Nightmare was no longer sitting calmly on his dark throne; the actions of those three Knights had far exceeded his wildest imagination.
The unthinkable had happened; he had lost ground to them!
Somehow, they had turned his realm of nightmares into a land of dreams, they had manifested a dream inside his realm, and even as the master and ruler of the domain, he couldn't just undo whatever they had done.
It was a wound on reality itself.
A piece of a different world had been forced into his, a world with different rules, different laws, a world of order and light, a world that was anathema to him.
This phantom Camelot might not be real, might not be permanent, but for as long as it existed, it would push back against his influence, it would be a beacon of hope in the darkness, a fortress of order in the chaos.
"You have made a grave mistake, knights of Camelot," Nightmare snarled, his form shifting and writhing, the shadows around him churning with a renewed fury. "You have poked the dragon, and now you will feel its fire!"
He lunged forward, a being of pure darkness and rage, a tidal wave of psychic horror threatening to wash over the nascent Camelot and drown it in despair. He was a lord of a dimension, a being of immense power and cruelty, and he would not be defeated by a trio of mortals, no matter how powerful they were.
The phantom walls of Camelot shimmered as the demon lord crashed against them, the very stones seeming to groan under the strain. The light that emanated from the city flickered, the hope that it represented seeming to waver in the face of the demon's overwhelming power.
Yet the walls held; the dream remained because, no matter what, humanity would always dream of Utopia.
In fact, the harder Nightmare struggled, the greater his attacks, the greater the crisis, the greater the need for a safe place, the greater the desire for utopia, and therefore, the greater the walls of Camelot seemed to shine.
Nightmare grew to the size of a dwarfing planet, and under his hands, the walls of Camelot seemed to be little more than a speck of dust in the void, yet still the walls held.
His attacks, which could shatter worlds, could not break the dream.
Galahad, Ector, and Kay stood within the phantom city, their auras shining like beacons in the darkness, their swords held at the ready.
"He's strong," Kay said, a grudging respect in his voice.
"He's a lord of a dimension," Galahad said, a grim determination on his face. "He is bound to be."
Ector didn't say anything. He just stood there, his shield held high, a silent, resolute guardian.
"I will tear down your walls, shatter your dreams, and throw you into an endless abyss of nightmares!" Nightmare roared angrily.
The battle raged, a war of wills, a clash of realities. Nightmare threw everything he had at the phantom Camelot, wave after wave of psychic horror, assault after assault of pure despair. But the city held, its walls of light and hope a testament to the unbreakable spirit of humanity.
But even as they held their ground, they knew that this was not a battle they could win. They were on the defensive, trying to hold back a tide of darkness that was seemingly endless. They were strong, but they were not invincible. And their energy was not infinite.
"We can't keep this up forever," Kay said, a hint of desperation in his voice.
"I know," Galahad said, his gaze fixed on the raging demon lord. "But we have to try. We have to hold him here, for as long as we can."
"For the King," Ector said, his voice a low growl, a reminder of their duty, a reminder of the oath they had sworn.
"For the King," the others echoed, their voices a chorus of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.
They were knights of the Round Table, and they would not falter, they would not yield, they would not break. They would be as unyielding as the walls protecting them right now. They would hold the line, no matter the cost.
-----
Satannish was not a fool.
He was, after all, a lord of a dimension, a being who had existed for eons, who had witnessed the birth and death of civilizations, who had feasted on the souls of countless mortals.
Others might consider him little more than a brute, but he wasn't a fool, he just couldn't be bothered to think.
He had already made it, was already at the top of the pyramid, he had done plenty of planning, of scheming, of tricking and lying. All manner of things had been needed for him to reach his current position.
But what was the point of continuing?
He saw little gain in doing any such things these days.
Tricking mortals into giving him their souls?
He found that beneath him now, the action of lesser demons. If he wanted souls, he could just take them.
Scheming against other demons?
He had already done plenty of that, and he had found it to be a tedious, boring affair. He had better things to do with his time, like indulging in the endless slaughter of his own domain, a world of rage and fury, a world that was a reflection of his own nature.
He was a demon of rage, a being of pure, unadulterated fury, and he found a certain satisfaction in the endless cycle of violence that defined his existence.
So when Mephisto had come to him with this plan, this scheme to invade Earth, he had been less than enthusiastic. He had seen it as a waste of his time, a distraction from the more pleasurable pursuits of his own domain.
