The forest was silent. The winds held their breath.
And Aren Vale stood on the edge of collapse.
Sweat and blood rolled from his skin in equal measure. His heartbeat thundered in his ears like a war drum. But he refused to falter. Not while the ritual burned behind him — not while they were still standing.
Far above, two angels hovered, their forms radiant even through tattered armor. They had descended not with mercy, but judgment. Yet for all their divinity, their attack on the ritual had been thwarted — by one man.
Aren.
He alone stood between their blades and the ritual's success. He alone bore the weight of the empire's future, of the alliance, of his family.
But he wasn't alone in purpose.
Three other figures — each no less than a god in presence — stood evenly spaced around the summoning circle, bodies rigid, faces carved with effort.
Arthur Pendragon, the Human Emperor, glowed with a golden light, his robes fluttering from the divine energy pouring through him. His hands were clasped before him, fingers trembling ever so slightly from the strain.
The Demon Lord, pale-skinned and horned, his black mantle writhing with hellish glyphs, stood at the southern point of the circle. Corrupted sigils floated around his frame, anchoring the summoning through forbidden rites only he knew.
The Dragon Monarch, still in his humanoid dragonoid form, armor glinting like molten scales, eyes shut tight — his qi surged outward in waves that hummed with the power of dominion.
All three Transcendents were fully committed, channeling the energy that held the summoning circle intact.
And Aren… defended them all.
His sword — Behemoth's Fang — rested beside him, drawn and humming with suppressed hunger. Its edge shimmered with purple lightning as he blocked, countered, and outmaneuvered the angels, not letting them near the circle.
But it was costing him. Dearly.
He was burning through stamina faster than his transcendent body could regenerate. His armor was cracked. His aura was fraying. Yet still, he fought like a storm held in mortal form.
The ritual's glow intensified. Crimson and gold weaved into black and violet — corruption and divinity clashing in harmony.
The angels paused mid-flight, their gazes snapping downward.
Too late.
A deep, echoing thrum exploded from the summoning circle.
The sky shivered. Birds in a hundred-mile radius fled in terror. The earth groaned beneath their feet.
Then came the rift — a swirling vortex of incomprehensible darkness that opened within the center of the circle. It spun like a black sun devouring the world around it.
Aren staggered back, sweat stinging his eyes.
"Already…?" he rasped.
Arthur's voice echoed hoarsely from his anchor point. "The circle is stabilizing… he's coming."
The Demon Lord's lips curled into something between dread and delight. "It's stronger than expected."
The Dragon Monarch opened his eyes — vertical slits narrowing with alarm.
Then it happened.
Azrador began to enter the world.
He did not arrive. He did not descend.
He pressed against reality until it broke.
The summoning circle flared — runes peeling from the earth like petals under a storm. Waves of corrupted qi burst out in pulses that fractured the air like broken glass. Trees bent backward. Stone melted into dust. The anchors held only because they were gods in flesh — and even they grunted under the pressure.
Aren turned, shielding his face with his arm as black lightning snapped across the ground.
The angels screamed.
They were divine, yes — but they were standing before something greater than divinity.
Azrador's incomplete soul oozed into the material world. A being that looked like a shadow carved from judgment and fire. His form was vast, but not solid. Muscles like chiseled darkness. Wings like torn night. His face was only a suggestion — a maw half-formed, eyes glowing like suns drowned in blood.
The air itself bent around him.
The World Tree awakened.
Its colossal branches glowed emerald, and the ground shook as ancient power surged forth — not in resistance to Azrador, but in defense of her domain from the angels.
The divine suppression dropped like a curtain of stone.
The angels cried out, bodies sinking toward the ground.
Then came the corruption — Azrador's mere presence exuding a power that curled through the air like ink in water, suffocating their halos, burning their essence.
Between the Tree's suppression and Azrador's corrupted soul, the angels knelt. Not by choice — but by force.
The one with golden eyes bled from her lips. "We failed…"
The other didn't speak. He only dropped his sword, eyes wide in horror.
Aren stood at the edge, panting, battered, and bleeding — and still standing.
Behind him, the three anchors stared.
Arthur's knuckles were white with strain, eyes wide behind his golden glow.
The Demon Lord's confident smirk had turned into wary silence.
The Dragon Monarch's tail twitched in unease.
None of them had expected this.
This… was supposed to be incomplete.
Azrador turned.
No one moved.
No one dared to.
His glowing eyes surveyed the angels… the circle… the anchors.
Then they locked onto Aren.
No hostility. No warmth.
Only recognition.
And then, the air split open — not from sound, but from a voice made of command.
"Lower your gazes, mongrels."
It wasn't spoken.
It was decreed.
Even the Transcendents felt it.
Arthur blinked. His knees nearly gave way.
The Demon Lord stiffened, lips parting slightly in awe.
The Dragon Monarch — the proudest of them all — instinctively lowered his gaze.
Aren… knelt.
Not out of fear. But because he knew.
This wasn't a being to fight.
This was a force that chose cooperation… for now.
"You stand before what your souls dare not comprehend."
And so began the true moment that would shake the heavens and hells.
Azrador had arrived.And the world would never be the same.