The Descent of Hell

The skies of the divine realms split open.

Across the Gods' Plane and the Celestial Myriad, vast cracks of crimson and black tore through reality, bleeding like open wounds in the sky. The air itself grew heavy with an ancient, suffocating pressure.

From these rifts, hellish storms raged—black lightning flashing, scarlet mist seeping through, and the echo of twisted voices whispering from the abyss.

Those who had set foot in Hell before knew this aura too well. It was unmistakable. It was a declaration.

Someone had just opened the gates.

---

From the Devil's Peak, the highest point of the Pangu Realm, Nezha stood with his arms folded, his sharp gaze locked on the sky. His golden rings hummed with energy, reacting to the unnatural presence spilling through the heavens.

"I think he's begun," Nezha muttered, eyes narrowing.