The black gates had closed behind the Great Tyrants with a low rumble, their infernal symbols—screaming skulls, entwined flames—fading into the tunnel's darkness. Gills, Soehpt, Kira, Tyrnat, Yulius, Nera, Bhaadon, Solom, Orak, and Razhïel advanced, their steps echoing on polished basalt, illuminated by pulsing veins of lava embedded in the walls. The air, heavy with suffocating heat, carried a scent of sulfur and scorched metal, mingled with an odd perfume—sour wine, roasted meat, and ashes. The Obsidian Sentinel's warning—"The ceremony will seal your fate… or your ruin"—still lingered in their minds, a shadow among shadows, while Satan's call pulsed in their Rings of Tyranny, a primal beat guiding them toward his throne.
The tunnel opened into a colossal vision: a grand banquet hall, a cavern of obsidian and wrought iron stretching for miles, its vaulted ceiling lost in a glowing red mist where silent lightning danced. Pillars carved with roaring demons supported the roof, their ruby eyes glinting like embers. Black banners, adorned with golden runes and polished skulls, hung between the columns, quivering in an unseen breeze. Massive basalt tables overflowed with infernal feasts—black fruits oozing scarlet juice, smoking meats impaled on bones, crystal goblets filled with a pulsing red liquid like living blood. Demons of all castes bustled about: red imps carrying trays, silk-draped succubi whispering laughter, horned warriors adjusting torches where eternal flames burned endlessly. In the distance, a titanic staircase led to a glowing red arch, beyond which a volcano rumbled—Satan's throne, still out of sight.
Gills halted, his scarlet flames crackling faintly around his gauntlets. "A ceremony," he murmured, his hoarse voice scanning the organized chaos. "They're not holding back." His eyes swept the hall, searching for a trap in the opulence.
Soehpt, at his side, analyzed the banners' runes, his blue flames streaked with black dancing like curious specters. "This is more than a welcome," he observed, his analytical tone cutting through the din. "These symbols… They celebrate a pact. Perhaps ours."
Kira placed a hand on Gills's shoulder, her Astrugg Cestuses glinting with an orange glow. "Pact or not," she growled, a savage smile on her lips, "I'm betting we'll have some fun." Her gaze, charged with discreet intimacy, met Gills's, who nodded, a silent complicity passing between them.
Tyrnat, his cloak of shadows billowing like a broken wing, sneered. "A banquet for pawns," he said, his tone dripping with contempt. "Satan must be bored." His black eyes slid toward Bhaadon, seeking a spark of provocation.
Bhaadon, hovering inches above the ground, clenched his fists, a stone levitating beside him, trembling with restrained rage. "Gota's here," he growled, his voice low and vibrating, his eyes scouring the crowd for a sign of her. Solom, at his side, summoned a golden spark in his palm, his protective gaze seeking to calm his companion. "We'll see her soon," he whispered.
Yulius drove Massacre into the ground, a trickle of congealed blood dripping from the blade. "Bring on their trials," he muttered, his savagery dancing in his eyes. Nera wove her shadow threads, a sly smile on her lips. "All this fuss," she murmured, her cursed dolls twitching. "A distraction… or a cage."
Orak, isolated, drove his spear into the basalt, a frosty mist rising around him. "I'm not here to feast," he growled, his gray eyes glinting with defiance. Razhïel, silent, adjusted his cracked mask, Tenebris Lux faintly glowing, his shadow-forged prosthesis rippling like a living extension.
Before they could advance toward the arch, a familiar silhouette emerged from the crowd—Natass Magna XIII, the white-skinned imp with thick black horns, clad in a scarlet tunic adorned with golden runes. His yellow eyes sparkled with calculated malice, and a satisfied smirk played on his lips. "My dear Tyrants!" he called, his shrill voice cutting through the clamor, his small wings flapping theatrically. "What a pleasure to see you again after… what, ten years?"
Bhaadon, at the sight of the imp, felt a surge of rage consume him. "You…" he roared, his telekinesis erupting like an invisible storm, lifting Natass off the ground with a crackle of energy. He lunged, grabbing the imp by the collar of his tunic, his demonic horns glowing in the darkness. "Where's Gota, you wretched imp?" he thundered, his voice resonating like a verdict, a massive stone levitating beside him, poised to strike.
