Chapter 2: The Fall of Beelzebub

Its mouths opened in unison.

And from their depths, fire.

Not normal fire.

Not red or orange.

These were black and blue, twisting unnaturally, devouring light instead of casting it.

It roared toward him.

Albion raised Excalibur.

At the last second, he traced runes.

"Protect."

A wall of golden light erupted, crashing against the flames in a deafening explosion.

The force rippled outward, sending Albion skidding backward, boots digging into pavement as he struggled to hold his ground.

But he held.

The flames died.

The creature snarled.

Albion exhaled, lowering his blade, his breath steadying.

His lips curled into a smirk.

"Not bad."

The beast tensed.

Albion rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip.

"But I can do this all day."

The beast lunged, its massive arms swinging with destructive force. Albion moved instinctively, sidestepping the blow and ducking forward. He rose smoothly, slashing downward and slicing through another one of the creature's arms. Black ichor spewed from the wound, sizzling as it hit the ground.

"Another one bites the dust," he quipped.

Enraged, the monster retaliated, its movements becoming more frantic. Albion weaved through its attacks, the runes along his arm glowing faintly with each maneuver. He could feel Excalibur guiding him, the sword's ancient magic harmonizing with his own.

Above, Alyssa Ainsworth circled in the Sky News helicopter, her cameraman capturing every moment.

Alyssa adjusted the mic on her lapel, fingers trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer electricity of the moment. Ten years covering politics, warzones, royal scandals—and none of it had prepared her for this. This wasn't news. This was myth clawing into reality.

"This is unprecedented," she reported, her voice laced with awe. "A lone figure is confronting the creature—could this be London's savior?"

Albion could hear the distant whirl of helicopter blades but paid it little mind. His focus was entirely on the battle. The beast began to change, its form contorting as it shrank.

The world dimmed.

Albion's breath came fast and shallow, his pulse a hammer against his ribs. The battle had left him ragged, bruised, but still standing. Excalibur's glow waned, its runes pulsing in slow rhythm, mirroring his own exhaustion. The creature before him was no longer the mindless horror that had torn through the streets.

It had changed.

The air around them shimmered, as though the laws of reality were struggling to decide what form she should take. Then, with a ripple of dark energy, the monstrous thing collapsed inward, folding upon itself, limbs twisting and contracting, until all that remained was a woman.

She stood tall, her presence still as terrible as before, but now terribly human.

Her gown clung to her form like liquid midnight, woven with runes that glowed faintly beneath the dim streetlights. Her alabaster skin was unblemished, her features sculpted, beautiful, cruel. The long waves of her black hair coiled at the edges like curling smoke, shifting with the unseen currents of magic.

A diadem of twisted gold crowned her brow, its edges still tinged with the otherworldly fire of the portal she had emerged from. Her eyes were black, not like ink, but like the void itself—depthless, ancient, watching. And yet, when she smiled, it was with something almost familiar.

"You fight well for a man who doesn't know himself," she said at last.

Her voice was nothing like the creature's—it was low, smooth, laced with something far more dangerous than rage.

Amusement.

Albion tightened his grip on Excalibur, though his instincts screamed that steel alone wouldn't be enough against whatever she was. The air itself seemed to bend around her, warping at the edges of his vision, as though reality wasn't entirely certain she belonged.

"You're stalling," he said, rolling his shoulders, masking his unease beneath bravado. "Makes me think I hurt you worse than you're letting on."

She took a single step forward, and it was as though the entire battlefield shrank around them. The sounds of sirens, the distant cries of survivors, even the flickering streetlights—all of it seemed to pull away, retreating into the background.

All that remained was her, him, and the weight of whatever history existed between them.

"You still don't remember, do you?" she asked, tilting her head. "That's a shame. I rather liked you, back then."

The words should have meant nothing.

And yet, they hit like a knife between the ribs.

Albion's mind resisted, but the weight of something half-forgotten pressed down on him. A name he had never spoken. A voice he had never heard. A memory just beyond reach. His fingers twitched against the hilt of Excalibur, his grip faltering for the briefest of moments.

