The air down here was heavy.
Thick with heat, with blood, with the stench of sulfur that clung to the skin like tar. Shadows from hellish torches flickered against towering obsidian pillars—each one etched with infernal runes that pulsed with red light, like veins in a sleeping beast.
Alaric groaned.
His body twitched as he struggled to push himself from the cold marble floor, blood trailing from the corner of his lips, light magic crackling weakly across his battered form. His fingers scraped the ground, trembling, trying to find his sword again.
The demon general watched him.
Amused.
With slow, deliberate steps, he walked across the vast chamber, dragging his greatsword behind him—SCRAAAPE—carving long, deep grooves into the polished stone. His wings twitched, folded like dark blades against his back.
"You mortals burn bright when you're scared," the demon general said, voice deep and calm, like it didn't belong in this violent world. "But in the end, even fire flickers."
Alaric didn't respond. His breathing was shallow, every rib screaming at him. He had taken hits before. He had fallen from cliffs, from magic blasts by Renna.
But this...
This wasn't a fall.
This was a demonstration.
The demon general raised his leg and kicked Alaric square in the ribs, sending him flying across the room like a ragdoll. He smashed through one of the black pillars—CRACK!—and tumbled to the floor on the other side.
Dust and shards of marble rained down like shrapnel.
"Agh—!" Alaric coughed violently, barely managing to shield his face with his arm. Another rib gone. Maybe two.
The demon general tilted his head, walking casually toward him again. "Are you the leader of your little party? No, no..." He crouched beside Alaric, expression twisting into a grin full of fangs. "...you're the shining one. The icon. The sword that never breaks."
He stood up again and gave Alaric's body another sharp kick, sending him skidding across the floor like a skipping stone. He slammed into another pillar with a dull, meaty thud.
"How disappointing."
Alaric groaned, blood dripping onto the floor in a slow, steady rhythm. His sword still hadn't returned to his grip. His magic was flickering, failing, sputtering like a dying lantern.
But he smiled.
It was a dumb, crooked smile—laced with pain and defiance.
"Y'know... you're really bad at motivational speeches," he rasped.
The demon general stopped.
Then—he laughed.
It was low, rumbling, like a mountain cracking in half. It echoed across the chamber, shaking dust loose from the ceiling above.
"Good. At least you're not broken yet." He raised his sword, resting it lazily on his shoulder. "Let's see how long that smile lasts."
He charged again.
And this time, Alaric forced his body to move.
Not to run—
But to fight.
His hand shot up.
A burst of light magic flashed from his chest, and the sword flew to his grip like a meteor.
The marble cracked beneath him as he swung—
—CLANG.
His blade connected dead-on with the demon general's side.
But there was no spray of blood.
No crack of bone.
Just a flat, hollow clang, like striking solid steel. The impact vibrated up Alaric's arms, shaking his entire frame. He staggered back a step, gripping his sword tighter, teeth clenched.
The demon general looked down at the spot where the sword had struck.
Not even a scratch.
"…Tch," Alaric muttered. Then louder, "Y'know, for a general, you suck."
The demon general raised a brow. "Oh?"
"Yeah. No tactics. No formation. No strategy. Just a bunch of screaming bodies throwing themselves at the walls hoping to outnumber their way to victory. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were just... improvising."
He paced to the side, blood still running down his chin, sword trailing light in one hand.
"The old priest warned me, y'know," Alaric said, lifting his head a little, catching the demon's red eyes with his own. "Said demons in this world are a mess. Walking whirlpools of humanity's worst garbage—lust, wrath, envy, pride, greed, sloth. You name it."
The demon general narrowed his eyes slightly. Quiet now. Watching.
"But the twist?" Alaric raised a hand, tapping his temple. "You don't even know it. You've got no empathy. No sympathy. No conscience. You're not evil, you're just… empty."
He stepped forward, pain rippling through his body with every motion. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"And that's why you're dangerous. You can't be evil. You can't even choose to be evil. You just are. A broken mirror of us."
Silence.
A long, stretching silence.
Then the demon general's smile widened.
"Fascinating," he said.
And without another word—he moved.
Too fast.