Natass, suspended in the air, let out a high-pitched laugh, his smirk widening, unfazed. "Oh, Bhaadon, always so… passionate," he chuckled, his yellow eyes glinting with amusement. "Patience, Nephalem. You wouldn't want to ruin the party, would you?"
Before Bhaadon's anger could ignite further, a warm hand rested on his shoulder, a gentle but firm touch that made his rage falter. A familiar voice, tinged with radiant tenderness, whispered, "I'm behind you, my love." Bhaadon froze, his breath catching, and released Natass, who landed with agility, adjusting his tunic with a sly smile.
Gota stood there, transformed into an Abyssal Lady, her silhouette draped in watery shadows that shimmered like a nocturnal sea. Spectral medusas, their glowing tendrils swaying gently, floated around her, casting an aura both enchanting and deadly. Her hair, once short, cascaded in dark waves, and her eyes glowed with a warm light, fixed on Bhaadon with deep affection. Her radiant smile seemed to calm the entire hall, but a subtle shadow in her gaze hinted at a mystery—obedience, influence, or something else?
Bhaadon, his fists still trembling, murmured, "Gota…" His voice, heavy with hope and pain, wavered as he reached a hand toward her. Gota tilted her head, her smile softening, but she didn't step closer, her medusas quivering like an invisible barrier.
Natass, dusting off his tunic, spoke again, his tone detached but laden with implications. "I thank you for clearing the way," he said, his eyes sliding over the Tyrants with calculated malice. "We stopped by Lilith's, but you'd already bolted. Quite the impatient lot, eh?"
Gota nodded, her warm smile illuminating her features. "We weren't far behind you," she added, her voice soft but confident. "We saw you fight—in the Forests of Sands, at the Wall of Bones… It was very impressive." Her eyes sparkled, a mix of admiration and mystery, but she remained near Natass, her aura suggesting an ambiguous loyalty.
Gills stepped forward, his flames crackling faintly. "Enough games, Natass," he growled, his authoritative voice imposing a tense silence. "Why this ceremony? And what have you done to Gota?" Kira, at his side, clenched her fists, her cestuses glinting, her gaze shifting between Gota and Bhaadon with instinctive wariness.
Soehpt, observing Gota, narrowed his eyes, his blue flames dancing like scrutinizing specters. "She's changed," he murmured, his analytical tone probing for a flaw. "But under whose influence?"
Tyrnat sneered, his scythe glinting in his hand. "Another pawn for the imp," he said, his contempt aimed at Natass but grazing Gota. Solom, protective, stepped closer to Bhaadon, a golden spark dancing in his palm. "She speaks freely," he murmured, skeptical, his eyes fixed on Gota. "But something's off."
Yulius grunted, Massacre shimmering. "Talk or fight," he muttered, impatient. Nera wove her shadow threads, a sly smile on her lips. "What a charming duo," she murmured, her eyes glinting with cunning. Orak, isolated, drove his spear into the ground. "I don't trust this," he growled. Razhïel, silent, adjusted his mask, Tenebris Lux glinting like an omen.
Natass let out a shrill laugh, flapping his wings to hover slightly. "Oh, my friends, always so suspicious!" he chuckled, dodging their questions with theatrical ease. "The ceremony awaits—Satan wants to see his blades shine. As for Gota…" He glanced at the Abyssal Lady, a fleeting glint in his eyes—protection disguised as amusement? "She's exactly where she belongs."
Gota tilted her head, her warm smile masking any reply. A medusa brushed against Bhaadon, its tendril grazing his arm without harm, an almost affectionate but enigmatic gesture. "Let's go," she murmured, her soft voice guiding the Tyrants toward the glowing red arch in the distance.
Gills nodded, his gaze sweeping the group. "We follow," he ordered, his flames crackling. "But keep your eyes open. Natass, Satan, Gota… Nothing's clear here." Bhaadon, fists clenched, walked beside Gota, his heart torn between hope and mistrust. The others followed, their shadows dancing on the basalt, as the banquet hall stirred behind them, the eternal flames burning brighter, as if heralding the approach of the infernal throne.