Then, like a tide crashing against the shore, the past surged forward.

It was raining.

Not the cold, bitter rain of London, but the warm kind—the kind that fell softly through dense forests, dripping from thick branches, pooling in the grooves of ancient stone. The air smelled of damp earth and something older, something sacred.

Albion was small. Younger than he had ever remembered being.

He held a wooden stick in his hands, gripping it tightly, his knuckles white with effort. His breathing was uneven, his frustration mounting. Across from him, a woman stood, watching with arms crossed, expression unreadable.

She wasn't the woman from the battlefield. Not entirely.

Her face was softer, less cruel, less regal. Her eyes weren't void-black, but something closer to dark brown, almost warm, but guarded.

She sighed, stepping forward. "You hold it wrong," she murmured, kneeling beside him.

Albion scowled. "I'm trying."

A quiet laugh. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just amused.

"Trying is for people who don't know they can," she said, taking his hands in hers, adjusting his grip with practiced ease. "You do."

The warmth of her hands startled him. They were not the hands of a noblewoman—they were calloused, strong, meant for wielding something far heavier than a wooden stick.

She guided him through the motion again, slower this time. Not a swing. A strike. A movement meant to end something.

"Again," she whispered.

And he obeyed.

Albion staggered back, his vision blurring as the memory shattered, the battlefield slamming into focus around him.

Beelzebub—for that was who she was now, not the woman from his past, not the teacher beneath the rain-dappled trees, but the demon who had just slaughtered dozens—watched him with quiet satisfaction.

"You… were," Albion rasped, his voice unsteady, his breath coming too fast.

She smiled, slow and knowing.

"I was, little Pendragon," she murmured. "I made you what you are."

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Memories warred within him—truth and doubt, past and present, the innocent child he once was and the man standing before her now.

She took another step forward. This time, he did not move away.

"I taught you to fight, Albion," she said, her voice softer now, almost regretful. "Before you ever touched steel. Before you ever traced your first rune. You were mine, once. Before they took you away."

A cold pit formed in his stomach.

He wanted to deny it.

Wanted to call her a liar, an illusion, another trick meant to unnerve him.

But the weight of the memory—the way she had touched his hands, the way her voice had shaped his earliest moments of combat—would not let him.

She had been there.

He had known her.

And now, she was something else.

Something monstrous.

"I was never yours," he said, forcing strength into his voice, though it trembled at the edges.

Her smile didn't falter, but something in her expression darkened.

"No. Not anymore."

A gust of wind curled around them, carrying the scent of sulfur and something burned, something dying. The weight of what had just happened still hung thick in the air.

And yet, for the first time in the battle, Albion wasn't sure what scared him more—

The woman before him.

Or the part of him that remembered her.

The air around them shimmered, and Albion's vision swirled as her words pulled him into a memory—not his own, but hers. It engulfed him like a tidal wave.

He was no longer standing on the streets of London. Instead, he found himself in a cavernous throne room, bathed in flickering red light. Skulls and bones littered the ground, their shadows dancing against the blood-streaked walls. The smell of sulfur and burning flesh clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

At the far end of the room, seated atop a massive throne forged from the blackened bones of fallen kings, was a figure so immense that even the other demons, powerful as they were, seemed to pale in his presence. Flames licked the base of the throne, casting an eerie light that made the whole scene feel otherworldly—hellish.

Beelzebub knelt before the throne, her head bowed in mock reverence, though her eyes burned with ambition. Around her, the other Lords of Naraka—each a twisted reflection of humanity's darkest sins—stood in various forms, yet all bowed low before their king.

The Morning Star.

He sat, motionless, his fiery wings folded behind him, his eyes—cold, burning embers—gazing down at his court. His voice rumbled through the room, shaking the very ground beneath them.

"There is a prophecy," he began, his voice carrying the weight of the ages. "Of a being who will unite the realms. A man, born of dragon's blood, who will wield a power capable of challenging even the gods."

Beelzebub's lip curled. She had heard these tales before—whispers of a Pendragon, a last remnant of a dying bloodline. It had always been a distant concern, a myth that seemed too far off to be real.

But now it was different.

