35 Years Ago — Final Gate of Hell
The volcanic throne room trembled as magma veins pulsed beneath the blackened obsidian floors. A thick haze of sulfur and brimstone choked the air. Shadows of tortured souls wavered across the towering pillars of jagged bone and iron. Upon the highest throne, carved from the skull of an extinct hellbeast, sat Azreal—the Sovereign of the Final Gate of Hell.
He rested his chin on his fist, eyes closed, radiating calm—yet the room still shuddered under the pressure of his very presence. A sudden rip in the air, like a claw tearing through fabric, signaled the arrival of Hulk, his loyal and battle-worn general. Hulk dropped to one knee, sweat beading on his brow, and spoke with a rumble.
"My lord Azreal... we have a problem."
Azreal's eyes slid open—twin pits of molten silver glowing through the darkness.
"You look troubled, Hulk. Speak."