His fist blurred forward—
BOOM.
Alaric was launched backward like a cannonball, smashing through another massive obsidian pillar, shattering it into a spray of dark crystal.
He slammed into the wall beyond, cratered into it.
The whole chamber shook.
Dust poured from above. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling.
Alaric slumped, arms dangling, coughing hard. His sword flickered out of his grip, landing a few feet away.
The demon general stepped through the debris slowly, dragging his sword once more.
Still amused.
Still smiling.
"Then allow me," he said softly, "to demonstrate… just how empty I can be."
Alaric wiped blood from his mouth, teeth bared in a half-snarl, half-grin as the demon general stalked forward.
"You," he spat, chest heaving, "you holding anyone down here?"
The demon general halted mid-step.
Then—
Laughter.
Low at first, then rising—rolling out from his chest like a drumbeat of madness. It echoed around the vast chamber, bouncing off cracked pillars and shattered stone like a chorus of mockery.
"Held captive?" the demon repeated, clutching his sides as his laughter grew, deep and unhinged. "Oh, little Hero, how quaint! How adorably human of you to think this is about prisoners!"
He took another step forward, sword dragging a line of sparks behind him.
Alaric's face darkened.
He lunged, swinging wildly—
Only for the demon general to catch him by the face again, fist clamping down like a vice.
WHAM.
Another slam into the ground, the stone broke, giving way beneath them.
Alaric was driven downward again—through a floor of jagged black tile—through a layer of brittle, bone-dry stone—through a dense layer of shattered crystal—and then—
—the world blurred.
Just for a second.
As he was hurtling, dazed, he caught glimpses through the cracks in the walls and open archways flashing past—his body dragged through a crumbling understructure of the fortress like a ragdoll.
Blood.
Corpses.
Twisted bodies of humans.
Adults. Elders.
Children.
Tiny hands stretched lifelessly under iron bars. Faces frozen in agony.
And deeper still—
Torture devices. Spiked chairs. Hooked chains. Cranks. Racks. Implements built for no purpose but pain. The room was sterile, silent, and soaked in a crimson memory.
A place where screams had long since gone hoarse.
Alaric's eyes widened, even as the force of the slam finally crashed him into the final floor—a crater opening in obsidian as he hit like a meteor.
His back arched in pain.
But his mind was somewhere else.
What he'd seen—what he felt in that half-second—
Was rage.
True, white-hot, full-bodied rage.
The demon general landed softly a few feet away, still smiling. He tilted his head, speaking like a teacher correcting a child.
"There's no point in keeping things. Humans break too easily."
Alaric didn't answer.
He pushed himself up with trembling arms, eyes shadowed beneath his bangs.
His breath was ragged.
But something behind his teeth had cracked.
And it wasn't fear.
The demon general walked casually across the ruined marble floor, obsidian dust crunching under his boots, dragging his massive sword lazily along the ground behind him. His grin stretched unnaturally wide, fangs glinting under the dim torchlight.
"You know," he said, voice deep and disturbingly casual, "my favorite form of torture? It's classic, really."
He crouched beside Alaric's half-upright body, gripping his chin between clawed fingers like a parent pretending to be tender.
"Fire."
He let that word hang, almost reverently.
"Nothing beats the smell of charred flesh. The screaming. The way they thrash around like fish on dry land." He gave a theatrical sigh. "But the trick is to keep it going. So I splash a little healing potion on them between rounds. Gotta keep the fun alive, you see?"
Alaric froze.
His breath hitched. Something inside him—deep, buried, old—snapped.
For a second, the room vanished.
He wasn't in a demon fortress anymore.
He was back in his world.
Back in the crackling heat of a house engulfed in flames.
The screams of his parents.
The collapsing beams.
The searing heat on his skin.
The helplessness.
He had been so small.
He had smelled the smoke, felt the blistering pain of fire licking at his legs, heard the panicked screams of his mother trying to reach him before the roof gave way—
Gone.
All of it.
The smell of smoke replaced by the stench of this demon's breath.
And suddenly, that broken grin was unforgivable.
Alaric didn't scream.
He didn't shout.
