Warlock of War: My Ares System

Chapter 528 Primordial God Descends

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"Like I said, this isn't for you…" I grimaced at their sudden kindness. 

Sure there was tons of resentment built up between us, but it felt like most of that had melted away over time. As they spent more time in this realm and let their thoughts and actions run free, they became somewhat… more laid back. 

"It's not that hard to accept our thanks…" Both chuckled to each other while I just stood there, glimpsing at them with a weirded-out expression. 

… 

"Actually, I guess I did succeed in something." A slight smile cracked onto my face. 

In that moment, despite my diminished state, a surge of determination welled up within me. It was as if the remnants of my once-overwhelming gluttony and blackhole power sought to assert themselves one last time. With every ounce of willpower I could muster, I summoned the last remaining fragments of my strength--a remaining burst of dark energy. 

In a final, desperate act, I pushed myself forward, my head hurtling through the cosmic void, toward Cy and the encroaching darkness. I reached out with the vestiges of my power, attempting to counteract the malevolent force that threatened to consume him. The struggle was intense, a clash of cosmic energies and wills.

With the last remnants of my power, I managed to create a barrier, a faint shimmer of resistance against the invading force. The two powers wrestled and twined around each other, creating a mesmerizing display of cosmic warfare.

Realization dawned on me that to save myself and perhaps make amends for my past malevolence, I needed to act swiftly. With a final surge of energy, I pushed the invading power back, away from Cy's soul, immediately causing the energy to look back at me with a deathly glare.

"Dammit… I was hoping to maybe get rid of you," I chuckled, the flesh around my throat slowly disintegrating as a large shadow enveloped my being. "O' Primordial Sin of Gluttony, save thy self. I shall import thou with the knowledge that shall allow thou to 'scape from such a horrid servitude-" 

VWOOOOOOM

… 

In the grim and desolate expanse of Hell, where suffering was ceaseless and torment eternal, a cataclysmic disturbance tore through the very fabric of this infernal plane. It began as a mere tremor in the metaphysical underpinnings of the realm, but it soon grew into a tumultuous maelstrom of malevolence that sent shockwaves of dread coursing through every corner of this accursed domain.

As the rift in the fabric of reality continued to widen, its gaping maw allowed a colossal black hand to emerge—a grotesque, nightmarish appendage that defied all that was natural and holy. Its elongated fingers, gnarled and skeletal, stretched ominously downward from the stygian void above, seeking to ensnare and lay claim to the wretched souls and grotesque entities that writhed below. The very sight of this monstrous hand was enough to paralyze every being in Hell, their collective terror so profound that it seemed to seep into the very marrow of their bones.

A malevolent aura radiated from the abyss, an aura born from the very essence of maleficence, and it bore down upon the damned souls and the hellish creatures alike. It was an ancient and primeval dread, a fear forged in the crucible of suffering over countless eons, and it held the power to rend the very souls of those it touched. Even the cruelest of demons, the most sadistic tormentors, and the most grotesque beasts felt an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and powerlessness before the oncoming terror.

The hellish plants, their thorns dripping with venom and malice, recoiled in terror as if scorched by the darkest of flames. The grotesque creatures that roamed the accursed plains ceased their writhing and snarling, their predatory instincts overridden by an overpowering sense of dread. Even the most monstrous of beasts, whose roars once reverberated with menace, now cowered in abject silence.

The demons, who had reveled in the agony and torment of others, were reduced to quivering shadows of their former selves. Their malevolent laughter fell silent, replaced by anguished whispers and trembling limbs. The very foundations of Hell itself appeared to tremble as the pervasive fear took root deep within the land.

As the colossal black hand continued its inexorable descent, it left in its wake a chilling void—a void that devoured all existence. The deleted space and time were replaced by an unsettling abyss that seemed to consume all light and hope. The very fabric of Hell unraveled as the hand advanced, leaving behind a trail of desolation and emptiness, an echoing void of despair.

