Exiled

Demiurge leaned on the table with both hands on his chin, fixing his intense gaze on Ars. "So, what is it that you desire?" he asked once again, his voice hoarse but distinct.

Ars was lost in thought, contemplating his deepest desires. "My desire..." he muttered.

Sensing Ars's hesitation, Demiurge quickly intervened. "You're still young. I know you wish to live more than this."

He took the goblet once again and swirled the wine before taking a sip. "What I mean is that I can help you get out of here."

"..."

Demiurge laid his back on the chair as he noticed the change in Ars' expression, he knew that he had his full attention. Being trapped in the underworld, perceived as an evil false God for eternity just because he wanted to speak out for justice; the prospect of escape for Demiurge was like a beacon of light in a sea of darkness.

Simply, in his mind, Ars was just a tool for his redemption.

He continued, "However, in order to do that, I need someone determined and strong-willed enough to help me. And I believe that someone is you, Ars."

Ars softened his composure, intrigued by Demiurge's remarks. "What do you need me to do?" he asked.

***

Hundred thousands of years ago, Aetheria lived in harmony, the faction of angels and demons were in good terms

Until a war in the spiritual realm broke out. A gruesome conflict between the World Archons and Death Archons, with the Death Archons planning to overthrow Jaldabaoth, a deceitful World Archon.

Jaldabaoth faced questioning by the other World Archons at first, but his cunning personality helped him convince the others that Demiurge, who had rebelled against him, was the one responsible for the chaos and destruction that had befallen their realm.

On the other side of the darkness, Demiurge, who was once a loyal servant to Jaldabaoth, knew the true nature of his former master. With unwavering conviction, he raised the banner of rebellion and gathered a formidable army of demons and Death Archons who had been similarly deceived by Jaldabaoth's treachery.

They vowed to do whatever it takes to expose his lies and overthrow him from his throne, even if it means defying the World Archons they served. For Demiurge and his allies, this was a war not just for power, but for the truth, and they were prepared to fight to the death to ensure that justice was served.

Demiurge's rebellious army was valiant, but ultimately it was unsuccessful. Jaldabaoth's cunning proved to be too great, and with the help of the army of angels, they defeated Demiurge's rebellious army.

Aetheria was left in ruins, and the spiritual realm was shrouded in darkness and despair. Demiurge and his followers were forced to flee, seeking refuge in the farthest corners of the spiritual realm, waiting for the day they could rise up once more and seek vengeance against Jaldabaoth.

But in the end, the World Archons emerged victorious, and Demiurge's army suffered a devastating defeat. All their efforts were in vain, and Demiurge was unable to overthrow Jaldabaoth.

As his last resort, he pleaded with the World Archons, warning them that Jaldabaoth was seeking to destroy Aetheria and take it for his own. However, his pleas fell on deaf ears, and he was declared a traitor and condemned for his rebellion against the World Archons and the Father* himself.

*

The Father, also known as Bythos, is the one true God. He is the unseen father of all, the beginning and end of everything, and the husband of Sophia, as well as the father of Jaldabaoth and Zabaoth.

*

As his fate was sealed, the demons were purged by the angels, some were thrown along with Demiurge who was exiled and sent down to Tartarus, the deepest and darkest pit of the underworld, where he was doomed to suffer for eternity.

Demiurge was given the titles as the Abhorred, the Ungodly Ruler of Hell, or the Prince of Tartarus, a name that would echo throughout the ages. But even in his despair and anguish, Demiurge could not shake the feeling that Jaldabaoth was the true villain in this twisted tale. His mind was filled with thoughts of revenge, and he vowed to find a way to break free from his prison and take down the usurper who had deceived everyone for authority.

With Demiurge's banishment, the remaining World Archons were left in disarray. They struggled to keep the spiritual realm, from crumbling into chaos. But Jaldabaoth was cunning and ruthless. He saw the opportunity to seize power and took it, swiftly claiming the realm as his own.

The Archons were powerless against Jaldabaoth's armies of demons and other dark creatures. The once-bright and radiant realm of Aetheria was now shrouded in a thick veil of darkness and despair, with flames and destruction rampant in every corner.

The spiritual realm was now under the tyrannical control of Jaldabaoth, who ruled with an iron fist.

The once-vibrant and flourishing Aetheria was now a shadow of its former self, with its inhabitants living in constant fear and suffering under Jaldabaoth's rule. The Archons who had once stood for justice and righteousness were now nothing more than mere puppets in Jaldabaoth's twisted grasp of power and control.

***

The prospect of being trapped in the underworld for eternity was a fate worse than death for Demiurge. In a desperate bid to escape his eternal damnation, he offered to make a pact with Ars, a mere mortal soul.

The thought of being bound to a demonic entity was horrifying, but Ars had no other way out of Tartarus. He had to make a choice, even if it meant sacrificing a part of himself.

Demiurge's offer was tempting. His vast knowledge and power could be the key to their escape. But the price was steep. Ars would have to help Demiurge find his four lost souls, to regain his full strength. To do this, they would have to find and face the four horsemen of the apocalypse, entities of pure destruction and chaos.

