The Gates of the Demon Forest: A Prelude to Blood
The sky bled crimson, streaked with blackened veins of corrupted magic, as if the heavens themselves were wounded. The air reeked of damp earth, decayed leaves, and the metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying, settling on tongues like rusted iron. A cold wind slithered through the clearing, whispering with voices that didn't belong—echoes of screams long since swallowed by the abyss.
Five hundred warriors stood before the iron gates of the Demon Forest, their collective breath a pale mist against the frigid night. Some whispered desperate prayers to forgotten gods, fingers clutched around charms worn smooth by superstition. Others adjusted their grips on their weapons, the callouses on their hands a testament to years of relentless training. Their gazes flickered between the massive gates and the inky void beyond, where unseen horrors lurked.
Each warrior bore the mark of their academy's grueling discipline.
A mountain of a man, his arms coiled in iron-reinforced prayer bands, flexed his fingers over the hilt of a rune-etched greatsword. The weapon hummed faintly, eager for battle.
A hooded huntress drew a bone-carved arrow from her quiver, the string of her bow thrumming as she tested the draw. Her lips moved silently, etching a final exorcist sigil into the shaft before nocking it into place.
A monk, his body a living tapestry of golden mandalas, traced intricate mudras in the air, weaving an unseen barrier around himself. The symbols pulsed, flickering with divine energy before settling into his skin.
High above, on an obsidian dais, the Exorcist Elders loomed like statues of forgotten deities. Their silver-threaded robes shimmered, catching the dying light as if woven from the very stars. Their gazes—ageless and unwavering—stripped away bravado, peeling each warrior down to the core of their resolve.
Elder Theron, his voice brittle as crumbling parchment, surveyed the warriors below with a mirthless smile.
"Five hundred… a feast for the forest. Let's hope they seasoned themselves well."
Some warriors stiffened. Others swallowed hard.
Beside him, Grandmaster Kael Noctis, a man carved from war itself, lifted a gauntleted hand. Scars latticed his face like the remnants of shattered glass, and his ember-lit eyes held the weight of countless battles. His midnight-blue robes, embroidered with celestial constellations, rippled as he spoke.
"The rules are absolute. Enter the forest. Survive… or be consumed."
A hush fell over the gathering.
Then—
BOOM.
The iron gates convulsed, their rusted hinges shrieking in protest as they were wrenched apart. A cloud of dust and rust cascaded over the warriors below, stinging eyes and settling on sweat-slick skin.
From the abyss beyond, the forest exhaled.
A sickly white fog slithered outward, curling around legs, sinking into clothes and skin. It smelled of damp rot, of things left to fester in the dark. And beneath that, something sharper—the thick, nauseating sweetness of overripe fruit.
No. Not fruit. Flesh.
Then came the sounds.
A chorus of howls, sharp and ravenous.
A guttural growl, deep and primal, rumbling like distant thunder.
And then—the whispers.
Soft. Slithering. Incoherent.
The trees themselves were speaking.
A single warrior swallowed hard. Then, hesitantly, he took a step forward.
The others followed.
And the hunt began.
Zone 1: The Howling Grounds – The First Trial Begins
Bravery was an illusion that shattered the moment they crossed the threshold.
The forest twisted reality, its shadows no longer bound to their sources. They detached, slithering like living things through the mist. Trees bent toward the warriors, their bark splitting open—not in decay, but as if something inside them was alive, struggling to escape.
Then, the wolves came.
Eyes like burning coals flickered in the mist. The low rumble of growls grew louder, a sound thick with hunger.
Then—motion.
The first wolf exploded from the fog, a blur of fur and fangs.
And the slaughter began.
Raj, Ron & Vikram vs. The Wolf Swarm
Raj's Eclipse Flow Exorcism Art ignited. The world didn't slow—it sharpened. Movements became distinct, luminous paths of motion he could anticipate before they unfolded.
The wolf lunged, its eyes burning with unnatural hunger.
CRACK!
Raj struck first, his fist a comet of condensed spiritual energy. Bone splintered beneath his knuckles. The wolf's skull caved inward, its body flung backward like a broken doll, blood spraying in a fine mist.
"Stay close!" Raj barked.
Ron grinned, stepping forward as his Divine Demon Exorcism Art pulsed to life. Black-red energy crackled beneath his skin, the demonic power making his veins bulge and his muscles knot. A wolf lunged—Ron didn't dodge.
BOOM!
His fist met the beast's ribs. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through its body. Its torso collapsed inward, organs liquefying from the sheer force. The very air vibrated.
Vikram was already moving.
His Celestial Edge Style was a whisper in the mist.
His katana flashed—a whirlwind of steel and death.
