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Year: 2043, Month: October, Day: 8
Demonic Realm
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⁎⁎⁎
"Damn the Heavens!"
Crash!
Azathoth's reflection splinters into fragments, glass shards fall from the shattered mirror, twinkling as they hit the counter, their purpose extinguished. His anger simmers, unable to be quelled by such pitiful destruction.
"Argh!"
His knuckles crack as Azathoth grits his teeth. The metallic red liquid seeps into the creases, slowly mends his wounds as his hands rest on the stark, matte-white sink.
{Everyone seems to enjoy getting under my skin}
Walking out of the bathroom, Azathoth's eyes fall upon his room, bringing a momentary respite.
Black tables with gold accents, black marble flooring, a pale white bookshelf filled with books of varying genres, and black pillows atop a simple black bed interlaced with red and gold all contribute to the familiar ambiance. Candles dot the room, casting flickering light against the encroaching darkness. Dark curtains block the outside scene as night approaches.
{Why not open the curtains?}
With a determined tug, Azathoth pulls them apart and slowly unveils Hell in all its glory.
Above the city of Pride, red skies tinge with a dim sunset reign supreme. The coliseum, white and grand, stands as a monument, its pillars a testament to its beauty. Through small windows, glimpses of demons locked in combat can be caught, fighting either for rewards or amusement.
{A great relic of our history, but memories keep me at bay. Unlike my family, drawn to it like moths to a flame.}
His gaze shifts to a library, equally prestigious, and further on, merchants hawk wares. Among the crowd, the rich flaunt their wealth, the average wear simple robes and the poor wear tattered rags.
Gardens of ash trees dance in the faint wind, and bridges span an extensive ravine where demons cross. Some perform with their powers for younglings. Beneath, light blue mingles with clear water as it flows through the streets.
In the city's outskirts, clay suburban homes house the continent's residents of pride. In Hell's seven continents—lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, pride—trade continues despite constant conflict and shapes the current state of demonkind.
With a disgruntled grumble, Azathoth turns away from the city, and strides back to the bathroom.
The room holds a stone-slab toilet resembling an elevated throne and a white stone sink beneath the remnants of the broken mirror. Opposite stands a bathtub adorned with carvings of warriors and candles positioned for lighting.
Azathoth ignites the candles near the mirror with a flick of his powers. He returns to the shards of the mirror. His hollow red eyes glare from light violet skin, showing malnourishment in his otherwise sharp features. Untidy black hair and fresh bruises tell a tale of the day's events.
{Instead of teaching me to fight, my father seems to pay my brute of a mentor, Virzod, to ruin my face.}
With a sigh, Azathoth closes his eyes, and the memories of the day rush back.
⁎⁎⁎
"Get up! We don't have time for lying around and eating dust!"
Azathoth's mentor Virzod's voice rings harsh as he stands over Azathoth, who lies sprawled on the sandy ground, wearies from relentless training.
{Is this what they call training? Pure brutality. He's enjoying this, isn't he?}
Azathoth's suspicions deepen as he catches Virzod's faint grin, eyes drawn to the scar stretching from his mentor's left eye to his lip—a vivid testament to a warrior's life.
The training grounds are harsh, fill with weapon racks, pillars, and the mingling scent of blood and sweat. Azathoth grimaces as he rises. The sensation of grit, blood, and sweat clings to his bare skin, the memory of pain fresh in his body. He bends his knees, widens his stance, and faces Virzod, braces for more agony.
Virzod wastes no time, lunging at Azathoth with predatory speed.
With reflexes honed through suffering, Azathoth sidesteps and barely evades the fist aimed at his shoulder. He capitalizes on the dodge and sweeps Virzod's leg, but his triumph is short-lived. Virzod's agility allows him to jump back and reassess with a calm gaze.
Using the momentum from the dodge, Azathoth bends his knees and performs a leg sweep, knocks one of Virzod's legs and offsets his balance.
Unfortunately, Virzod quickly recovers and uses his remaining leg to jump back, allowing him to grasp the situation.
"Clever. It seems we can kick it up a notch."
His words are a warning. Azathoth, knowing he can't match his mentor's speed, attempts to shield himself. But Virzod's feint catches him off guard, and an elbow strike slams into his rib cage.
"Urgh!"
Azathoth staggers, one knee hitting the ground, coughing and gasping as his mind races.
{Damn that slippery vermin! Attacking in ways that don't make sense}
"Don't you know when to give up?"
Azathoth's response to Virzod's taunt is a glare, eyes ablaze with stubborn pride.
{No, not to you, brutal sadist.}
Ignoring his body's screams, Azathoth rises, ready to face Virzod anew.
"Giving me the silent treatment, eh? Have you gotten cold fee—"
Azathoth springs into action, interrupting Virzod's taunting. A moment's hesitation costs Virzod, and Azathoth's gamble lands a devastating roundhouse kick. Azathoth thinks triumphantly.