Just as Demiurge finished his story, Ars looked deep in thought, his mind swirling with questions.

"Is Gilles then...?" he trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," Demiurge replied.

As he remembered what Gilles had told him, Ars took the chance to ask, "Do you know anything about demonkins?"

Demiurge's face contorted with confusion. "Demonkins?" he repeated.

It was clear that Gilles had lied about his past. Although some of it were true, why would he lie about it? Ars didn't give it much thought and guessed that it might be something personal for him to share.

Ars knew he had nothing to lose. He himself had been seeking for escape ever since he woke up, and the thought of spending an eternity in the underworld was unbearable. With Demiurge's guidance, he had a chance to leave this wretched place and return to the land of the living.

And so, he made his decision, with a fiery determination in his eyes.

"I'm ready."

...

As Ars and Demiurge descended into the depths of the underground, the sound of their footsteps reverberated ominously off the rough-hewn stone stairs. The air grew colder with every step, and the oppressive walls loomed threateningly over them, it was such a narrow passageway.

As they journeyed deeper down, the darkness seemed to grow ever more hungry, as though eager to consume them whole.

Demiurge lifted his right hand, conjuring a small flame that flickered and danced, casting their shadows on the walls that hemmed them in.

Upon reaching the surface of the undeground, it looked like an actual dungeon. The hall way looked similar to where he first met Gilles, although the pathway was wider.

The walls loomed menacingly on either side. Their rough surfaces lined with the ominous prison cells of a dungeon. The ceilings soared high above, a vast expanse of darkness punctuated only by the occasional flicker of the flame Demiurge conjured in his palm.

As they approached the end of the hallway, they both came upon a wooden door. Ars felt a malevolent aura emanating from it, like a physical force that made his skin crawl and his stomach twist in fear and revulsion. It was as if something unspeakable was lurking just beyond the threshold.

"Scared?" Demiurge asked as he turned his head towards Ars. A bead of sweat trickled down his face, but he shook his head in response.

The flame Demiurge had conjured became brigther.

The wooden door creaked open as they entered inside, revealing a spacious chamber filled with rugged scrolls scattered on the ground. Written with what seems to be blood rather than black ink.

The parchments bore a litany of demonic incantations and otherworldly symbols. The flickering candles casts a light on the stone walls besides with intricate pentagrams etched in blood-red lines.

But in front of Ars stood a towering wall, upon which a massive pentagram that had been also inscribed in blood. Ars stared in awe at the grim and foreboding symbol, its intricate details drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Pentagramma Portarum," Demiurge replied, his voice laced with a sense of dark reverence.

The symbol was a dark and powerful one, capable of opening a portal from the underworld to the physical world. Ars couldn't help but stare, transfixed by the sinister aura emanating from the pentagram.

"The symbol is yet incomplete," Demiurge added, his eyes looking at the scattered scrolls on the ground.

"Why is that?" Ars asked, his eyes still fixed on the ominous symbol on the wall.

"—Ah, there it is!" Demiurge exclaimed, brandishing a tattered parchment scroll he picked from the ground. He took a quick glance at it before turning to Ars.

"Your hand," Demiurge urged Ars to extend his wrist, while laying the scroll out on the ground. A razor-sharp teeth appeared from his mouth as he sank it into Ars' wrist, drawing blood in a crimson arc.

"What are you doing?" Ars asked, feeling a flush of embarrassment. Blood dripped onto the parchment scroll, turning it a bright crimson.

Demiurge as well slit his own wrist with his black nail, adding his dark ichor. "This is a blood pact," he replied. With a swift motion, Demiurge began tracing the intricate symbol etched onto the scroll, using their combined blood as ink.

"This is going to hurt."

"...?"

As the last stroke was made, the sigil began to glow in a crimson light. Demiurge stood up abruptly and placed his palm onto Ars' forehead.

Suddenly, he felt a searing pain rip through his veins and Demiurge's eyes glew in red light.

His limbs convulsed violently as an unpleasant feeling surged through his body, coursing through his veins. The pain was unbearable, and Ars let out a tortured scream as his consciousness began to fade.

As his eyes turned blurry, he saw Demiurge writhed in pain beside him, his own body squirming with the strain of the ritual.

He could feel himself fading, everything growing dim around him. He tried to speak, but his voice was gone. All he could do was lie there, paralyzed and helpless, as the darkness swallowed him up.

...

Ars let out a groan as he stood up in the dungeon. He found himself surrounded by ashes, where the swarm of skeletons had once been. As he moved his limbs, he realized that his left arm had healed, his body had no wound, in fact he felt stronger, more agile, and his senses heightened.

"Huh..." he sighed.

The wooden torch with its blue flame burning persistently lay on the ground, defying any attempt to extinguish it. Ars couldn't help but admire its resilience, small yet unwavering. Ars knelt down and picked up the torch, holding it tightly, feeling a sense of determination as he prepared himself for the challenges ahead.