While the eastern edge of the battlefield basked in the sanctified brilliance of Hemera's radiance, the west was drowned in something far more primal—an abyssal night that devoured all warmth and hope. There, as if birthed from the marrow of the abyss itself, stood a being who exuded darkness like ink spilling into water—Hassan, Duke of the Underworld.
He was immense—twice the height of an ordinary man—with a frame shaped more like a blade than a body. His legs, long and lean, made up most of that towering height, while his arms hung slightly shorter, still unnatural in length. Every inch of him was wrapped in armor dark as coal, with shoulders plated in dull jade and a tattered red cloak trailing behind him like a bloodstain.
His helmet bore jagged horns that clawed skyward like the broken peaks of the Hollow Mountains. From the seams in his armor, wisps of pure darkness leaked—inky blackness that defied the light and hissed at life itself. And his eyes—twin blood moons—burned with quiet fury from behind the slits of his helm.
Hassan walked forward, unhurried, every step heavy with finality. The ground did not tremble beneath him, but men did. His mere presence warped the battlefield into something colder, quieter. His title—Duke of the Underworld—was not a boast, but a truth.
He moved with the grace of a killer and the dignity of a relic born for nothing but conquest. Not the false honor of those who paraded ideals in peace, but the true honor of those shaped by endless war.
His lord had given him a command, and as the battalion before him surged forward, he would see it carried out.
In his hand, he drew a rod of Stygian Iron—plain, unremarkable, almost laughable in its simplicity. Yet it felt wrong, as though the world itself flinched at its shape.
Facing the approaching battalion, he raised the rod—and spoke, his voice low, cold, and sharp as a funeral bell.
"May the gods have mercy on you. I won't. The only mercy I offer… is death with honor."
From the enemy line, an Ascended captain stepped forward. A handsome man, with cropped brown hair and a smirk that came too easily. His black eyes glittered with mockery.
"We'll see about that, creature," he said, twirling his spear. "Today, you'll learn shame."
Hassan didn't answer. There was no need.
He remembered who these men were—Warmongers of the Red Coliseum. The ones who had caged him like an animal. Stripped him of dignity. Of blood. Of name.
Now, he would return the favor.
There were 1,500 soldiers on the island. A hundred had already perished when his lord had unleashed Poseidon. That left 1,400. Five hundred were his to claim. That would suffice.
The captain's words still hung in the air when his head ceased to exist.
One moment, the man stood there grinning. The next, his skull erupted in a hiss of black fire, severed clean from his spine. A hole wider than a fist had been punched through where his face used to be. His body collapsed, twitching—then stilled, consumed by a flame that ate without heat.
The soldiers hesitated. Just for a second. Then rage took them.
They charged, howling war cries, weapons drawn, blind to the futility.
Hassan moved.
He was no longer where he had been, only the crackle of scorched earth marked his passing. He emerged among them like a phantom, his staff now bent into a crescent bow. With every draw, an arrow of pure darkness took shape—no fletching, no shaft, just hunger—and loosed with a thrum that cracked ribs and tore through armor like wet paper.
Where the arrows landed, silence followed. Spheres of darkness unfurled like blooming flowers, devouring sound, light, and flesh. Bones cracked inside, steel screamed, and then—nothing. Not even screams.
A soldier swung a greatsword at his back.
Hassan caught it in one hand.
The man barely had time to understand what was happening before his own blade was shoved through his throat, pinning him to the ground like a flag. Hassan didn't spare him a glance.
Another came from the left. Hassan turned, fluid as water, and his staff extended in a brutal arc, splitting the man's skull down the middle with the weight of an executioner's axe. Blood sprayed. The corpse folded.
Hassan advanced without pause.
Every movement was efficient. Precise. Inevitable.
He grabbed a soldier by the jaw and crushed it, dragging the twitching body behind him like discarded meat. Another tried to flee—Hassan shot him through the spine mid-sprint, and the man crumpled, darkness crawling from his wound like oil from a cracked cask.
His arrows didn't just kill—they devoured. With every soul taken, his essence reserves swelled, his power surged. The Gluttony burned inside him like a furnace. Their deaths were fuel. Their terror, seasoning.
Another wave tried to surround him.
He spun.
The staff extended, now a blackened polearm, and cut through three at once—shoulders, spine, hip. Bodies toppled like felled trees, blood hissing as it struck the shadows.
He kept moving, not like a berserker, not wild—methodical. This wasn't frenzy. It was war. And war, to Hassan, was a discipline.
Above him, a sorcerer took flight, hurling a barrage of fiery projectiles.
Hassan raised his hand. A wall of darkness surged upward like a tide and swallowed the fire. He leapt—high, higher than a man his size should fly—and met the sorcerer in the sky.
His staff bent once more, and with a snap, unleashed a point-blank arrow that turned the airborne enemy into red mist.
The shockwave blasted through the clouds.
Then he dropped—descending like a comet of night—staff outstretched, trailing a ribbon of ink behind him.
He landed with a thunderous crash. The earth cracked. Dozens of soldiers were thrown off their feet by the impact. Those nearest were torn apart, caught in the expanding blast of darkness.
When the dust cleared, Hassan stood alone in a crater of corpses.
He looked up toward the enemy lines, staff resting over his shoulder, cape fluttering in the rising wind. His armor dripped with gore, his crimson eyes burning brighter than ever.