He just lowered his head—his bangs covering his eyes—and whispered, voice hoarse:
"...I'm going to burn you."
The demon laughed. "Oh? I just told you I like fire, you fool—"
Then the temperature shifted.
The demon's smile faltered.
The air hissed.
Magic began pouring from Alaric's body like a ruptured dam—his veins glowing with searing light. His hand clenched around the hilt of his summoned sword still embedded in the cracked floor.
And then—in a blinding flash—he stood.
The sword roared with magic as he ripped it free, his whole body pulsing with a radiance that felt wrong. Not divine.
Vengeful.
"You think it's funny," Alaric growled, voice thick with fury, "because you've never burned alone."
The ground beneath his feet split with heat.
And with a snarl, Alaric lunged—his whole body wrapped in a spiraling inferno of light magic—as if the fire of his past had finally caught up and chosen a target.
This time, he wouldn't be the one left behind in the ashes.
Alaric's breathing was ragged, every movement sparking a fresh wave of pain—bones cracked, muscles torn, his body screaming at him to stop.
But he wouldn't stop.
Not here.
Not now.
Not in front of this thing.
He reached behind him with one trembling hand, his fingers fumbling over the cracked strap of his belt until they closed around a small, round vial. The glass was chipped, the cork half-loose, but it was still intact. He gripped it tight.
Then without hesitation, he smashed the potion against his own chest.
CRACK.
The bottle shattered against his ribs, shards biting into his skin. A fresh sting joined the chorus of pain, but the warm liquid soaked into his tunic and rolled over his wounds, glowing faintly as it worked its magic.
The contrast was agonizing.
The searing pain from the broken glass.
The numbing relief of the healing potion.
His nerves didn't know what to feel, so they screamed everything at once.
But that pain—that chaos—it kept him grounded.
His legs nearly gave out, but he staggered forward instead, glaring up at the towering demon general whose smile was now just a hint tighter than before.
"Glass hurts," Alaric muttered through clenched teeth, blood dripping from his lip. "But it's nothing compared to what's coming."
He rolled his shoulders, his body still cracked and bruised but knitting itself together rapidly under the potion's effects. He could feel the light inside him swell again, burn again, just beneath the skin.
The demon general raised an amused brow. "You humans and your little potions… So dramatic."
Alaric wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and said, voice low:
"You haven't seen drama until you've watched a guy with third-degree burns sprint across a battlefield with nothing but spite keeping him alive."
Then he ignited again—light magic flaring like an inferno—and lunged straight at the demon general like he had something to prove.
Because he did.
And it was personal.
There were no words left in Alaric's mouth. Only the trembling in his shoulders, the fire in his breath, and the unspeakable fury crawling through every nerve of his body.
He hated the demon general.
Hated his smile.
Hated the way his voice curled with joy when describing torment.
Hated the strength in his arms and the coldness in his eyes.
Hated the way he stood—not like a warrior, but like a thing that had never known fear, never known love, never known the weight of what it meant to be human.
Alaric hated how he talked about pain like it was a recipe.
Hated how he called burning people "fun."
Hated how he laughed.
How he existed.
And it didn't stop there.
He hated demons.
Hated the way they walked, talked, smiled.
The way they twisted the world into a nightmare and wore it like a crown.
The way they mimicked humanity, hollow and grinning, without soul or sorrow or shame.
He hated that they felt no guilt.
No regret.
No empathy.
That their kind could build fortresses on the bones of children and decorate halls with screams—and still sleep, if they even needed to.
He hated that their idea of strategy was excess.
Ten thousand soldiers. A thousand more.
Walls made of black stone and red blood.
No nuance. No purpose. Just cruelty for cruelty's sake.
He hated that they were dangerous not because they were evil—
But because they weren't.
Evil was a choice.
A failure. A flaw. A rot.
But demons weren't flawed.
They were precise.
Perfectly cold.
Perfectly merciless.
Not evil. Something worse.
He hated them like a fire hates oxygen.
With purpose.
With instinct.
With a need so loud it drowned every rational thought until the only thing left was fury sharpened into action.
