The sound of screams filled the air —not cries of fear, but howls of rage so fierce that the very ground of Hell trembled.
The clash of metal against bone and bark echoed endlessly, shaking the twisted sky, raining black ash like snow.
Two figures stood at the heart of it all.
One — Odrin, the Last Demon who weeps for humankind.His greatsword burned with furious flame, his cracked armor, soaked in ancient blood, clung to him like the weight of a thousand regrets.
The other — Qliathoth, the Ruler of Hell, the Withered King.Once a god among demons, now a monstrous fusion of skeletal bark and corrupted flesh. His body sprouted twisted roots that writhed like serpents, and his hollow gaze devoured everything it touched.
Between them, the battlefield stretched like a broken canvas —even Hell itself seemed hellish for those who dared to dwell within.
Odrin tightened his grip on his sword.Blue fire licked at the cracked ground around him, restless, ravenous.His voice, ragged and heavy with the broken hopes of countless souls, cut through the howling storm:
"I will not let your withered branches reach the mortal soil."
Qliathoth's laughter rumbled through the endless night —a sound so vile that even the damned retreated into the shadows.
And then — they collided.
Steel against claw.Flame against root.
Each strike tore rifts into the earth.Each blow thundered like the collapse of a world.Black blood splattered the skies, hissing where it touched the burning ground.
Odrin fought like a dying star, his blade carving arcs of searing blue through the darkness.But Qliathoth, ancient and patient, endured — his roots feasting on the blood-soaked earth, growing stronger with every wound.
Odrin gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of mortality drag at his limbs.He knew he could not win.Not truly.
But he couldn't give up —not while someone waited for him.Not when the memory of her smile still burned brighter than any flame.Even if Hell crumbled, even if Heaven fell — he would stand.
Across the shattered field, Qliathoth lurched forward, rage twisting his withered form.Despite the cracks in his bark-like flesh, despite the rot oozing from his wounds, he refused to fall.
The Withered King's voice, thick with betrayal and venom, ripped through the smoke:
"You were supposed to rise with me! If not for your foolishness, we would have reigned over all existence! What are mortals to us? Livestock! You would protect your dinner? Risk everything for worms?"
His skeletal face split into a grotesque grin.
"Is it for that wench? That pitiful, fleeting creature?"
Odrin said nothing.Words were dust now. Only flame and blade remained.
He lifted his greatsword.The blue fire roared, answering the insult itself.Though his armor cracked further, though molten blood seeped from unseen wounds, he stepped forward — unwavering.
Qliathoth's roots tore into the ground, erupting in a forest of thorns aiming to skewer Odrin where he stood.
Odrin moved — a single step, then a charge.
Their powers clashed — a tempest of flame and corruption.The ground split and burned.Ash rained thicker, blacking out the dying stars overhead.
For every root that struck him, Odrin answered with a stroke of his blade.His body faltered, battered and bleeding, but his spirit — his spirit only burned hotter.
Closer.Closer.
Qliathoth roared, lunging with claws longer than spears —and Odrin, battered but unbroken, dove through them, his inferno trailing like a comet's tail.
And with a cry that shook even the oldest bones of Hell,he drove his greatsword straight into Qliathoth's core.
For a moment —everything was silent.
Qliathoth staggered, impaled upon Odrin's blade.The blue fire seared through him, eating away the roots, the flesh, the ancient malice woven into his being.His skeletal bark cracked and split, leaking black ichor that hissed and turned the scorched ground into steaming tar.
Odrin, too, sank to one knee, his strength bleeding away.Still, he pressed both hands to the hilt, forcing the sword deeper, anchoring the Withered King to Hell itself.
Qliathoth shuddered —then laughed.A broken sound that rattled the very bones of the dead.
"You think you've won, Odrin?" he rasped, voice crumbling like burnt leaves."This blade, this moment... none of it will save them."
The corrupted roots slithered from his body, burrowing deep into the cracked earth, disappearing into Hell's unseen veins.
"I am rot," Qliathoth whispered, hollow gaze burning into Odrin's soul."And rot... never truly dies. It seeds itself."
Odrin's hands trembled as he tried to wrench the sword free —but Qliathoth smiled a terrible, knowing smile.
"One day, my roots will claw their way into the mortal world. One day... the blood of men will nourish me anew. And when that day comes..."
He leaned closer, breath foul with death.
"Not even your flame will be enough."
With a final, shuddering breath, Qliathoth's body split apart, consumed by the raging fire.A shockwave of corrupted energy burst forth, tearing the layer of Hell itself.The skies split open, releasing torrents of black ash and molten rivers of blood.
Odrin shielded his face.He rose slowly — exhausted, broken — but standing.
It was not a victory.But it was a delay.And for now, that was enough.
Odrin collapsed, the last embers of his strength flickering like dying stars.
His fingers clawed at the broken earth, dragging himself forward, heart burning with one desperate wish —to see her again.
Summoning the final shreds of his power, he raised a trembling hand.A crack tore through the very air — a gate to Earth.
But fate was cruel.
Though he could see the distant lights beyond, his body, broken and spent, could no longer carry him forward.
Then —footsteps.Heavy. Slow. Familiar.
A figure approached through the ash.Cloaked in shadow.Face hidden by soot and time.
Odrin's heart gave a weak, ragged beat.Not the face he longed for...but a friend.
He forced a smile, lips cracked and bleeding, and whispered:
"Please... take care of her. Watch over them... like they were your own."
The figure said nothing.Only nodded, the vow sealed without words.
With a final breath — tasting of sorrow, hope, and love —Odrin smiled...
And let go.
His armor crumbled into ash.His greatsword slipped from lifeless fingers.And then he, too, faded —carried away by the winds of a dying world.
The figure knelt, scooping up something left behind — a scorched fragment, still warm with lingering power —and vanished into the swirling gloom.
Far away, beyond the burning skies,the ash floated —crossing unseen borders, drifting into the world of humankind.
In a small, humble home, a woman sat by a window, singing a lullaby.Her hand rested on the gentle curve of her belly, feeling life stir within.A future untouched by the horrors beyond.
A single ember drifted through the window and brushed against her skin.The woman paused —sensing something.A shiver of warmth.A whisper of destiny.
She smiled —and continued her song.
Deep within her unborn child, a tiny spark flared to life —a legacy of sorrow, sacrifice, and flame —
waiting for its time to awaken.