It's My Turn

Gene's hand gestures shifted rapidly, and with each change, waves of dark and powerful energy surged from within him.

Above his head, a spell disc of chaotic colors began to form.

Originally, this spell disc should have been golden—radiating divine brilliance. But after Gene's repeated alterations, it was now suffused with evil and chaotic energy.

Crimson hell-thunder crashed violently against the disc above Gene's head. And simultaneously, far behind him, a second chaotic spell disc emerged, mirroring the first.

The two spell discs formed a twisted passage in the air—one that devoured every bolt of hell-thunder Mephisto summoned.

"It's my turn now."

Gene's voice was calm, but its synthetic sharpness stabbed into Mephisto's ears like a cold needle.

"What do you mean, it's your turn?"

Gene raised both arms high, as if lifting the spell disc from above his head. Then, with both hands, he expanded the disc, and from its swirling center, a sharp object began to rise—

A sword.

A long sword, forged from chaos and magic, emerged from the heart of the disc and landed in Gene's hand.

Even Mephisto, for all his arrogance, couldn't help but feel a flicker of admiration—even if it came for an enemy. To see the Divine Sword of the Vishanti, once sacred and pure, twisted into this corrupted, demonic form… only someone with terrifying talent and unshakable will could do that.

This wasn't power stolen from a single dimension. No, this sword was infused with energies from multiple planes of existence. And the signature of its wielder's will was etched deeply into it.

Gene raised the pitch-black sword of chaos.

"So? Are you ready?"

Mephisto froze for a second—then burst into laughter so loud that the very landscape of hell quaked beneath it.

"Your old, withered master wouldn't dare say that to me—and you do?"

His golden eyes locked on Gene, and the laughter stopped as cold rage filled the void.

"If I don't bury you in this realm today, I'm not Mephisto."

Hell itself began to spin.

Doom, still sprawled on the ground far away, suddenly felt as if gravity had vanished—like he was floating in the air. His stomach turned, space warped around him, and a disorienting nausea crept over his body.

Meanwhile, the area around Gene twisted violently.

Inside his armor, Gene's neural network flooded with warning signals. The mech had detected abnormal spatial distortions—a threat serious enough to warrant immediate evacuation.

Remaining here meant death.

But Gene didn't move. He simply whispered, "Actually, I've been holding something back too."

Mephisto narrowed his eyes, suspicious—but then his senses exploded with alarm.

Light—blazing, holy light—erupted from Gene's body and stabbed directly into Mephisto's vision. Simultaneously, a concentrated soundwave shot through the realm, piercing space like a blade and stabbing straight into Mephisto's ears.

Gene had studied the weaknesses of hellish entities before coming here—light and sound. His previous experiments had confirmed it. And now, with Mephisto's focus shaken by arrogance and fury, the distraction worked like a charm.

The jet boosters on Gene's back and legs flared with maximum output. He became a black streak, a flash of deadly precision, shooting through the unstable space toward Mephisto—

SLASH!

A sickening noise echoed across the red desert. One of Mephisto's arms was severed cleanly at the shoulder, falling with a trail of infernal blood.

"AAAAAAARGHH!!"

Mephisto screamed—a sound that tore through hell itself. Flames rained from the sky like firestorms. Rivers of hellfire erupted from the ground in every direction.

Wherever it passed, it turned everything into ash.

This was the wrath of a true Lord of Hell. And when he raged… the world burned.

The infernal tide of fire swept across the land like a crimson tsunami, vaporizing everything in its path.

Only Mephisto remained, standing in the middle of the apocalyptic inferno… well, Mephisto and the soul of Grace, who still hovered tearfully behind him.

Gene and Doom? They were gone—along with Mephisto's severed arm.

The Hell Lord's fury reached a crescendo, but it was a useless, impotent rage.

They'd escaped.

And he couldn't chase them—not to Earth. Not now.

As a Hell Lord, Mephisto's power was tied to his realm. The moment he left hell, his strength would begin to wane. If that cursed, armor-wearing mage had truly allied himself with the Sorcerer Supreme, there was no guarantee Mephisto would even make it back.

So he swallowed his humiliation, grinding his fangs in silence. The flames of his hatred burned brighter than his hellfire.

He would never forget that dark figure. He had memorized the signature of that strange soul. He had time—plenty of time.

Gene Mason would fall into his clutches someday. And when that day came… oh, he'd make it last.

A cruel smile crept across Mephisto's face.

__

Doom's eyes snapped open.

It felt like a dream—a feverish, terrifying dream. Traveling to hell, seeing his mother's soul, witnessing a war between gods.

But when he saw the black-armored figure standing silently before him, he realized—

It was no dream.

The armor shifted, reforming into the sleek humanoid outline of Gene Mason. His expression was cold, calm, controlled.

"You… who are you?" Doom asked, still stunned.

Gene looked at him, expressionless. "I'm going to reconsider recruiting you."

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T/N:

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