As Dust stood over the slain bodies of his enemies, a cruel smile twisted across his face. His breath was steady, but inside, something had shifted. He wasn't Dust anymore. That person—the one who had been helpless, the one who had lost Zoe—was gone. In his place was something far darker. Something more dangerous.
His red eyes flickered, gleaming with an ominous intensity, and a laugh bubbled from his chest. It was cold and mirthless, the kind of laugh that sent shivers down the spine of anyone who heard it. The players around him, those who had watched in fear, began to back away slowly, their faces filled with terror.
"Dust... you're crazy," one of them shouted, their voice trembling with fear as they tried to keep their distance. "What have you become?!"
Dust's laughter grew louder, more mocking, until it echoed through the battlefield. He turned to face them, his posture relaxed but his eyes burning with an unholy fire. "Not Dust," he said, his voice smooth and chilling. "I am no longer that weak fool. I am Asmolgan. Demon Lord Asmolgan."
The name felt powerful, foreign yet somehow fitting, as though it had always been a part of him waiting to be unleashed. Asmolgan was the embodiment of his rage, his vengeance, and now, he would let the world know.
"Welcome all of you," he said, his voice low and commanding, "to Hell."
With a flick of his wrist, the air around him began to twist, the very fabric of reality warping as if it couldn't hold the power within him. Flames surged from the ground, consuming the players in a blaze of infernal fire. The scene was chaotic, the sky above growing darker, thick clouds swirling overhead as the air turned heavy with the scent of brimstone.
In an instant, he was gone. A wave of fire engulfed him, and when the flames died down, Asmolgan was no longer standing among the players. He had vanished—gone to a place where no one could reach him. His power was too great, too overwhelming for anyone to stop.
Asmolgan's new path was clear. He had no need for the trivial struggles of the players in the city. His mind was set on a much greater purpose. The world would burn, and he would be the one to ignite the fire.
Deep in the wilds, far from the city, he began his journey—moving toward the dark places of the world where only those who dared to embrace true evil resided. His power surged with every step he took, every inch closer to the bastion of orcs and demons. He was going to find what he sought—the closed portal that led to the Nine Layers of Hell.
Asmolgan's power reached new heights with each moment. His path was now one of conquest, destruction, and domination. The Nine Layers awaited him, and he would tear them open. No longer would he be just a player in the game—he would be the game itself.
Hours passed, the sky growing ever darker, until at last, Asmolgan reached the bastion. A towering fortress, forged from black stone and infernal magic, stood before him. The air around it was thick with dark energy, and Asmolgan could feel the portal to the Nine Layers of Hell calling to him. It pulsed with a malevolent energy, as if it knew he was coming.
He approached the fortress gates with unshakable confidence. The orcs guarding the entrance tried to stop him, but they were nothing in the face of his power. With a single motion, Asmolgan raised his hand, and the orcs fell, their bodies burning to ash before they could even draw their weapons.
The gates of the bastion creaked open, and he stepped inside. The shadows seemed to writhe in the air as he moved deeper into the heart of the fortress. At the center, the portal loomed—a swirling vortex of darkness, its surface crackling with the energy of Hell itself.
Asmolgan grinned, his red eyes glowing brighter with the power coursing through him. This was the moment. The moment he would unleash the horrors of the Nine Layers on this world. He stepped forward, his hands raised as if to embrace the portal, ready to tear it open and plunge the world into eternal chaos.
With a roar of triumph, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the portal's surface. The ground trembled, the air thickening with the heat of infernal flames, and then—the barrier shattered.
The Nine Layers of Hell opened before him, a gaping maw that would swallow everything in its path.
Asmolgan stepped forward into the darkness, his laughter echoing as he disappeared into the depths of Hell.
And with that, the world began to change.
As Asmolgan stepped into the first layer of Hell, the oppressive heat and dark energy rushed over him, but for the first time since his transformation, he hesitated. His crimson eyes glinted, reflecting the jagged, fiery landscape before him, the abyss that stretched down further into the layers of torment. The power, the glory, the dominion—it was all within his reach.
But something stopped him. A lingering doubt, the last trace of his humanity, gnawed at him.
*Zoe.*
For all his power, for all the power of the Nine Hells coursing through him, it wasn't enough to banish the feeling. In this infernal place, the sensation was almost tangible, like a pulse in the very air around him. She wasn't gone. Not completely. He could feel it—like an echo of her presence just beyond his reach.
The thought of continuing deeper into Hell was tempting. This was his domain now—his throne to claim, his to command. But the flicker of doubt—the faint hope that Zoe might still be alive—held him back. He couldn't bring himself to descend further, not yet.
*What if she's still out there? What if there's a chance?*
The deeper he went into Hell, the further away the chance of finding her became. Once he traversed the full nine layers, there would be no return. His humanity, whatever shred of it remained, would be consumed completely.
