The blow had driven phisto to his knees.
Just one.
And yet the silence that followed was heavier than thunder.
The air itself strained under the weight of disbelief.
phisto's hand trembled as he planted the base of his scythe into the stone, cracks webbing out beneath it like veins carved in brittle porcelain. One black-gloved hand lifted to his mouth—blood. Dark, ichor-like, divine.
His head slowly rose, eyes no longer calm.
"Y—You filthy INSECT…"
His voice cracked like stone under too much pressure.
"How DARE you… an inferior demon… make kneel?"
Asmodeus didn't answer.
He stepped forward, slow, controlled. The red glow of his axe spread into the fractured walls around them, black flas hissing with every breath he took. There was no arrogance in his movent.
Only judgnt.
phisto's lips peeled back, baring teeth not human. His aura pulsed once—and the throne room changed.
The air thickened, darkened.
Not with heat, not with cold—but with weight.
The ceiling above them bowed outward, stone warping as though the gods themselves leaned close to watch. The ground shuddered under invisible tremors. Words etched into the walls began to bleed—a language that wasn't ant to be written. Now whispering curses into the room.
Then he moved.
No spell.
No chant.
Just raw, divine fury.
The scythe returned like a whisper—faster than breath, too fast to track. Asmodeus blocked with the shaft of his axe, but this ti, the force didn't clash. It detonated.
Both were launched backwards, their forms blurring through the chamber like twin cots on collision. phisto struck a column—stone exploded. Asmodeus flipped mid-air, his boots skidding through marble, leaving a molten trail behind him.
They both vanished again—clash, crack, impact. Blow for blow, speed for speed. But now phisto wasn't careful.
He was lashing out.
Every swing carried punishnt. Not death—punishnt. The scythe scread like a banshee, its arc bending light, splitting the echoes around them like glass.
Asmodeus held his own—barely.
His left arm burned. His ribs ached. He'd taken three hits too many, and each one rang deeper than the last. But he didn't slow down.
If anything, he grinned.
Because now phisto was angry.
And angry gods made mistakes.
He struck lower, his axe sweeping the air in a horizontal inferno. phisto jumped, spinning mid-air, casting five sigils beneath his feet at once.
Chains of white fla shot upward, binding gravity itself.
Asmodeus punched through them with raw mana, black fla spiralling around his arm like a cyclone. He surged up to et him, axe ready to cleave.
The two collided in mid-air.
And the shockwave erased the throne dais.
Stone, fire, divine runes—gone. Reduced to nothing.
phisto flew back, robes torn, face bloodied, his breath ragged now. His hand trembled again. Not with fear.
With humiliation.
"You shouldn't—" he hissed, dragging his scythe up like a crutch. "You shouldn't be able to push a god this far."
Asmodeus landed on the shattered platform, axe resting against his shoulder.
"Well, sorry—But I am!"
phisto scread.
No chant.
No grace.
Just a cry of hate.
His wings burst from his back, shredded robes falling away like ash. Two vast arcs of bone and sinew, veined with light, flared outward and shook the very foundation of the citadel.
He slamd the butt of his scythe onto the floor.
And the world changed.
The room split apart.
Not physically, but spiritually.
Laws of space bent inward. Light curled like smoke. The ground inverted, becoming black glass that reflected nothing. Around them, the Chamber of Death ford: a divine space, broken into existence.
"You brought your won here," phisto said, voice now layered, no longer singular.
His form glowed, his eyes burning with split pupils, his silhouette shimring like a god barely contained.
"I'll kill them next."
Asmodeus's reply was silence.
He didn't look behind him.
But he felt them.
Four auras. Bloodied. Wounded. Unyielding.
Still standing.
He raised his axe again.
And surged forward—because there was no more god.
Only a monster in his way.
phisto didn't dodge.
He devoured the charge.
Scythe and axe clashed again, but this ti it wasn't a duel — it was a rupture. The space between them folded inward. Every sound turned inside out, every breath a distortion. Light beca pressure. Pressure beca pain.
And through it all, phisto's face twisted with sothing raw.
Hatred.
No words. Just the grinding of teeth and the flicker of madness behind those divine eyes.
His form bent — literally, bones cracking into new angles, muscles twisting as his divine shell strained to keep up with the power he now forced through it.
"You shouldn't exist!" he spat, eyes blood-rimd, voice fractured into three tones.
"You were made for ruin—not divinity!"
Asmodeus didn't flinch even as his ribs buckled, even as his skin seared open.
He raised his axe once more, black fla arcing in a spiral behind him like a death god's crown.
"Kneeling's the first step to praying," he said, breathing heavy.
His eyes locked onto phisto's trembling form.
"And you should start praying."
phisto scread. Not in pain. In defiance.
The scythe vanished—then reappeared in both his hands, now sharpened to a point that cut sound itself. He spun it and cast it down, like a guillotine ant for the world. A crackle of impossible incantation roared out as divine glyphs burned through the air, written in letters stolen from the dawn of ti.
