The throne hall of Krav'Zirath was silent.
Velmora sat on the stone throne, one leg crossed over the other, her expression calm, regal. Before her stood the disguised angels—six in total—each cloaked in the simple form of mortal priests, but their eyes betrayed the eternal light behind their disguises. They said nothing at first, only observing, weighing the impossible scene they had stepped into.
She greeted them not with hostility, but poise.
"I assume," Velmora began softly, "you've come not for war… but to understand."
The tallest angel stepped forward. "Who are you to claim Krav'Zirath?"
"I am no one," she replied with a slight smirk. "Just a guide. A regent. Sent to watch over a boy who made a wish to the stars."
Their eyes narrowed at that.
Words passed—layered, cryptic, and political—between Velmora and the lead angel. But as the conversation carried, Velmora slowly raised her hand, exposing her true demonic limb, veined with runes of the Abyss. She extended a claw, and sliced across her palm.
A drop of black-red ichor fell to the stone.
Where it landed, the floor cracked, sizzled, and then tore open like rotting cloth.
The scent of brimstone and ancient fear flooded the hall.
The blood boiled in a spiraling glyph, and a vortex of crimson smoke emerged. Then—a foot, plated in armor blacker than the void. Then came the form.
Diablo stepped through.
Not his true form—this world was far too weak for such a thing—but a clone, imbued with just a fraction of his power. And still, it silenced the world.
Every demon knelt.
Every mortal prostrated.
Even the air stopped moving.
He stood tall, eyes burning with apocalyptic hate, his voice low and hollow like a dead star.
"Why are angels… on the Eastern Continent?"
The six angels did not move. The lead one responded quietly, "We came to observe."
Diablo chuckled. A sound like stone splitting under pressure.
"Then observe the consequences."
He pointed. And in that moment, the four lesser demons exploded into action, striking at the angels with coordinated fury.
Eryk stood frozen, heart pounding in his chest. He had seen fear before, but this—this was revelation.
For the first time, he understood what gods truly were.
Behind him, Genevieve cried. Silently, hopelessly. Her eyes wide with horror.
"I want to go home," she whispered, not even knowing what home meant anymore.
The angels fought back—barely. Divine shields flared. Weapons of pure judgment appeared in their hands.
But Diablo only turned slightly, facing Velmora.
"You are now the Regnant Demonic Queen of this world."
"You will prepare this kingdom… for absolute war."
"The Abyss is awakening. The armies… soon ready. This world, and others, shall fall in line."
He pointed at Eryk.
"Prepare the boy. He is the Condiment of War."
Then he turned… gazing through the walls, across the lands, and into the skyline of the world itself.
THE ANGELIC HOST
Far above, beyond the barrier cloaking the Eastern Continent, a host of angelic reinforcements—thousands—arrived in formation.
Golden wings. Silver banners. Celestial trumpets. Light filled the firmament.
Diablo only smirked.
"Enough."
With a snap of his fingers, the four demons halted mid-strike. The battered angels retreated into defensive formations.
Then… the angelic host felt it—the screams of their brothers.
Golden blood, sacred and burning with divine energy, shot through the air, launching from the throne hall through the portal and straight into the hands of the angelic commanders.
Cries of alarm erupted across the ranks.
Diablo stood at the threshold of the barrier and declared:
"Let this be a lesson."
"Never interfere with the Abyss again. Not here. Not on this continent. Not anywhere."
The demons vanished.
So did the angels.
BACK IN THE THRONE ROOM
The portal remained—still open, still humming with residual power.
Eryk, almost mesmerized, stared into it.
"It feels… so evil," he whispered.
Behind him, Genevieve's hand grabbed his arm.
"Don't look," she pleaded, voice shaking. "Stop that before you get us killed."
"I just wanted to see," he said.
Then—a voice behind him.
"Because it is, boy."
He turned. Diablo leaned in, his face inches from Eryk's ear, smiling like a shadow given form.
"Maybe you should listen to the girl."
Eryk recoiled, falling back, his breath caught in his throat. Behind Diablo, a host of demons stood—towering, breathing smoke, and watching him.
None of the cultists moved. None even dared blink.
To look into Diablo's face was death itself.
"Cultists," Diablo thundered, "hear me now."
"Velmora is your queen. You will obey her. Her words… are my will. If I must descend again in true form… this world will burn."
They all screamed in unison:
"O' Great God, as you say!"
Spoken in Old Abyssal, the tongue of the founding Demon Kings.
Diablo gave one final nod.
He turned, stepped back into the portal, and it snapped shut behind him—blood returning to Velmora's wound as if rewinding time.
The aura that had covered the planet like a funeral shroud retreated with him.
Finally… people could breathe again.
ORDERS FROM THE THRONE
The cult hall erupted with movement. Scribes scribbled furiously. Runners dashed into chambers. Acolytes wept and sang.
The cult's acting leader, High Magus Tharnak, knelt before Velmora as she sat calmly on the stone throne.
"What are your orders, Regnant Queen?"
Velmora waved one hand gracefully.
"Take the boy and the girl. Give them the royal suite. Post two guards at all times."
"They must be protected. For the coming world… will be remade."
Tharnak bowed deeply. "At once, my Queen."
Elsewhere—within the digital weave of Diablo's Abyssal System—a message blinked.
+10,000 Points – Hatred Gained From the Angelic Race
[REWARD UNLOCKED: Portal Access to Higher Abyss — New World Available]
Diablo smiled.
"Let the multiverse war… begin."