gate began to open.

On the other side stretched a vast crimson realm — a dimension that shimmered like endless molten glass. The air itself seemed to scream, every sound warped by divine resonance.

The Crimson Exarch looked upon it without emotion. Then, with quiet finality, he turned to the shattered figure of Black Mask.

"Enjoy your new home."

With a flick of his hand, he hurled the broken Prototype into the blazing maw of the gate.

Black Mask's psychic scream echoed as he fell through, his body dissolving into the crimson sea beyond. Pure terror washed through his fading consciousness — and then, silence. The gate sealed shut with a low, resonant boom, and the chamber returned to its natural stillness.

The Crimson Exarch stood beneath the ceiling, his aura dimming until only faint golden traces remained. The emptiness in his gaze — that chilling absence of emotion — began to fade. His posture relaxed, the tension of battle dissolving as he descended slowly back to the crystalline floor.

He landed gracefully, his boots barely making a sound. Then his eyes shifted toward the only other conscious being in the chamber.

Meylin.

The True Depravita clenched her fists. The sight of his Crimson Throne made every instinct in her scream danger. The technique — the structure, the resonance, even the divine frequency — was almost an exact mirror of Cain's Scarlet Throne.

The fact that this man had saved her from Black Mask meant nothing in the brutal logic of power. To her, he was no ally — merely another threat with unpredictable motives.

Unfortunately, she was in no condition to fight.

The battle between the Crimson Exarch and Black Mask, though grand enough to reshape the chamber, had lasted less than five minutes — far too little time for her body to recover. Even now, pain flickered beneath her skin with every heartbeat. She could sense that the Exarch had drained much of his strength during the confrontation, but he still possessed more than enough power to erase her.

To her quiet relief, he didn't move toward her.

Instead, the Crimson Exarch turned his attention to the fallen Amazo. The warrior lay unconscious amid shattered crystal, his massive form riddled with wounds. Calmly, the Exarch approached him and knelt.

He placed his hand over Amazo's chest — directly above the gaping wound where his heart had been pierced — and closed his eyes.

The golden light of The Flow coursed through his arm, weaving into the damaged body before him.

Meylin watched as torn muscle reformed, veins reconnected, and the void in Amazo's chest filled with living tissue once more. Then she heard it — a faint, steady rhythm.

A heartbeat.

Her eyes widened. She had struck that blow herself — clean, fatal, without mercy. She had seen the light fade from Amazo's eyes and fall into a deep coma. And yet the Crimson Exarch had restored him.

It wasn't full regeneration; the man's life force remained fragile, his aura dim. But it was enough. With time, he would awaken.

The Crimson Exarch stood, his expression unreadable. Then, as if lifting nothing more than a feather, he hoisted the colossal body of Amazo over his shoulder. Turning toward Meylin once more, he smiled — a soft, radiant smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I saved your life," he said lightly. "So I'd appreciate it if you kept this little matter between me, you, and Cain. It would be… troublesome if the people of the Freedom Path discovered that I killed Black Mask."

Meylin frowned.

Not because of the request itself — but because of the name he had spoken.

Cain.

Her mind whirled. Why had he included Cain in that circle of trust? What possible connection did the Crimson Exarch have with him?

She had met Cain in both the Nine Empyrean Suns Universe and the Crimson World, and not once had he mentioned anyone like this man. The Crimson Exarch's tone implied familiarity, but she was sure they had never met before.

Questions bloomed like thorns in her mind.

But she had no answers yet, and she was in no position to press him for them.

Drawing in a slow breath, Meylin steadied herself and nodded. "You did save my life," she said evenly. "And I recognize that. Other than Cain, I will not reveal what happened here to any soul."

The Exarch's golden eyes flared slightly, reading her expression — her tone, her truth, her very resonance. After a long silence, his smile returned, wider now, more human.

"Excellent."

He turned his back on her and began to walk toward the open path at the far end of the chamber.

Over his shoulder, he said, almost cheerfully, "Good luck in the next rings, Meylin. I do hope we don't meet again. I'd really hate to have to kill you."

And with that, the Crimson Exarch disappeared into the labyrinth's glowing corridors, carrying the unconscious Amazo with him.

Silence settled once more.

Meylin sank to the ground, her breathing slow and steady, her mind awash with questions. The crystalline light of the chamber reflected in her eyes as she stared at the space where the Exarch had vanished.

Who was he really?

What was his connection to Cain?

And why did he possess a technique so similar to the Scarlet Throne?

One thing was certain — the Sacred Dimension of the Red King was far more dangerous than she had imagined.

Even if she did everything right — even if she fought with perfect control — the smallest twist of fate could turn triumph into annihilation.

Closing her eyes, she crossed her legs and began to meditate. The faint shimmer of her Depravity Aura rose around her, knitting torn flesh and restoring her energy. For now, survival came before curiosity.

It took twelve long hours before she opened her eyes again. Her strength had returned, her body fully restored. She had waited deliberately — wanting at least half a day's distance between herself and the Crimson Exarch before moving on.

She rose to her feet, gripping Hell and Abyss, her twin swords. The eyes of the True Depravita of Original Sin blazed with renewed determination.

Without another word, she stepped forward into the labyrinth's depths, ready to face whatever waited beyond.