The first stroke severed a wolf's paw, sending it skittering across the ground. The second opened its throat, a gory spray vanishing into the fog. The third cut clean through its spine, leaving the beast twitching in the dirt.
Twelve strokes in the blink of an eye.
Together, they carved a path of destruction.
Leon vs. The Wolf Lords
Leon stood alone.
The Wolf Lords encircled him—larger, twisted by demonic corruption. Their muscles bulged, their eyes gleamed with a predator's intelligence.
Leon exhaled.
SHING.
Stormfang sang.
One precise, devastating stroke.
Four Wolf Lords fell in unison, their bodies bisected cleanly before they even realized they were dead.
Leon sheathed his blade, his golden eyes burning.
"Too slow."
Aether, The Silver Tempest, Enters the Fray
Aether stepped forward, silver hair catching the dim light.
Her fingers traced sigils into the air—each stroke a whisper of divine power.
Then—flicker.
A storm of wind blades erupted.
Invisible currents ripped through the mist, slicing through the wolves before they even registered the attack. Their bodies collapsed in pieces, dismembered by the razor winds.
Aether exhaled.
"This is just a warm-up."
Then—from the abyss of fog—
Elder Lykaon, The Moonclaw Alpha, emerged.
Elder Lykaon: The True Trial Begins
The air shimmered.
The mist recoiled.
The very ground seemed to groan beneath his weight.
Fifteen feet of fur and sinew, a living monolith of death. His molten eyes burned like twin eclipses, stripping courage from lesser men.
His voice was not sound.
It was force.
"Welcome to my hunt, little morsels."
Raj cracked his knuckles.
Leon smirked.
Aether's grip on reality tightened.
The true battle had begun.
.
Leon: The Phantom Swordsman Strikes First
Leon moved.
Faster than thought. Faster than sight.
Stormfang flickered—a phantom streak of silver carving through the mist.
A thousand slashes in an instant.
Heaven's Divide: The Thousand-Cut Execution.
The air shimmered from the force, a storm of steel colliding against Lykaon's towering frame.
SHING.
Leon landed lightly, the mist curling around his form as he turned.
A pause.
Then—
Nothing.
The wounds sealed. Instantly.
Muscle, flesh, and bone knitted back together as if his blade had never touched him.
Lykaon smirked.
"Your blade is fast, but pointless. I am beyond such trivialities."
Then he moved.
Not lunging. Shifting.
A single swipe of his massive clawed hand.
It tore the air apart.
BOOM!
The world exploded.
A shockwave of raw force rippled outward, the very mist dispersing under its might. The ground where Leon had been ceased to exist—reduced to nothing but a crater of shattered stone.
But Leon was already gone.
A blur, vanishing into the darkness before the strike could reach him.
Aether: The Divine Mandala Unleashed
Aether's silver hair whipped in the wind as she narrowed her eyes.
"Fine," she murmured. "Let's see how you fare against divinity itself."
Her fingers moved—too fast to track.
Each motion traced luminous sigils into the air, divine inscriptions flaring to life as they arranged themselves into a vast celestial formation. The sky itself seemed to brighten, casting golden illumination onto the battlefield.
Then—the final seal.
"Divine Mandala: Celestial Sealing Circle!"
The world responded.
The battlefield trembled as the sigils expanded outward, intricate patterns of spiritual energy spinning like the gears of a cosmic mechanism.
Then, from the heart of the mandala—
Chains.
Giant golden chains, forged from pure divine energy, erupted downward.
They snapped around Lykaon's massive limbs, wrapping tight, pulsing with scripture and holy fire.
For the first time, his smirk faded.
His molten eyes flickered with something new. Not fear, but acknowledgment.
Aether's voice rang clear and unwavering.
"I command the heavens! Banish this wretched soul!"
The center of the mandala ignited.
A pillar of divine light cascaded downward, engulfing Lykaon in an inferno of holy fire.
The force of the exorcism shook the ground, sending violent shockwaves rippling through the mist. The very air warped, the atmosphere crackling with sheer power.
Then—
The battlefield erupted in chaos.
Aether gritted her teeth. Something was wrong.
From within the inferno—deep inside the searing golden fire—a low, guttural chuckle rumbled.
Aether's eyes widened.
Impossible.
The divine flames wavered.
Then—shattered.
An explosion of black-gold energy erupted outward, sending warriors staggering back. The chains binding Lykaon's limbs snapped like brittle thread, disintegrating in the force of his awakening power.
And there he stood.
Unscathed.
The crimson glow in his eyes burned brighter. His silver mane billowed in the infernal wind.
Lykaon exhaled slowly. The air itself darkened.
Then, he smiled.
"Not bad."
The night howled in triumph.
The true war had begun.