*I can't... I can't lose that last part of me. Not yet.*
His gaze turned toward the towering, infernal structures around him, but his mind was far away. His heart ached with the knowledge that Zoe's sacrifice had haunted him, and no matter how much power he now wielded, it was nothing compared to the emptiness he felt. But in this moment, in the first layer of Hell, he knew one thing: *she wasn't gone*.
He made his decision.
With a bitter, resigned sneer, Asmolgan turned back, away from the path that would lead him further into the depths of the Nine Hells. He would not become the demon he was expected to be—not fully. Not yet.
There was something left to do, something that still mattered, and that was to *protect*—something he had once been capable of.
He had claimed the bastion, the stronghold at the center of the first layer, a key point in the Nine Hells. But instead of moving forward with his conquest, he decided to seal the gates, to ensure that nothing—no demon, no force of Hell—would be able to move forward. He would hold back the floodgates. He would stop them from invading the world he had once known.
The demons around him had been following his every move, sensing his power, sensing the change in him, but now they began to wonder what he was truly after.
"No one is crossing these gates," he muttered under his breath. "Not now. Not while there's still a chance."
His power surged around him, and the massive doors to the bastion slammed shut, the iron clanging like the sound of doom itself. He wasn't closing the gates out of fear, though. No, this was an act of control. The demons would not be allowed to pass, not while he still had a purpose.
The gates of Hell would remain sealed.
With a final look back at the path that led deeper into the abyss, Asmolgan turned toward the bastion's stronghold and the forces within. He wasn't going to open the gates to Hell. Not yet. Instead, he would wait. He would bide his time.
Because, despite everything he had become, despite the dark lord he was now, a small part of him—the last trace of Dust—still believed that there was something worth protecting outside Hell. And if he needed to stop the demons from getting to it, he would.
He would hold this bastion, keep the gates closed, and stop the forces of Hell from invading.
*For now, I will not let them through.*
And so, Asmolgan took control. The Bastion was his, but his true goal was something else. He would hold the line—until the day he would once again return to the world he had left behind, and maybe, just maybe, find Zoe.
Asmolgan stood at the heart of the bastion, his crimson eyes glowing with dark power. He had sealed the gates of Hell, but the war had only just begun. The first layer was his domain now, but there were many ways to make his mark on the world above.
With a cold, calculated smile, he began to issue his orders.
"Summon the assassins," Asmolgan commanded, his voice low and commanding. "It's time to make the humans aware of our presence. We will send a message to their king, and the world will know that demons walk among them."
His mind raced with the implications of this order. The humans had lived in peace for too long, oblivious to the dark forces gathering in the shadows. It was time to shatter their illusions. The king was a symbol of their false security, and once he fell, the world would tremble.
"Make it swift, make it public," Asmolgan continued. "I want them to know we are here. The king's death will be the first step in the war to come. Let them feel the sting of our presence."
Asmolgan turned, his face a mask of cruelty. "The humans must know they are not safe."
The assassins were the perfect instruments for this task. Quick, lethal, and unseen—an entire network of them hidden in the shadows, waiting for the moment Asmolgan would give them the signal to strike. The king would fall, and the world would begin to crumble beneath the weight of what was coming.
Next, he turned to his other orders.
"The hunt party," Asmolgan commanded, his voice growing even darker. "Gather the best. I want them to hunt the players. We will track them in the forest, make them feel hunted. Let them realize that they are not in control, that they are nothing more than prey for the demons. Their fears will become their reality."
His mind sharpened as he thought of the forest, the perfect hunting grounds for the players. He knew they were out there, trying to gather their strength, believing they were safe within the confines of their world. But he would make them realize how vulnerable they truly were.
"Let no player escape," Asmolgan ordered coldly. "We will bring them down one by one. Their cries will echo through the forest. And when the last of them is dead, we will show the humans what true fear feels like."
He could hear the whispers of the demons in the walls, the echoing growls of those eager to join the hunt. They would move silently, like shadows, closing in on the players in the forest. It was not just a hunt; it was a message.
Finally, Asmolgan's mind turned to the bastion itself. His grip on the fortress was growing, but it needed to be stronger.
"Secure the walls," he commanded. "The last thing we need is to be attacked. Make sure that no one can breach these walls. Every opening, every crack, must be sealed. We will not let any human or player break through. The bastion is ours to command, and it will remain so."
He turned, pacing slowly as he looked out across the vast, infernal landscape. The gates were closed, the assassins were on their way, and the hunt was about to begin. Every move was calculated, every step deliberate.
For a moment, Asmolgan thought of Zoe. The image of her death still haunted him. It burned in his chest like a fire he couldn't extinguish. She had sacrificed herself for him—*for Dust*. And now, he had become something else entirely.
Asmolgan clenched his fist. His eyes glowed brighter as the anger and power surged through him. He couldn't let her death be in vain. He wouldn't.
"The world will burn," he whispered to himself, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "And I will be the one to watch it all burn."
With that, he turned and strode through the bastion, his commands echoing in the halls, preparing for the chaos to come.
The assassins would strike. The hunt would begin. And the walls of the bastion would be secured.
The war was on. And Asmolgan—*Dust*—was its master.