The Depths of Hell
The air was thick with heat, the ground beneath him cracked and pulsing with molten veins. Satanael stood in the heart of the abyss, his massive wings stretched wide as his form grew with each passing second. His once-pale skin deepened into a darker shade of red, black tattoos burning into his flesh like ancient runes seared by hellfire. His muscles expanded, his presence swelling, and the very ground trembled beneath him.
Power. More than he had ever wielded before. The gifts of the Outer Gods coursed through him, fueling his transformation.
A deep, rumbling laugh escaped his lips. With this, even Lucifer won't be able to stand against me.
But then—
A ripple in the air. A shift in the fabric of existence itself.
A presence.
Ancient. Absolute.