ZARELLE

The sky over Lumisgrave turned blood-red.

A thick black mist rolled across the horizon like a creeping disease, covering the sun and casting the city in ominous twilight. The moment was tense—too tense.

Suddenly—BOOM—a thunderous crack echoed from the northern quadrant.

A surge of dark energy burst out of the Gate near the Bound Threshold.

The ground trembled.

Then came the first wave—hellhounds.

Snarling, growling, foam-dripping beasts surged through the broken threshold. Their skeletal frames were wrapped in sinewy muscle and fire-drenched fur, eyes glowing with infernal heat. They charged across the streets, setting anything they touched aflame with cursed fire.

Behind them came the goblins and imps—hundreds of them.

Green-skinned, shrieking, wielding crude jagged weapons, they sprinted through alleyways, slashing at anyone in reach. Imps flew overhead, unleashing bolts of poisonous magic, cackling like hyenas.

Then came the shadow stripes—tall, faceless devils that shimmered with inky darkness. They walked, not ran, exuding dread. And when their long, clawed fingers touched anything—a scream followed. Energy, stamina, life itself began to drain from the victims, leaving them collapsed in seconds.

But it wasn't over.

From the deepest crevice of the Gate slithered in the new horror—Abyssal Rats.

Monstrous, foul beasts the size of humans, with clawed limbs like tigers and dozens of yellowed teeth in a splitting jaw. They moved in sudden jerks—fast, feral, with dark red fur.

But worst of all, they could multiply.

Each time one was injured, it split into two—smaller but still deadly. They overran barricades in minutes, attacking in swarms that disoriented even trained fighters.

Suddenly, silence fell across the battlefield.

A shadow loomed across the northern skyline.

From the cracked heart of the Gate, the very air shivered as a towering figure stepped through the veil—ZARELLE, the mid-level demon lord.

He was massive.

Nearly twenty feet tall, his body was built like a beast—covered in dark, obsidian-like armor fused into flesh, with jagged horns rising from his broad skull. Thick cords of muscle wrapped his four arms, each ending in a spiked gauntlet soaked in dried blood. Behind him trailed a throne of blackened bone and steel—floating in the air, powered by sheer dark magic.

His eyes glowed red, pulsing with intelligence and rage.

He didn't speak—not yet. His gaze alone shattered the morale of the nearest guards.

Zarelle sat on his throne, one leg lazily resting over the other, as if watching a stage play of destruction.

> "Let them run," he finally growled, his voice like grinding stone and fire.

"Let the humans see what real despair feels like."

Sirens blared. Church bells rang out across Lumisgrave. Magical lights flashed from towers. Echelon Knights raced through the streets, commanding civilians to hide indoors.

"Get inside! MOVE!" a Zenith Knight roared, cutting down an imp that lunged at a child.

Shields rose. Magic flared.

Yet they were outnumbered. Hundreds of devils had crossed through already, and more were appearing every minute.

The sky churned, the clouds darkened—and Zarelle sat high, watching like a king among insects.

Inside the Council tower, Julius and King Farhan stood grim-faced as magical projections showed the battlefield.

> "It's seem to be more powerful of a higher level…" Julius muttered, voice tight with fear.

> "So it begins…" King Farhan whispered. "The first true wave."

They looked at the trembling magical maps.

> "Where is Arslan?" Julius asked to Mythicd sharply.

> " In the Medical ward," a Tharion replied.

> "What happened to him?," King Farhan murmured.

Tharion replied "He is unconscious, he had fever , he awake for a while but then again he fell"

> "No," Julius whisper to king firmly, "but we have no choice. We must delay them until he wakes."

The people screamed. Smoke filled the air. Fire lit the edges of buildings. Hellhounds tackled civilians, only to be blasted by shields from defending Knights. But the number of devils kept growing.

They were in the hundreds—soon the thousands. And Zarelle had yet to even rise from his throne.

Back in the medical ward, Arslan remained unconscious—still.

His breathing shallow. His skin pale.

But in his subconscious, a faint whisper stirred...

A single word.

> "Arslan..."

A call through the haze of pain, guilt, and regret.

The world burned outside.

But the fire inside him… was about to awaken.