Chapter 9: The Devil's Manifestation and the Descent into the Void
The crater was a jagged wound in the earth, still smoking with the residual heat of the Master's sacrifice. Arthur lay broken among the obsidian shards, his breathing shallow and ragged. For the first time in years, the crimson glow in his eyes was flickering, threatened by the overwhelming purity of Andrew's presence.
Andrew hovered inches above the ground, the Aurelian Brand glowing with a steady, lethal intensity. The tip of the blade touched Arthur's throat, drawing a thin line of black, smoking blood.
"It's over, Arthur," Andrew said, his voice a mixture of divine authority and human sorrow. "The contract is bleeding out. Let go of the hate."
Arthur's hand moved, not to reach for his sword, but to grab Andrew's tunic. "I... I can't," he choked out. "He... he won't let go."
Suddenly, the temperature in the crater plummeted below the freezing point of the mountain. The shadows at the bottom of the pit didn't move; they solidified. From the very air itself, a terrifying presence began to take shape. It wasn't a man or a beast; it was a fracture in reality.
The Devil had arrived, but not as a full physical being—he was a manifestation of pure, sentient void.
"My champion has become... disappointing," the Devil's voice echoed, sounding like the grinding of tectonic plates.
A massive, clawed hand made of solidified darkness reached out from the void and grabbed Arthur's chest. Arthur screamed, a sound of absolute agony, as the Devil began to pull his soul directly into the underworld.
"If I cannot have a King on the throne," the Devil hissed, "I will have a servant in the pits!"
"NO!" Andrew roared. He swung his golden blade, but the weapon passed through the Devil's smoky form as if it were nothing. The light of the Angel's Ring flared, but it only slowed the process.
The Devil laughed, a sound that made the very mountain tremble. "Your light is of the heavens, Seraph! It has no power in the deep places where the names of gods are forgotten. If you want his soul, you must come and take it from the Labyrinth of the Lost."
With a violent surge of dark energy, a black hole opened in the center of the crater. Arthur was sucked in, his terrified eyes locked onto Andrew's for one final, haunting second. Then, the hole collapsed, leaving nothing but scorched earth and a deafening silence.
The Decision of the Seraph
Andrew stood alone in the ruins of the Forbidden Peaks. His Master was dead, his brother was a prisoner of the underworld, and the world below was still shrouded in the darkness Arthur had unleashed.
He looked at the Angel's Ring. The liquid starlight within it was dimming.
"The Ring is a key to the heavens, Seeker," a faint, ethereal voice whispered. It was the spirit of the Master, lingering in the air. "But to unlock the gates of the abyss, you need more than light. You need the Devil's True Name. Only then can the contract be torn."
"Where is it hidden?" Andrew asked the empty air.
"In the Vault of Whispers, located at the heart of the Underworld," the spirit replied. "But be warned: the deeper you go, the more the light will fail you. You will have to rely on the one thing the Devil cannot understand—your humanity."
Andrew didn't hesitate. He knew that the Legion of the Eclipsed would continue to destroy the world if the Devil wasn't stopped at the source. He knelt in the center of the crater and placed his glowing hands on the earth.
"I am the bridge," Andrew whispered. "I am the light in the dark."
He channeled the power of the Angel's Ring in reverse. Instead of reaching for the sun, he pushed his spirit downward. The earth began to crack, not with violence, but with a deliberate, spiritual opening. A portal of shimmering silver-blue light appeared, leading into a vertical tunnel that seemed to go on forever.
The First Circle: The Field of Forgotten Faces
Andrew stepped into the portal. The descent felt like falling through cold water. When he finally landed, he wasn't in a pit of fire. He was in a vast, grey field covered in thick, choking fog.
This was the first circle of the Underworld—the Field of Forgotten Faces.
Everywhere he looked, there were statues made of grey ash. These were the souls of people who had given up hope before they died. As Andrew walked, the statues began to crumble, their ash forming into ghostly shapes that blocked his path.
"Stay with us, Lightbringer," they moaned. "There is no sun here. There is only the long, grey sleep."
Andrew's wings of light were smaller here, struggling against the heavy, spiritual atmosphere. He raised his hand, and a small pulse of light cleared the fog for a few meters.
"I am not here for sleep," Andrew told the ghosts. "I am here for the Blacksmith's son."
As he pushed deeper into the field, he saw a figure sitting on a pile of ash. It was a young boy, crying. When the boy looked up, Andrew gasped. It was a younger version of Arthur—the boy before the envy, before the hunger for power.
"Andrew?" the boy-Arthur whispered. "Is it finally morning?"
Andrew reached out to touch him, but his hand passed through the boy. This was a "Soul-Fragment"—a piece of Arthur's humanity that the Devil had stripped away centuries ago.
"Not yet, brother," Andrew said, his golden eyes filled with tears. "But the dawn is coming. I promise."
Suddenly, the ground began to shake. A massive guardian of the Underworld—the Gatekeeper of Ash—rose from the field. It was a titan made of compressed bone and grey dust, carrying a scythe that could cut through souls.
"None pass the first circle with a heart that still beats!" the Titan roared.
Andrew drew the Aurelian Brand. Here, in the dark, the blade didn't glow gold; it glowed a fierce, defiant white.
"My heart beats for two," Andrew said, lunging forward. "And that is enough to break your world."