Apocalyptic energy

His heart thrashed wildly against his ribs, each beat a hammer blow that threatened to shatter his chest. The pressure from the chrysalis hadn't just been weight, it had been presence, a soul-strangling force that had crushed the breath from his lungs and set every nerve alight.

He staggered back, arms trembling, his ether flaring with wild abandon, a storm of light and shadow spiraling through his veins. Panic clawed at his mind, drowning out reason. He didn't know what to do.

He needed to act. Now.

His instincts screamed a single, primal word through the haze: Kill.

In a single, fluid motion, Belial drew his curved longsword, its blade humming with dark ether that pulsed in time with his racing heart.

With a shout that carried his fear, rage, and defiance, he launched into the air. His leathery wings flickered into existence for a heartbeat, their edges trailing smoke as they propelled him upward. He spun, twisting midair with a grace born of desperation, and brought the blade down with every ounce of strength he could muster. The steel struck the chrysalis with a sickening crack, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the cavern.

The cocoon's surface resisted, its flesh and crystal flexing like hardened sap, but the blade bit deeper, driven by Belial's will.

The chrysalis screamed—a hollow, psychic wail that rattled the chamber, shaking the crystalline veins in the walls until they flickered erratically. The suffocating pressure began to falter, its grip loosening, but Belial didn't stop. He pushed harder, his muscles straining, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The sword sank further, cutting through layers of organic and arcane matter. With one final surge, he drove the blade into something vital, a core that pulsed with raw, untamed energy.

Then...There was silence.

The crushing force vanished, as if an invisible world had been lifted from his chest. Belial collapsed to his knees, his sword clattering to the stone floor beside him. His lungs burned, each breath a ragged struggle, but relief swept over him like a cold tide, soothing the fire in his nerves. He gasped, his vision swimming, the cavern's shadows blurring into a haze of grey and black.

The chrysalis twitched once… then stopped. It was dead.

For a moment, Belial could only breathe, his chest heaving as he knelt on the cracked stone. His arms trembled, his fingers numb from gripping the sword. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the crystalline veins and the distant drip of water somewhere deep in the cavern. He let out a shaking sigh, his body sagging with exhaustion.

He'd done it.

Whatever that thing had been, whatever it had meant to become, it was over.

But the relief was short-lived.

Without warning, a torrent of ether erupted from the ruptured chrysalis, a blinding cascade of light and shadow that slammed into Belial's body like a collapsing star. It wasn't just energy it dint feel like Just energy...it was life, raw and unfiltered, ancient and hungry, a force that threatened to consume him whole like an inevitable apocalypse.

"Aghhh!"

He screamed, his voice drowned beneath the roaring tide, his body seizing as the ether flooded every vein, every nerve, every cell. It didn't feel like a river, not even an ocean...it was like planetary, a celestial force trying to drown him from within.

His limit shattered instantly.

Pain exploded in his chest, a white-hot agony that tore a ragged cry from his throat.

"Too much… it's too much!" he gasped, clutching his chest as he collapsed fully to the floor. His skin glowed, pulsing with erratic patterns—streaks of white and black ether dancing wildly across his arms, neck, and chest, like lightning trapped beneath his flesh. His horns throbbed, their tips sharpening as they grew. His vision blurred, the world dissolving into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow.

Inside the astral plane, reality itself shook. The plane was a vast chamber of thought and soul, a void-like sea where storms of light and shadow churned above an endless mirror like horizon. Echoes of Belial's inner self stirred, their forms indistinct but alive, writhing in the turbulence. The atmosphere turned violent, the air crackling with energy as the foreign ether poured in like ink spilling into water, staining the plane with its presence.

A voice rang out, sharp and panicked, laced with bitter anger. "What the hell is that damned child doing?!"

The speaker stood cloaked in a shifting mass of shade and fractured starlight, a astral spirit or a guide, a tether bound to Belial's soul. Its form was humanoid but fluid, its edges blurring into the void, its hands etched with glowing energy that pulsed with mysterious power. The shadow figure's eyes burned, twin points of light in the darkness, as it watched the ether flood the plane.

"I have one job! One job!" it growled, its voice echoing across the astral sea. "And this guy isn't making it any easier!"

The spirit raised both hands, its claws flaring with runic light. Reality froze for a breath, the chaotic flow of ether pausing as if caught in a moment of stasis. It couldn't be undone—not this much power, not this ancient force, but it could be slowed, if only for a moment. The spirit gritted what could be assumed its teeth, its form trembling with the effort. "This much ether… it'll tear him apart...But wouldn't that make my job way easier? No if he dies this place goes along with it...i could send it out..."

"Unless..."

It hesitated, unwilling to voice the thought, as if speaking it would make the possibility too real.

Back in the physical cavern, the change was unstoppable. The walls trembled, the crystalline veins flickering wildly, their pulses erratic and frenzied. From the dark heights of the chamber, the statue soldiers—sealed into the black stone, their faces long forgotten—began to move. A creaking grind of ancient gears and magic filled the air as their obsidian forms stirred, their joints groaning with the weight of centuries. Eyes glowed white, mouths opened in silent screams, and they stepped forward, their armored boots shaking the ground.

multiple of crystalline statues descended the wide spiral stairs, their movements silent but purposeful, a legion of the dead marching to an unheard command. Belial, still sprawled on the floor, barely saw them through the haze of pain.

His vision was fractured, his body a battleground where ether and curse fought for dominance. The energy inside him had reached a critical point, a tipping point he couldn't comprehend. Something deep within him ignited a new flame of sorts a change within, a locked gate, a bloodborne key turning for the first time in his existence.

A scream tore from his throat as his body spasmed, his back arching unnaturally. Flames of ether burst from his spine, white and black tongues of energy that licked at the air, scorching the stone beneath him.

His fingernails cracked, splitting as they lengthened into jagged claws. His horns grew, their curves sharpening, their tips glinting in the flickering light. His spine twisted, bending at impossible angles, as if his body was being reshaped by an unseen hand.

The pain was unbearable, a fire that consumed him from within. But it wasn't just pain—it was transformation, a violent rebirth that tore at the edges of who he was.

...What he was,

The cursed ether, the Dark Witch's blood, surged through him, mingling with the ancient power of the chrysalis. It was too much, too fast, and yet it was right in all the wrong ways, a culmination of every battle, every wound, every moment he'd spent clawing his way through the Black Theatre.

Something inside him was burning. Was changing. Was evolving.