His eyes flicked toward her, sharp and knowing, as though he could sense her doubt. "Albion Pendragon," he said, and Beelzebub's blood ran cold at the sound of the name. "The boy must be destroyed before he can realize what he is. And it is you, my dears, who will carry out this task."

A flicker of anger rose in her chest, but she quelled it, lowering her head in submission. "As you command, my lord," she murmured, though her mind raced with plans of her own. Why should he be king? Why should I bow to such a weak, old tyrant? She had bided her time long enough.

As the court dispersed, Beelzebub remained, her eyes narrowing on the shadow of hisretreating form. The skulls at her feet crunched softly under her heels as she stood, her power growing, swelling with the hunger she had always felt—hunger for more than her domain allowed. She would carry out her lord's will, but she would do it in her own way. The little Pendragon would die, yes, but not before she claimed his power for herself.

And when the time was right, she would rise from the shadows, not as a servant of the throne, but as the ruler of Naraka itself.

Albion staggered back into reality, the weight of her memory pressing down on him. His chest heaved as he struggled to make sense of the vision.

"Was that Hell?" he questioned, his voice low, "And you're here to kill me, but not for him."

Beelzebub laughed, the sound echoing with a mixture of amusement and malice. "Very astute, boy. I have my own ambitions. He is a relic, holding on to an ancient prophecy that should have died long ago. But you…" She trailed off, her gaze raking over him like a predator eyeing prey.

"You are something new. Something powerful."

Albion's grip tightened on Excalibur, his mind racing. "If you think you can take me down that easily, you're in for a disappointment."

Her smile returned, sharper now, more dangerous. "I don't need to take you down. I just need to make you doubt." She stepped forward, her fingers trailing through the air as dark magic coiled around her hand. "Because that, boy, is the first step to destruction."

He raised the sword, but before he could strike, Beelzebub vanished in a swirl of black smoke, her voice lingering like a ghost.

"You cannot run from what you are."

She launched herself at him with blinding speed. Albion barely had time to react, crossing Excalibur in front of him to block her claws. The impact sent a shockwave through his arms, but he held firm.

"You're strong," she admitted, pushing against him. "But despite your training. All that power is wasted on you."

"Thanks for the critique," he grunted. "I'll be sure to leave a comment card."

They broke apart, circling each other. Albion could feel fatigue creeping in, but he refused to show weakness. The runes on his arm pulsed steadily, a rhythmic beat that matched his racing heart.

As the smoke cleared, Albion stood, his heart still pounding. His chest burned with the weight of her words, her presence lingering in the air. This wasn't just about defeating a demon. This was about survival—his, and the survival of the world.

But it wasn't just Beelzebub's words that stuck with him. It was the ambition in her eyes, the hunger that transcended mere destruction. She didn't just want to kill him—she wanted something more, something that frightened him more than her power.

As if sensing his thoughts, her voice echoed once more through the air, a final, chilling whisper.

"I will not stop until I have consumed everything. Your power. Your soul. Your destiny. And when I do, little Albion Pendragon, all the realms will bow to me."

"Tempting," he said sarcastically. "But I'll pass. Not really into the whole 'destroy the world'agenda."

She attacked again, a flurry of strikes that tested Albion's limits. He parried and dodged; each movement precise yet growing more strained. A claw grazed his cheek, drawing blood.

"Enough playing around," he thought. "Time to end this."

As she prepared for another assault, Albion closed his eyes briefly, focusing inward. He recalled his mentor's words, the teachings he had long ignored.

"Your power lies not just in the sword, but in you," his mentor had said. "Embrace who you are."

Before she could turn, a sharp slicing sound cut through the air behind her. She tried to speak, but no words came; her voice was gone. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't summon it. Warm liquid bubbled from her throat. Beelzebub looked down to see blood spilling from a gaping wound in her neck. She felt the base of her skull disconnect from her spine. Her body went limp, slowly collapsing. When she hit the ground, her eyes remained open, only to see her own feet before her.

