The Abyssal Wastes were a land forsaken by gods and men alike. Blackened skies loomed overhead, and the ground was cracked and lifeless. Cedric rode for days, his path lit only by the flickering embers of the Silver Flame that burned within him.
At last, he reached the Demon King's Fortress, a monolithic structure of jagged stone and dark magic. Shadows writhed upon its walls, and the air was thick with the scent of blood and decay.
The gates opened as if expecting him. A challenge. An invitation.
Cedric stepped inside.
The fortress was eerily silent, save for the distant sound of something breathing—something enormous, something ancient.
And then, he saw him.
Seated upon a throne of bones, wreathed in black flames, was the Demon King. His form was monstrous—twisted horns, burning crimson eyes, and a body clad in obsidian armor.
"So, the lone paladin comes to die," the Demon King rumbled, his voice like thunder shaking the walls.
Cedric did not speak. He only raised his sword. Light clashed against darkness, the Silver Flame blazing brighter than ever before.
The Demon King rose from his throne, drawing his own weapon—a greatsword forged from the abyss itself.
Then, they charged.
The battle was nothing less than a war between titans. Cedric struck with divine fury, his blade searing through the darkness. The Demon King retaliated with unholy strength, shaking the very foundations of the fortress.
For hours, they fought.
The paladin's armor was shattered. His body burned with wounds. His vision blurred with blood and exhaustion.
But the Demon King was wounded too. Cedric had pushed him to the brink, something no warrior had ever done before.
Then, with one final cry, Cedric drove his sword through the Demon King's chest. The beast roared, his body erupting into black flames, his very existence unraveling under the weight of the Silver Flame.
Victory.
But at a price.
Cedric staggered, dropping to his knees. His strength was gone. His vision dimmed.
As he fell onto his back, he gazed up at the ruined sky.
He thought of his childhood, of the cold halls of his noble home. Of the training, the pain, the loneliness.
He thought of his journey, of the battles won and the scars earned.
And now, at the end of it all, there was only silence.
He exhaled one final breath.
And then—nothing.