Hassan moved like death on stilts—towering, inhuman, inescapable.
The battlefield stretched before him like a sea of writhing bodies and flashing steel. Soldiers in tight formation surged toward him in rows—disciplined, armored, screaming—but none of it mattered. Strategy failed in the face of inevitability.
Hassan didn't hesitate.
He shot forward with sudden, jarring speed—his long legs stretching unnaturally, covering ground in loping, monstrous strides. His first step cracked the stone beneath him. The second launched him into their ranks.
A spear lunged up toward his abdomen—he didn't dodge.
His long arm whipped out, seizing the haft mid-thrust. With one motion, he twisted and pulled, dislocating the soldier's shoulder and yanking him forward. His free hand gripped the man's skull and crushed it against his knee—bone cracked like glass.
The body dropped. He didn't watch it fall.
Another soldier tried to flank him.
Hassan's knee snapped sideways, heel driving into the attacker's thigh with surgical force. The femur shattered instantly. The man screamed once before Hassan's staff swept up under his jaw, tearing the head clean off with a sickening crunch. Veins geysered blood into the air.
Three more came. Tight formation, pikes angled low.
Hassan jumped.
Not high—far. His elongated legs coiled and launched him over their heads, cape trailing like a shredded banner of war. As he flipped, he released three arrows in rapid succession—each one plunging into armor and erupting into silent spheres of absolute dark.
When he landed, he landed hard—knees bent, one arm touching the ground for balance.
Around him, black domes pulsed and hissed, limbs twitching at their edges before being consumed completely.
A foot soldier screamed as he stumbled out of the darkness, eyes wide in horror, half of his body melted away by the Gluttonous darkness. Hassan didn't spare him a glance. He snapped his staff forward and struck the man in the throat with a whipping motion, collapsing his windpipe and sending him thrashing to the ground like a dying fish.
The rest came in waves now. Ten, twenty, fifty at a time.
It became a blur—blades slashing, boots thundering, men screaming.
Hassan stood in the center like a black obelisk of violence.
He ducked low beneath a glaive, drove his shoulder into a soldier's chest, caving in ribs with the impact, then spun into a wide arc. His staff grew as it moved, stretching unnaturally—its tip smashed through a dozen skulls in one sweeping strike, blood and bone exploding like overripe fruit.
He moved between targets with mathematical precision—aiming for the neck, the ribs, the joints, the soft tissue beneath the armor.
He stepped through bodies as if they weren't there, each footfall deliberate, never wasting motion.
When he fought, he fought like a sculptor cutting away the fat of the world.
One soldier tried to flee. Hassan's long leg snapped out sideways—impossibly fast—and caught the man's knee. The joint inverted with a disgusting crunch, and the man collapsed mid-run, screaming in animal panic. Hassan ended him with a downward strike that split his skull like firewood.
A moment later, another arrow left his fingers and drilled through two more soldiers' eyes, pinning their heads together in a wet clack of bone.
He moved with the rhythm of a machine. Blood soaked his armor. Flesh hung from the jagged edges of his horns. Mist trailed him like a cloak of death.
More came.
Too many to count now. Archers in the distance fired volleys blindly, not caring who they hit—just trying to stop the nightmare that was ripping their battalion apart.
An arrow grazed his shoulder—he didn't flinch. His armor hissed where it struck, dark mist rising as the darkness fed.
He reached for the sky with one hand. Shadows bent to him, answering like loyal hounds. Dozens of arrows formed behind his back in a perfect arc, and with one sweeping motion of his staff, he unleashed them in a volley of his own—pure black projectiles that ignored distance and tore through steel like parchment.
A dozen men died before they realized they were being targeted. Helmets fell. Eyes burst. Chests caved.
Still, they kept coming.
Hassan's cape was in tatters now, one horn cracked. A cut bloomed across his side—but it didn't matter. Wounds were fuel. Pain was ignorable.
This was not a duel. This was extermination.
He didn't revel in it. He didn't rage.
He simply did what he was made to do.
Rip. Tear. End.
And when one of the Warmongers leapt at him, screaming the name of a dead brother, Hassan caught him mid-air by the ankle, swung him like a weapon, and shattered six more men with the meat of his broken body.
Blood sprayed in sheets.
He walked through it.
Behind him, a trail of corpses stretched like a funeral procession.
Before him, now only hundred remained.
Hassan tilted his head, cracking his neck as if bored.
Then he stepped forward, into the next line.
***
Holy moly! HUNDRED CHAPTERS!
I never thought i would do it for real. I thought i would quit when I started writing but man, im still going!
What was it now? How many days? I think around two months and little more and we have hundred chapters!
God, i love writing fights. I was like listening music to hype me up and than it come out like this. Guys, know this! If im not listening something like thar, chapters come out mid i guess. but well, well, well. I think this one was pretty good.
[Hassan is GOAT! my favourite spirit and character to be honest. Yep, he can use any weapon but he prefers bow and arrows too. How is his fighting style? Cool? My boy destroyed them completely, he's on about to reclaim his HONOR! Actually, For Honor game and mortal combat give me inspiration for his fighting style! Hoped you liked it!]
And finally, Thanks for all your support and happy to see you enjoying this FF. You guys really motivated me to continue this story!
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