Albion stood panting, the adrenaline fading, exhaustion settling into his limbs as the fiery brilliance of Excalibur dissolved into a faint tattoo on his forearm. The battlefield around him was eerily silent, the chaos of combat reduced to the crackling of fading embers. Beelzebub's body lay before him, still and broken, her once-terrifying presence now diminished.

"Eventful," Albion muttered, his voice echoing in the emptiness. He closed his eyes, unwilling to dwell on the weight of what he had just done.

Ahead him, Beelzebub's shattered form twitched. Her once-mighty wings lay shredded, her alabaster skin now marred with blackened veins and spreading ichor. Her eyes, however, remained open—fixed on Albion, burning with something deeper than hatred. It wasn't rage that lingered in those last moments. It was something far more poignant.

Gluttony.

As her lifeblood seeped into the scorched earth, fragments of a memory surfaced, one she had long buried under layers of ambition and bitterness. She had once stood in the woods, beneath a twilight sky dappled with stars, gazing down at a boy clutching a wooden stick as though it were the mightiest of weapons. His small hands had trembled, but his eyes—those striking, defiant blue eyes—had glimmered with determination.

She had been drawn to him then, not as the demon lord of gluttony but as something older, more curious, and less monstrous. Her form had been different—less grotesque, almost human. She had offered him a kindness she seldom extended, teaching him the basics of control, the language of runes, and the idea of power lying dormant within.

Her fingers, clawed now, had once been slender and smooth as they traced his small hands over a carved rune etched into the bark of an ancient tree. "Focus," she had told him, her voice softer then, though no less commanding. "Power means nothing without purpose."

Albion hadn't understood then. He thought it, a dream. He had only wanted to protect something—his father, his home, maybe himself. But she had seen potential in him, an ember she had foolishly thought she could snuff out or claim for herself when the time came.

Yet here he stood now, a man fully formed, wielding the very weapon she had once dreamed of possessing. Her teachings, scattered across his fragmented memories, had taken root despite her attempts to isolate him, to keep him small and fearful. She had underestimated him, thinking she could mold him into something she could break.

And she had failed. He had surpassed her in every way.

"Impossible…" she had whispered moments earlier, shielding her eyes from Excalibur's radiance. And yet it wasn't. He had done it, as she had once known he would.

Her body betrayed her now, no longer capable of movement, her voice stolen by the sharp finality of Excalibur's blade. But her thoughts—her thoughts were clear as crystal.

"I am proud of you," she thought, though her lips could not form the words. You were mine for a time, but you belong to the worlds now.

Her vision dimmed, and as she slipped further into the abyss, her mind drifted back to that twilight in the woods. The boy had laughed then—bright and full of life—unaware of who she truly was. For a moment, she allowed herself to remember not as Beelzebub, lord of gluttony, but as the stranger who had seen a boy worth shaping.

The last thing she saw was Albion standing above her, his shoulders heavy but upright, his grip on the world now undeniable. She would not take his power. She could not claim his destiny. But she had been part of it, however briefly, and in some small, twisted way, she took solace in that.

As her consciousness faded, her last thought lingered.

I should have let him be happy.

And then, there was nothing.

The world was silent.

Albion stood motionless, breath heaving, his limbs trembling from the weight of battle. The glow of Excalibur had faded, its runes still warm against his palm, but the intensity of the fight had drained from the blade. It was over.

But it was her eyes that held him still.

They remained open, unblinking, locked onto him as if she could still see him—not in the present, but somewhere in the past. Somewhere neither of them could go back to.

Albion swallowed, his throat tight.

He had fought before. He had seen death. He had caused it. But this felt different.

Beelzebub had been his enemy, a demon, a force of destruction—she had killed, devoured, terrorized. And yet, when the light had faded from her body, when the last breath had left her lips, it was not the Lord of Gluttony that lay before him.

It was the woman in the rain.

A teacher. A shadow from his childhood. Someone who had once, once, held his hands and taught him to fight.

His hands clenched at his sides.

"I was, little Pendragon," she had whispered. "I made you what you are."

Albion's stomach twisted. He wanted to reject it, to push the memory from his mind. She had been the enemy. She had chosen this. She had come for him, tried to kill him, made a game of it.

And yet.

His fingers twitched.