But Mephisto had been persistent, had painted a picture of a world ripe for the picking, a world filled with souls just waiting to be claimed. He had spoken of a power, a new source of strength that could be gained from the conquest of this world.
And Satannish had found himself tempted, not for the power, the souls, or the countless benefits Mephisto had promised.
Only a fool would believe that a demon would give away anything good, even if there were such wealth to be gained, he would likely keep it all to himself.
No, Satannish didn't believe for a moment that there was any good stuff to be had, even this so-called opportunity to lay claim to Earth wasn't something he believed in.
How many years had they tried for?
And what was the result?
No matter the scheme, no matter the tricks, Earth would remain Earth.
And honestly? He wasn't all too sad about that, yes, he wouldn't mind having the world, but if he couldn't get it, then that was still fine. He still had his ways of getting souls, and he could pick only the ones he wanted.
No need to deal with the rest.
Only the worthy were welcome into his embrace, to fight for him for all eternity. It was a great honor.
But Mephisto's plan had one thing he couldn't ignore. The challenge.
When Mephisto had shown the scar in his lands, allowing them to feel that holy radiance from the soil, so that they could see grass and flowers grow where only brimstone and lava should flow, he had realized.
This Arthuria Pendragon, she could offer something he hadn't felt in a long time.
A true fight.
Not the things they did these days, no, a fight where he wasn't all powerful, but a true fight, one where there were risks involved, a fight you can't lose, isn't a fight at all.
A fight where you can't get hurt... what is the point in that?
So when he learned that this Earth Goddess could do the impossible, that she could hurt them, hurt their very realms, that got his blood pumping.
He had long since been missing the thrill, the thrill of a good fight, a worthy fight, to roar in madness and exchange wound for wound, to power through the pain through pure rage and emerge victorious.
That was the true joy.
So he had agreed to Mephisto's plan.
And now, as he watched the battle from his throne of skulls in the heart of his domain, he could feel the thrill he had been craving.
The battle was raging, the demons were fighting, and the knights were holding their own. It was a grand spectacle, a feast of violence and fury that was a joy to behold.
He had sent out Thog, his second in command, to see if these Knights were truly worthy of facing him, or if only their king deserved that honor, and what he saw delighted him greatly.
This entire army was powerful, a bit small for his liking, but each warrior, each knight was strong, and the elite Knights, the Round Table Knights, they were indeed worthy.
Each one fought with a fury of their own, each one powerful and exciting.
His favorites were Gawain and Mordred.
Gawain, because he clearly seemed the strongest, with the sun grafted to his very being, he would no doubt be able to take a beating, and the searing heat of his sword would give Satannish the excitement he craved.
And while Mordred clearly wasn't as strong, he liked her because she fit his tastes.
A warrior fighting with rage and joy, someone who loved a wild battle, just like him, someone who didn't care for discipline or skill, not because they didn't have it, but because it was boring.
Someone after his own heart.
So when he watched, a small, evil, and excited smile on his face as he saw Mordred's final attack, he couldn't wait to see her reaction.
She had just managed to take down his general, and while he was disappointed to lose a good general, he was more excited for the fight to come. He watched her as she looked around, her chest heaving, a triumphant grin on her face.
And then, he decided it was his turn.
The battlefield, already a scene of chaos and destruction, was suddenly plunged into an even deeper abyss of violence. A new presence, far more potent and terrifying than Thog's, seeped through the great portal of Satannish's realm. It was not a physical form, not yet, but a pressure, a weight of pure, unadulterated rage that made the very air tremble.
The demons fighting for the Hell Lord paused in their mindless assault, their forms shuddering as they felt their master's will touch them. The lesser demons shrieked, a sound of pure agony, as the overwhelming force of their lord's rage subsumed their own.
On the other side, the Enforcement Knights, beings of pure logic and magic, stood their ground, their internal workings warning them of a catastrophic-level threat.
"Come, little Knights, you mortals who seek to stop my forces, come, break yourself upon my body!" he roared, inviting them to come, to allow him to enjoy himself a little, before he stepped back into his own realm.
That place out there wouldn't be able to allow him to unleash his full power; it would shatter under the might of a Hell Lord. Clearly, the Sorcerer Supreme had made it like that. Already, it was on the brink of collapse from D'Spayre's fight. Should he join, the war would end as the battlefield would vanish.
Not that he minded, he would fight, here or there, it mattered not.
Only that rage and battle flowed.
(End of chapter)
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