Within this void, a rolling head tumbled—an entity severed and grotesque, its eyes wide with endless and infinite terror. Its fragmented thoughts formed a twisted and unintelligible chant, an eerie lamentation that echoed through the abyss. The head's disembodied presence only heightened the sense of impending doom, as if it were a harbinger of unspeakable horrors yet to come.

In that dreadful moment, every denizen of Hell, regardless of their vile nature or monstrous form, shared a common and profound dread. The intrusion from beyond had disrupted the unholy order of their existence, and they were left to face an incomprehensible terror that transcended their understanding. It was a cataclysmic event that would be etched into the very annals of Hell—a day when even the damned themselves knew the true meaning of fear, and all that resided in the abyss quaked in the face of an unknown and malevolent force that threatened to engulf them all.

  …

(Findir POV)

(A few hours prior to the descent of the black hand)

Towering trees, their bark as black as the abyss, cast elongated shadows that seemed to writhe and dance in the eerie half-light. The forest floor was carpeted with a layer of ashen, dead leaves that crunched beneath each step. Sinister thorns and brambles, as sharp as the anguish that permeated Hell, reached out like skeletal hands to snag any unfortunate intruders who dared to approach.

Sickly vegetation, twisted and contorted, dotted the landscape. These hellish plants, unlike anything found on Earth, bore thorns that dripped with malevolence, and their presence added to the pervasive feeling of dread. Some of them exuded an eerie bioluminescence, casting a ghastly glow that bathed the surroundings in an unnatural, shifting light.

As one delved deeper into the Haunting Grove, ghostly figures became numerous and pronounced. They seemed to materialize from the very shadows themselves, their forms flickering in and out of existence like specters of suffering. Their mournful whispers, barely audible but laden with sorrow, echoed through the forest, creating an eerie chorus that sent shivers down the spine of any who dared to listen.

The air itself held a tangible weight, a miasma of despair that clung to every surface. It was an oppressive atmosphere, suffused with a sense of hopelessness and anguish that gnawed at the soul. The wind, when it blew, carried with it the faintest hints of anguished cries and distant moans, as if the very air was saturated with the suffering of countless souls.

In this nightmarish landscape, the Haunting Grove existed as an anomaly within Hell, a place where the usual rules of torment and punishment seemed to bend and warp. The very environment itself was a testament to the twisted and eternal suffering that defined this forsaken realm, and those who dared to traverse its haunted depths were forever marked by its malevolent presence… or that's at least what Orion said. 

To me, this was no more than a battlefield. A final arena for me to surpass my master as unlike the others, I held respect for him. The demon lords were all assholes, but my master was kind, benevolent, and more interestingly, humble. 

Amidst the oppressive shadows of the Haunting Grove, where the eerie silence seemed to grow thicker with each passing moment, a presence emerged from behind one of the towering, gnarled trees. It was a figure that defied description, a nightmarish embodiment of malevolence that struck terror into the very heart of Hell. It was none other than the Demon Lord Mammon.

Mammon's presence was an unsettling sight to behold, a grotesque fusion of demonic grandeur and twisted elegance. Crowning his head were massive antler-like horns, polished to a sinister gleam and crafted from ashy wood. They spiraled upwards, their jagged tips reaching toward the very heavens, casting long, sinuous shadows that danced upon the forest floor.

His appearance was an eerie amalgamation of a deer's grace and the dark elven bloodline. His tall and lithe frame was swathed in tattered, obsidian-hued robes that seemed to meld seamlessly with the malevolent ambiance of the Haunting Grove. His skin bore a deathly pallor that both repelled and enticed as if he were a creature from the abyss and a lord of underappreciated elegance.

"I'm glad we have this chance to fight. I'd like to see those miasma rings in action…" The man's crooked smile twitched into something more bewitching and seductive. "What a good test subject you are." 

U-uh, he may be a bit gone in the head… but I still love him as my Master and teacher. He has taught me so many things and I couldn't wait to try them out on him.