He could still feel her adjusting his grip on that wooden stick, her voice soft, patient, amused. He could still see her as she had been, not crowned in gold and blood, but standing beneath the canopy of trees, her dark eyes warm instead of void-black.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Rain pattered against his face, mixing with the sweat and blood on his skin, but Albion barely registered the cold. Around him, the remains of London smoldered—cars overturned, streets cracked, windows shattered. The sirens had returned in the distance, growing louder, but they felt detached, unreal.

All that existed in this moment was him and the body of a woman he once might have trusted.

His gaze flicked back to her lifeless eyes.

He hated this.

He hated how her final expression wasn't rage, or defiance, or even fear.

It was acceptance.

As if she had always known it would end this way.

His grip on Excalibur tightened.

This wasn't a victory. It didn't feel like one.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Albion lowered the blade, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. He had thought that when this fight was over, there would be relief, satisfaction in knowing he had won.

But all he felt was hollow.

She had once known him. And he had killed her.

He took a step forward, his boots splashing against the rain-slicked pavement. He didn't know what he was doing. Didn't know why he was moving.

Then, without fully thinking, he knelt beside her.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

Her body was broken, but not grotesque. Even in death, there was something regal about her, something ancient, powerful, tragic.

Albion's jaw clenched.

Beelzebub—no, whatever she had once been—had called him a pawn in a game he didn't understand. She had spoken of forces beyond him, of truths buried beneath centuries of war and prophecy. And yet, in the end, she had fought alone.

Had it always been that way for her?

Had she always been hungry for more because she had nothing else left?

A lump formed in his throat, and Albion hated himself for feeling it.

He should have hated her. He should have felt nothing.

But as he looked at the ruin before him, at what she had become, at what she might have been, he wondered if there had been a moment—a sliver of time long before this battle—where she might have walked a different path.

One where she wasn't a monster.

One where he hadn't been the one to end her.

His breath shuddered out of him.

With slow, deliberate care, Albion reached forward, brushing his fingertips against her forehead. The blood had already started to cool beneath the rain.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, the words slipping free before he could stop them.

The wind carried them away.

Somewhere in the distance, the city still burned.

And as Albion walked away, for all his power, for all his victories, had never felt so powerless.

The helicopter descended, its blades slicing through the damp night air, the hum vibrating through Alyssa Ainsworth's bones. The smell of fire and destruction still lingered, curling around the smoldering remains of Westminster.

And in the center of it all, one man stood.

Alyssa barely breathed as she took in the sight. The street was in ruins—cars overturned, shattered glass reflecting the dim glow of emergency lights, craters still steaming from whatever battle had just ended. The monstrous thing that had emerged from the portal was nothing more than a broken husk now, black ichor staining the pavement.

But her focus wasn't on that.

It was on him.

The lone figure standing amid the wreckage, his hood pulled low, his coat tattered and soaked from the rain. The glow on his arm faded, flickering like dying embers, until the markings that had shone with inhuman power were nothing more than ink against his skin.

The sword—the sword that should not exist—dissolved into nothing, fading like mist in the wind.

"You broke the Eden scandal," Keenan had said once. "Relax, you don't scare easy."

Alyssa's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, her heart pounding in her throat.

"Did… did he just kill that thing?" she whispered.

Her cameraman, Keenan, was already adjusting the drone, his hands moving on instinct, his face pale. "Looks like it," he murmured. "But how?"

She should have run. Should have gotten the footage and called it a day. But instead, she stepped forward—drawn not just by duty, but something stranger. Destiny? Curiosity? Madness?

Alyssa didn't wait for answers.

This was her story.

The story.

She unbuckled her harness before the helicopter even touched down, vaulting over the edge the moment the skids hit pavement. The rain blurred her vision, but she didn't care. She sprinted toward him, her boots splashing through puddles. Her pulse raced—not with fear, but with purpose.

"Excuse me—Albion, is it?" she called, her voice cutting through the distant sirens. "What just happened here?"

He turned at the sound of his name.

"Who are you, Lois Lane?"

"Alyssa Ainsworth, Sky News."