And in this moment—bleeding, aching, nearly broken—he wanted nothing more than to drag that perfect, smiling demon general into the earth with him.
And if he had to tear down the entire demon race one glowing slash at a time,
He'd do it.
He could feel it now—something old, buried deep in the marrow of his bones, crawling out.
It wasn't just rage.
It wasn't even vengeance.
It was hate. Raw. Personal. Absolute.
It started with the fire.
The first fire.
The one that stole his parents.
The one that lit the walls of his childhood home until they screamed and folded.
He remembered the color of that flame—not just red, not just orange. It was hungry. It had a taste.
It smelled like burning wood and hair and memory.
He remembered how it clung to him even after he escaped, how the air crackled around his body for days.
He never forgot.
Not the screams.
Not the way his father reached toward him through the fire, and then stopped moving.
Not the way his mother never even made a sound.
That night carved a hole in him.
And now—now this demon, this thing, with its grin, with its voice like a cracked bell, talked about burning people alive like it was a sport.
Like it was something to pass time.
Like it was a goddamn joke.
And it laughed.
Laughed while describing it.
Laughed like the fire that ruined his life was nothing but a candle to blow out.
No.
Alaric didn't just hate this thing.
He despised it.
He loathed it like a scar that never faded.
Like smoke that still clung to his lungs, years later, across worlds, refusing to leave.
Every movement the demon made was an insult.
Every breath it drew was a reminder that evil didn't need a motive—it just needed time.
And this thing—this "general"—had been given far too much time.
Alaric hated its composure.
Hated how it stood there untouched by light or justice or flame.
Hated how unbothered it was, like Alaric's struggle was entertainment, a play being acted out in a theater of screams.
He hated that no matter how hard he swung, it wasn't enough.
He hated that he was still the weak boy from the fire.
But this wasn't home anymore.
And he wasn't that boy.
He was the one who would make them remember fear.
And he would make them burn.
He hated it.
He hated that it existed.
This demon—this twisted, laughing, smug pile of rot and arrogance—wasn't even from his world.
It wasn't born from Earth's cruelty.
It didn't crawl out of the cracks of human misery.
It wasn't made by war or greed or poverty.
It was just there.
A thing.
An abomination that had no right to exist, and yet it thrived.
And that made Alaric hate it more than anything else.
He hated its voice.
He hated how deep and hollow it rang, like a church bell built for graves.
He hated the way it looked at him—like he was small, like he was prey, like he was just another one.
He hated the strength in its limbs, the calm in its eyes, the pleasure in its cruelty.
He hated that it wasn't human.
He hated that it could never be human.
Because that meant he couldn't understand it.
Because that meant he couldn't reason with it.
Because that meant there was nothing to save—no sympathy, no empathy, no soul behind the eyes.
Just hunger.
Just pain.
Just a mockery of life wrapped in power and given a title.
He hated that.
He hated how its kind built towers out of bones and called them kingdoms.
He hated how they wore suffering like a uniform.
He hated how they smiled as they slaughtered.
And he hated—he hated—that he hadn't killed them all already.
They didn't belong in his story.
They didn't belong in any story.
They weren't evil.
They were void.
They were the absence of good. The absence of reason. The absence of humanity.
And he hated the void.
He hated that it took.
Took lives. Took peace. Took everything.
He hated the way this demon talked about burning people like it was a favorite hobby.
He hated that the image of blackened corpses had come rushing back to him like a floodwater of memory, and he couldn't stop it.
He hated that no matter how far from home he went, he was still a child kneeling in ash.
He hated the summon that brought him here while he was training to become a firefighter.
He hated the sky, the stars, the ground, the fate that led him to this thing—this thing that should not have existed but did.
He hated it.
And as the healing potion burned down his throat and mended shattered bone,
as blood still poured from his temple,
as his hand clenched the sword hilt like it was the last thing anchoring him to sanity—
Alaric knew one thing, as pure as fire:
He didn't want justice.
He didn't want answers.
He didn't want salvation.
He just wanted this demon to die screaming.
And if he had to tear down every pillar in this fortress, collapse every tunnel, split the sky open and burn this entire species to the ground—
he would.
Because he hated.