The Phantom Helm

The Aetherbane Pill pulsed with a sickening, anti-life energy as it zeroed in on Chloe.

Michael's warning was still hanging in the air, a useless echo against the inevitable.

There was no explosion, no sound. The pill simply touched the shimmering defensive aura around Chloe and dissolved, its poison sinking into her like a dye into water.

She gasped, a sharp, choked sound.

The brilliant, sun-bright aura of her Gold Core cultivation flickered violently, like a dying star.

It dimmed, sputtered, and then collapsed inward, shrinking with horrifying speed.

From the powerful pressure of a Gold Core master, it plummeted through Foundation Establishment, and finally settled on the faint, fragile glow of a Lo Refining novice.

The last Shadow Wraith, which she had been holding at bay, seized the opportunity.

It lunged, its claws scything through her now-feeble defenses.

The blow sent her flying. She hit the stone wall with a sickening thud and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Michael saw red.

It wasn't the hot, reckless rage that had made him waste his talismans. This was different. It was a cold, absolute fury, a glacier of killing intent sliding through his veins.

She had saved them. That arrogant, infuriating, beautiful girl had faced down a monster to save him and his new, pathetic allies. And now she was lying broken on the floor because of these... things.

Kid... Umbra's voice was a low growl in his mind, tense and alert. Now might be a good time to stop playing pretend.

Michael didn't answer. He carefully placed the Hell-King's Horn into his Interspatial Bracelet, then looked up at the serpent, which was regarding him with smug, reptilian amusement.

"Was that supposed to impress me?" Michael asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "Crippling a girl? You're a real monster."

"She is merely the appetizer," the serpent hissed. "You are the main course. Now, die."

It opened its mouth to strike.

"No," Michael said, a slow, terrible grin spreading across his face. "I don't think I will."

Darkness exploded from him.

It wasn't a shadow: it was an absence. A crushing, physical weight of pure Devil Lo that slammed down on the chamber, making the air thick and heavy.

The sickly green light from the braziers flickered and died, devoured by the oppressive gloom.

Two massive, leathery wings, wreathed in crackling black fire, burst from his back, tearing through his robes. The Shadowfire Wings.

His face contorted, bones shifting as a helm of black, ghostly energy formed around his head, two horns curving wickedly from its brow. The Phantom Helm.

The gentle warmth of his Aetherium Core was eclipsed by the glacial cold of the Umbral Core, which flared to life, flooding his body with a power that felt both alien and perfectly natural.

His aura, once carefully suppressed to Foundation Establishment, erupted, surging past its limits, settling at a level of raw, terrifying power that made the serpent recoil in shock.

"What... what are you?!" it shrieked, its smugness gone, replaced by pure, primal fear.

Michael laughed, a sound that held no humor. "I'm the guy who's going to turn you into a pair of expensive boots."

He moved.

He didn't run. He simply vanished, reappearing directly in front of the last Shadow Wraith. The creature's red eye widened in shock. It didn't even have time to raise its claws.

Michael's hand, now wreathed in black energy, shot out and closed around its head.

CRUNCH.

The wraith's skull imploded. Its body dissolved into dust before the sound of the impact finished echoing.

He turned his attention to the blue-eyed tiger. The great demon, which had seemed so terrifying moments before, now looked like a frightened kitten. It tried to bolt, to scramble back through the cave entrance.

The God Whipping Whip appeared in Michael's hand. It lashed out, a blur of absolute blackness that split the air with a sound like a thunderclap.

The whip wrapped around the tiger's neck. Michael yanked. The demon's head flew from its shoulders in a spray of blood.

Two down.

The flying serpent was screaming now, a high-pitched sound of pure terror. It banked hard, flapping its four wings frantically as it shot towards the portal. "You can't kill me! My master will..."

"I don't care," Michael said.

The Feiling Sword appeared in his other hand. He didn't use a grand technique, just a simple, elegant flurry of strikes learned over a decade of torment.

Sword flowers, each one a perfect, deadly blossom of gray Devil-Immortal Lo, bloomed in the air, cutting off the serpent's escape.

The serpent shrieked as the sword flowers sliced through its wings, its body, its very essence. It fell from the air in a shower of obsidian scales and black blood, dead before it hit the ground.

The chamber fell silent.

Michael stood panting, the immense power receding, the Phantom Helm and Shadowfire Wings dissolving back into him.

He was just a boy in torn robes again, standing in a room full of dead monsters.

He looked over at Chloe's still form, a pang of guilt piercing through his battle-high. He had to get her out of here.

"Well, well. That was quite the display."

Michael spun around. The voice was calm, amused, and came from the platform.

The dying elder, the one who had been slumped over on the dais, was now standing.

He wasn't withered or skeletal anymore. He stood tall and straight, his robes immaculate, his aura radiating a power that made Michael's own newly-revealed strength feel like a child's toy.

It was Elder Valerius, one of the Eight Great Immortals who had presided over the opening ceremony. And he was smiling.

"I must admit," Elder Valerius said, casually dusting off his sleeve, "I didn't expect a half-blood devil to have made it this far into my little test.

A pleasant surprise." He gestured to the dead serpent. "My pets were supposed to soften you up a bit more. I suppose I underestimated you."

Michael stared, his mind struggling to connect the dots. The trial. The rampaging demons. The portal. Chloe. The horn.

"You," Michael breathed, the single word dripping with a dawning, horrified understanding.

"This was all you. You're the one behind this."

Elder Valerius chuckled, a sound utterly devoid of warmth.

"Of course, it was me. Did you really think the Immortal Palace would be so sloppy as to let Great Demons run loose in a recruitment trial?"

He stepped down from the platform, his eyes twinkling with a cold, condescending light.

"The horn was the bait. And you, my boy, along with the very talented Miss Virelle, were the fish.

Congratulations. You've passed the real test.

Oh, I'm not hiding," the man said, his eyes twinkling with a cruel light. "I am Malakor. And I am simply… efficient.

Now, be a good boy and hand over the Hell-King's Horn. It has a new master."

Kid, this is bad, Umbra's voice was a frantic, high-pitched screech in his mind. This is really, really bad! This guy is a monster.

Nascent Soul stage, at the very least! We are so, so monumentally screwed! He's going to turn us into a decorative smear on the floor!