The Devil's choice

Night blanketed the world in quiet dread, but within Elias Black burned a tempest of vengeance and change.

Since the escape from Azrien's illusion and the truth he'd tasted in blood and memory, Elias had started seeing through the layers of falsehood cloaking the world around him. Each breath he took felt sharper. The world whispered secrets to him now—in shadows, in flames, in the pulse of every terrified heartbeat.

He stood on the edge of a blackened cemetery hill, the wind tugging at his coat, carrying with it the scent of smoke and decay. Behind him lay the broken ruins of an old chapel, twisted by some long-forgotten blasphemy. Before him, the moon carved silver scars into the land.

A voice echoed from within his head—a familiar presence.

"Your soul count grows. But soon, they will come for you."

"Let them come," Elias muttered. "I won't run anymore."

Below the hill, in the town of Barrowmire, strange deaths had begun again. The Reapers, black-eyed enforcers from the Celestial Courts, were on the move. But something far worse stalked the fog-shrouded streets now—something not born of heaven or hell, but born of Elias's own unraveling.

He descended into town, his boots cracking frost-bitten leaves underfoot. Flames danced across his fingertips for a moment, summoned on instinct, before he closed his hand around them.

In Barrowmire, people whispered of a ghost. Children had gone missing. A priest was found hung upside-down, throat split like a sacrificial lamb. And someone—something—was feeding. The soul meter burned hotter inside Elias's chest. He could feel the presence of unclean power drawing him forward like a beacon.

He arrived at the orphanage first. It was silent. Not the kind of silence that came with sleep, but the kind that came with dread. Elias opened the door without knocking. Hinges groaned like dying things.

Inside, the walls were soaked in handprints. Bloody, small. Dozens. A lullaby echoed faintly, as if the walls remembered how the children used to sing themselves to sleep.

Then he saw her.

A girl with no eyes.

She stood at the end of the hallway, her feet not touching the floor, her hair floating in a wind Elias couldn't feel. Her mouth opened, and Elias heard his mother's voice: "Why didn't you save me?"

Illusion. No. A construct. A soul fragment?

He stepped forward, his hand rising. The girl screamed, and darkness exploded outward. A thousand insect-like spirits hurled themselves at Elias.

He let them hit.

They tried to devour his flesh, but the Devil's Mark on his spine glowed red-hot. Fire roared from his back, searing the spirits into ash. Elias shouted, voice cracking through the air like a war drum.

"I'm done running from ghosts."

The orphanage collapsed inward, fire gutting the building from the inside. Elias stepped out, his coat singed, the mark on his skin pulsing with new power. Behind him, the girl's wail echoed into the sky.

From the alley, a figure clapped slowly.

"You're learning, boy," came a voice like silk over razors.

Elias turned, eyes narrowed. The man—if one could call it that—was tall, with white hair braided in thorns, and a grin stitched into his face. "I've been watching you. Feeding from the wreckage you leave. I think it's time we talked."

"Who are you?" Elias asked.

The figure bowed. "They call me Lysander. The Thorn Queen's emissary."

Elias frowned. The Thorn Queen was a myth even among devils.

"You're a liar."

"Perhaps," Lysander said, stepping closer. "But I know what you are. And I know what you're becoming."

The soul-meter within Elias surged. Lysander's power was enormous. Dangerous. Familiar.

"You're feeding on the chaos," Elias realized. "On me."

Lysander only smiled wider. "Not feeding. Guiding. And you, Elias Black, are a fire that will burn the worlds apart. So tell me...—"

He reached into his coat, revealing a scroll sealed in black wax.

"Would you rather be the flame... or the one who controls it?"

Elias didn't answer. Not yet. But deep inside, something was changing.

He was done being used. Done being hunted.

If the world wanted a devil, it would have one.

The moon hung low and bloodshot, casting an eerie crimson glow over the barren hills outside the city. Elias stood atop a jagged cliff, the wind tearing through his coat, his gaze locked on the distant lights of Whitmoor. The System hummed softly in his ear, alive, watching.

"You are standing at the edge, Elias Black," the System whispered. _"One step, and you choose who you become."

Below him, chaos simmered in the town. More disappearances, whispers of a shadow in the dark draining the life from men and monsters alike. But none dared speak the name—none dared say that Elias Black had returned.

He clenched his fists, feeling the strength pulse in his veins—no longer just a man, no longer just the victim of betrayal. His heart beat with vengeance, his soul tethered to the infernal will of the Devil's System.

Behind him, the wind stirred. A figure emerged.

It was her.

Seraphine.

Cloaked in black feathers and moonlight, the seer who had seen the Devil in Elias before he ever saw it in himself. "You've seen what power does to men," she said. "Are you sure it won't consume you too?"

Elias smirked. "I'm counting on it."

She stepped closer, wary. "Whitmoor is crumbling. You could save them. Or end them."

"Why save what condemned me?" he replied coldly.

Seraphine met his gaze, unblinking. "Because that makes you no different from the man who betrayed you."

The name clawed through his mind.

Lucien Vale.

His former friend. The one who cast him to die. Now sitting atop the new Order like a king, ruling with holy chains while whispering lies of salvation.

Elias turned back to the lights. "He turned me into a monster. I will turn him into a memory."

Seraphine reached into her cloak and handed him a pendant—a jagged, blood-red crystal. "This is a gate key. There are others like you. Not reborn. Not alive. Cursed. If you choose vengeance, you open a gate you can never close."

Elias took it.

And crushed it in his palm.

The world twisted. Screams echoed in the wind. The sky fractured, and from the shadows below, figures began to stir. The Lost. The ones the world had forgotten.

Elias turned, now glowing faintly with power. Wings made of searing darkness spread from his back. "Let them come."

The System flared.

[NEW QUEST UNLOCKED: Claim the Throne of Ashes.]

The hunt had begun.

---

At the outskirts of Whitmoor, guards patrolled with shaking hands. Reports of murders, drained corpses, and strange sigils burned into the stone had been suppressed by the clergy. But fear was growing. The night was no longer safe.

Deep beneath the chapel, Lucien Vale sat in his sanctum, watching the scrying mirror. His jaw clenched as he saw the sigil light up across the city.

"He's back," whispered the High Priest.

Lucien turned, eyes blazing. "Then prepare the Redeemers. If Elias wants a war, he shall have one."

Outside, the gates of Whitmoor trembled.

And Elias Black stepped through.

Blood would answer blood.

And the Devil would have his due.