For the first time, Alyssa got a real look at him.

His face was sharp beneath the hood, weathered but young, his sapphire eyes unreadable. He looked like someone who had been through hell but wasn't done walking through it. The weight of the fight, of the power, of whatever the hell had just happened still clung to him, but he wasn't panicked.

He was… calm. Too calm.

The silence between them stretched.

Alyssa adjusted her grip on the microphone, softening her tone. "That was extraordinary," she said. "People are going to have questions."

Albion exhaled, dragging a hand through his rain-soaked hair.

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "I figured as much."

Alyssa didn't hesitate. "Who are you? And what was that thing?"

Albion's gaze flicked to the camera lens before settling back on her.

"That thing wasn't from this world," he said simply. "The rift you saw—it's a tear. That creature came through from the other side."

Alyssa's breath caught. "The other side?" Her mind was already racing, piecing together the implications. "You're saying that was an… alien? A demon? Something else?"

Albion hesitated. Not because he didn't know the answer. Because he was deciding if he should tell her.

Finally, he said the word. The one that sent a shockwave through everything she thought she understood.

"Magic."

Alyssa blinked. "Magic."

"Avalon," Albion added, his voice edged with something heavier. "It is real."

The legend.

The story parents told their kids. The myths scholars argued over. The idea that had haunted history and fiction for centuries.

Albion Pendragon had just said it like a fact.

Alyssa's breath quickened. "Avalon? You mean the one from the legends?"

Albion's expression hardened. "It's not a legend." His voice was steady. "Avalon is real."

Alyssa's stomach turned. If that was true, if the legend is real—then this was only the beginning.

She could feel Keenan shifting beside her, his grip on the camera tightening. They were recording history.

"Why now?" she demanded. "What's causing it?"

Albion hesitated again, his jaw tightening. This time, he didn't answer.

Alyssa frowned. She had seen that look before—people guarding something bigger than themselves.

"You know more than you're saying," she pressed. "There's something you're looking for, isn't there?"

His expression darkened slightly, a flicker of something behind his eyes—a memory, a place, something lost.

"Aren't you that missing archaeol—"

He didn't let her finish. "My father's grave," he said at last, voice quieter now. "There's something there. Something I need."

Alyssa's brow furrowed. "Your father's grave?"

Albion exhaled, glancing up at the sky. The storm had passed, but the air still felt charged, waiting.

"My family's home, somewhere near San Francisco, burned down when I was young," he said. "It was deep in the forest, past the city. Buried under trees and time. It's the only place I have left to look."

Alyssa didn't know why that made her uneasy.

She exchanged a glance with Keenan. This was it. The story of the century. The kind that would shake the world.

The kind that could change it.

She turned back to Albion. "Alright," she said, voice firm. "We'll help you. But you have to promise to tell us everything."

For the first time, Albion's lips quirked into something that almost resembled a smile.

"Deal."

Alyssa quickly pulled out her phone, fingers moving fast, contacting one of her best sources in San Francisco. The rain hadn't let up, but she barely noticed as she relayed details, digging up information faster than most intelligence agencies. Albion stood beside her, silent, watching.

A few minutes later, she turned back to him.

"Your father's grave is in Oakland," she said. "Duckworth Avenue."

For a fraction of a second, Albion's expression softened.

Not in relief. In something far more fragile.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Alyssa opened her mouth to ask something else—to push further, to find out what he wasn't saying. But before she could, Albion stepped back.

The runes on his arm flared to life, burning against the gray sky.

The air cracked apart.

Alyssa's breath hitched as a shimmering tear—a portal—split reality open right in front of her. The edges rippled with energy, distorting the rain, warping the very air.

Keenan swore under his breath.

"You can just…" Alyssa swallowed, barely above a whisper. "Leave?"

Albion glanced over his shoulder.

"Thanks for getting my good side," Albion joked at Keenan.

That almost-smile returned.

Then, without another word, he stepped through.

The light swallowed him whole.

Alyssa stood frozen, the rain soaking through her coat, her microphone still gripped in her hand.

The camera was still rolling.

The world was still watching.

And soon, they would all know the name Pendragon.