Ti warped. A second passed. Then it reversed. Then it splintered. Then it looped, again and again, trying to trap Asmodeus in the mont of his fall.
It didn't work.
Because Asmodeus kept walking.
He broke forward through the fold, bleeding, coughing, eyes blazing like twin stars drowning in wrath.
phisto's next spell spoke no words.
Only unmade them.
Reality buckled, folding like paper soaked in fire. A thousand blades scread from the seams between space. The very idea of pain twisted into existence and surged toward Asmodeus.
And he still stepped forward.
Until the sky behind him shattered into four.
Colour tore across the field — red, violet, silver, gold.
And they landed.
Together.
They landed in unison.
Levia struck first — her spear slamd into the divine magic, shattering it like brittle glass.
Vinea followed, both hands gripping her massive greatsword. She roared as it crashed downward, sending a shockwave through the floor that knocked phisto's footing loose.
Asmodea's blood blood into thorned roses, their crimson petals spinning mid-air before lashing out as vines of serrated wrath, tearing toward phisto's limbs.
And Lumina—
Lumina didn't land.
She descended, upside-down, from shimring strands of silk strung between broken space itself. Her webbing laced the air, and her poison glimred green on fang and thread alike — already rushing toward the god's neck.
phisto's scythe halted mid-swing — bound, blocked, burned, and bitten.
Four empresses.
Four weapons.
No hesitation.
No rcy.
Only war.
The god's voice fractured into a choir of rage and disgust.
"You insects—YOU DARE!"
Levia didn't blink. "Not alone."
Vinea's voice was steel. "We swore to die beside him."
Asmodea grinned through blood. "And we're not dead yet."
Lumina's eyes glead as her silks burned. "So let's burn a god."
phisto's mouth tore open wider than it should have. Sothing ancient scread from inside his throat.
Then the citadel collapsed.
Not stone.
Not structure.
Reality.
The entire chamber twisted into black, inverted geotry—walls turning to veins, floor becoming mirror-like obsidian, air warping like liquid glass. They were no longer in the world.
They were inside phisto's Hell.
And the god's voice, now low, thundered from every angle—
"Fine then…"
His wings surged open—six in total, revealed now. Two of light. Two of the shadows. Two of pure force, flayed open like raw nerves.
"Let's end this…"
His third eye opened.
"…in hell."
A ripple of nausea tore through space.
Hell—not fire, not brimstone, but a dinsion without law. Shapes that shouldn't exist slithered just beneath the glass floor, eyes blooming like ulcers in the dark. The sky above was inverted sea, rippling with flesh-coloured stars that blinked in unison with phisto's third eye.
No footing.
No gravity.
No protection.
And still—
They charged.
Levia went first, her spear glowing silver-blue, casting arcs of starlight as she lunged. Each strike exploded into shockwaves, ripping holes in the false dinsion phisto had created.
Vinea followed with a roar. Her greatsword cleaved through a mountain of twisted bone that tried to rise from the floor, decapitating it before it could form a head. She carved a line straight toward phisto's heart.
Asmodea didn't charge.
She bled.
Her hands blood open like lotus flowers, veins splitting, roses growing from her wrists—vines trailing behind her like red rivers of sin. Her lips whispered the language of the blood, and the vines surged forward, binding phisto's wings, tightening each ti he twitched.
Lumina danced overhead.
Thread after thread burst from her fingertips, glittering traps layered in motion, like spiderwebs woven across collapsing physics. She blinked from strand to strand, flashing behind the god's back, fangs glowing with venom, ready to eat divine marrow.
phisto snarled, then moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
He grabbed Vinea mid-swing, her blade grinding against his palm, not cutting, screaming.
She spat in his face.
He hurled her into the sky.
Levia intercepted her midair, both slamming into a spiralling tower of mirrored spines.
Asmodea's vines burned—divine fire eating through them—but she only smiled wider, letting them detonate in a crimson burst, coating phisto's left side in exploding thorns.
He turned.
Only to catch a mouthful of webbing — Lumina's poison-laced silk wrapped around his jaw like a gag, seeping into his flesh.
"You're not untouchable anymore," she hissed.
phisto grabbed the web and ripped it off, taking a layer of his face with it.
He bled light.
He bled rot.
Then he reached for her.
And Asmodeus slamd into him from the side—axe-first, a trail of black fire in his wake.
The strike carved through three wings.
And phisto scread.
Not in pain.
In outrage.
"You dare! YOU DARE!"
His aura burst outward, a tidal wave of inverted halos and crushed sigils, forcing them all back.
Breathless.
Burned.
But still standing.
Asmodeus's voice was calm.
"You're not a god anymore, phisto."
Behind him, the four empresses rose to stand again—scorched, bleeding, fangs bared, silk tattered.
"You're just my next target."
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