{Enjoy a taste of your own damn medicine.}
"Urgh!"
Azathoth's triumph is short-lived; he collapses from exhaustion, smirking through the pain as he thinks.
{Oh no, I'm royally screwed.}
Virzod's grin grows, but his next words are a reprieve:
"That's enough for today. Now beat it."
Grateful but unwilling to show it, Azathoth rose, his body pleading for rest. He departed without a word, leaving the training grounds and Virzod's piercing gaze behind.
⁎⁎⁎
{He got what he deserved for making training worse today.}
Azathoth's thoughts simmer with resentment as he limps back toward his room, the aftereffects of the brutal training session weighing heavily on him. Each step is a struggle, his limbs feeling as though they're forged from lead, his lean body pushed to its limits, threatening to tear apart.
The gash across his chest and abdomen aches, a constant reminder of Virzod's mercilessness. Bruises mar his body, peeking through the tattered remnants of his training pants, now no different from peasant rags.
But the pain is secondary now, overshadowed by the relief of having survived another session with his relentless mentor.
"It's over."
Azathoth mutters to himself, his voice a whisper in the empty castle corridor. His mind is adrift, reflecting on the day's hardships, a stew of pain and dissatisfaction.
{The training was much harder than expected, and now my body is sore, littered with bruises from Virzod.}
He is jolted from his thoughts by the approach of two familiar presences. He doesn't need to see them to recognize his siblings. One of them calls, feigning concern.
"Azathoth, my brother, did I catch you at a bad time?"
Azathoth's heart sinks.
{Just who I needed to see. Bet they're trying to piss me off.}
"It seems someone did not meet their mentor's expectations."
His sister taunts, her voice dripping with malice.
"Zergen-"
Azathoth's glare is sharp enough to cut, but his brother, Solvumas, is undeterred.
"Now, sister, not everyone can be as great as us. He is simply weak if he can't live up to Virzod's expectations."
"Solvumas, you vermin!"
Azathoth snaps, but his attempt to confront his brother is thwarted by a sudden staggering, and he finds himself leaning heavily against the cold stone wall.
"Haha, this never gets old."
Zergen laughs, revelling in Azathoth's pain.
"Zergen, let's go. Father had requested our presence. We should not make him wait."
Solvumas commands as they move past Azathoth, leaving him feeling pitiful.
"Haa"
Azathoth exhales, his mind clouded with frustration and bitterness, the sound of their footsteps echoing in his ears as they retreat, leaving him grappling with his wounds and pride.
⁎⁎⁎
Opening his eyes, Azathoth emerges from the grip of memory, the events of earlier that day still fresh in his mind.
He looks towards the sink, the dull gleam of the faucet catching his eye. Turning it on, he washes his face, the cool water refreshing his mind and body as he considers what is next.
{I should probably wash off the filth from the rest of my body from what happened earlier today.}
With a renewed determination, Azathoth turns off the faucet and steps away from the sink. He prepares his bath, methodically undressing before stepping into the welcoming embrace of the bathtub.
"Ahh."
The sigh escapes him, pleasure radiating from the warmth that envelops him, soothing his body like a mother's gentle touch. Azathoth closes his eyes, entranced by the calm and pleasing sensation, allowing the water to wash away the pain and fatigue.
Once he finishes bathing, he towels off, feeling a renewed sense of vitality. Dressed in fresh pants, he smothers the bathroom candles, their light winking out one by one, surrendering the room to darkness. Azathoth leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
He wanders around his room, pausing in front of a bookshelf. An open letter catches his eye, but he quickly looks away, his gaze drawn to the darkening skies as night approaches.
{It's time for the night to claim me.}
With a sense of finality, Azathoth turns back around, extinguishing the candles around the room, leaving two above his bed untouched. Their twin flames dance, casting a soft glow that invites him to rest.
He slips into the covers of his bed, entering a region of peace, settling into the safety of his sanctuary.
Closing his eyes, a faint memory stirs, the image of his mother, a beautiful demon with a gentle face, unprecedented within the Demon Realm, and smooth, light violet skin like his own. Azathoth relishes the memory, allowing it to linger before it fades, inspiring a wistful thought.
{You were always by my side...}
His thoughts drift, carried away by the embrace of the night. Outside, the skies darken, night falls upon the city of pride, and the two candles above his head seem to burn brighter than any star, standing sentinel as Azathoth succumbs to sleep.
⁎⁎⁎
[...Augmenting]
[Target "Lumin Blavatsky"]
[Paraphrasing Records: Error]
[Dected Unidentified Barrier]
[Utilizing Alternative Method]
[Charging at 32%]
⋈ Alert, Total Status at 47% ⋈