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Year: 2043, Month: October, Day: 12
Demonic Realm
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⁎⁎⁎
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The resonating thumps reverberate through the stone chambers of Azathoth's quarters, shattering the predawn tranquillity. Azathoth grunts awake.
"Urgh..."
{Who the hell is knocking at this time?... Wait...}
He glances out the window. The faint blush of dawn caresses the horizon. Realization dawns on him — the day has already begun.
Crash!
A thunderous crack echoes through the room as the door is thrust open. An imposing figure fills the doorway.
The stranger is an embodiment of midnight, his tall, slender build suggesting agility and power. His face features sharply defined cheekbones and a pronounced jawline. A pair of onyx horns curve from his forehead, adding to his majestic and intimidating appearance.
The familiar stranger's eyes are intense, a vivid blue that starkly contrasts against his dark form. His thin lips curl into a self-assured smirk.
"Ahh, Azathoth, my brother. Did I catch you at a bad time?"
{You have got to be joking.}
"Solvumas..."
Azathoth grumbles, acknowledging the intruder. He sits on his bed, rubbing his eyes as he squints against the late morning light filtering through his destroyed doorway.
Solvumas grins, revealing a row of sharp, pristine teeth that glint ominously under the rising sun.
"Yes, it's me. Don't you feel honoured by my visit?"
His sarcasm is as crisp as the morning air as he strides into the room. Solvumas' tail, as dark as his form, sways leisurely behind him, adding a devilish charm to his demeanour.
Annoyance flashes in Azathoth's eyes. His mind, recently roused from sleep, quickly realizes that his brother's early arrival bodes ill. Azathoth asks, his voice carrying an edge of irritation.
"What brings you here, Solvumas?"
Solvumas leans against the remnants of the doorframe, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Oh, you'll find out soon enough, dear brother."
Irritation flickers in Azathoth's eyes as he rises from the bed, his muscles tensing in response to the unspoken challenge.
Solvumas replaces his grin with a knowing smile as he steps closer to Azathoth. "Tell me, where were you a few moons ago when you were supposed to train with Virzod? I heard he was waiting for you, and yet you never showed up."
"I... I had some matters to attend to."
Azathoth replies, his voice tinged with a hint of hesitation and uncertainty. The question catches him off guard, and Solvumas' skepticism leaves him with an impending sense of trouble.
Solvumas crosses his arms, his gaze unyielding as he scrutinizes Azathoth. He then breaks the silence with a chuckle, his voice ringing hollow in the stone chambers.
"I see, 'matters to attend to', Quite the cryptic explanation" Solvumas repeats, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Azathoth meets his gaze with a steely one of his own.
"Not everything is your business, Solvumas."
{True, but it doesn't stop him from prying.}
Azathoth muses internally.
"True, true."
Solvumas concedes, pacing leisurely around the room. His tail sways with a rhythmic pattern, the room falling into an uncomfortable silence.
"But you know who thinks differently? Virzod."
Azathoth stiffens at the name, his eyes hardening slightly. Virzod, a brutalist, a harsh mentor whose training sessions were more a test of endurance and will than skill.
{Great, just what I need.}
Azathoth's thoughts race as he thinks of the merciless Virzod.
"And what does Virzod want?"
"Well, he seems to be less forgiving of your absences."
Solvumas replies, a mirthless smile spreading on his face. "He asks for a meeting, Azathoth. He expects you before the sun reaches its zenith."
{As if today couldn't get any worse.}
Azathoth groans, massaging his temples. A meeting with Virzod could only mean one thing: another gruelling combat session.
"Can it not wait?"
"Apparently not."
Solvumas says, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"He's been rather insistent. You know Virzod, always eager to teach a lesson."
Azathoth feels a wave of exhaustion washes over him. Despite the impending daylight, his day already feels like a long one. Sighing, he replies.
"Very well."
With a nod, Solvumas strides out of the room, his chuckle echoing through the chambers as Azathoth is left to contemplate the looming day ahead.
{And so the fun begins.}
His thoughts are laced with sarcasm as he watches his brother's departing figure.
⁎⁎⁎
As the sun climbs steadily towards its zenith, Azathoth steps into the expansive training ground. The hard-packed earth beneath his feet is warm from the morning sun.
Usually, the sparring grounds resonate with the clamour of combat, but today, an eerie silence reigns, as if the world holds its breath.
Azathoth's fairly lean form contrasts sharply with the robust figures of his peers. While not as prominent, his muscles have an undeniable wiriness to them. He might not match them in brute strength or constitution, but his extraordinary stamina has always been his greatest asset.
Azathoth is accustomed to enduring harsh conditions and rigorous training sessions longer than anyone else. Still, the signs of slight malnourishment and rough treatment are hard to ignore.
He senses a familiar presence nearby, an aura potent and commanding. The tangible energy radiates a sense of indomitable pride that demands acknowledgment.
{Fath-}
Before he can dwell on it further, a familiar voice echoes through the silent expanse.
"Early for once, aren't we, Azathoth?"
Azathoth swivels around, finding Solvumas leaning casually against a nearby pillar, a smug grin playing on his face. Despite the casual demeanour, his eyes are watchful, clearly eager for the upcoming spectacle.
Azathoth chooses not to respond, instead focusing on the upcoming training session. The nagging sensation of the familiar presence remains, like a silent, omnipresent observer.
{There's no use overthinking it.}
He resolves, taking a few deep breaths to calm his racing thoughts as the time for his meeting with Virzod draws ever closer.
⁎⁎⁎
From the edge of the training ground, a figure emerges. It's Virzod, the notorious brutalist.
His vivid red skin starkly contrasts the monotonous surroundings, and an intimidating scar that trails from the top of his left eye to the edge of his lip only adds to his fearsome presence.
There is nothing flashy about his entrance, yet the air around him seems to crackle with an unspoken authority that commands respect.
Virzod, a towering demon, has a body that's a roadmap of past scars, silent testimonies of numerous hard-fought battles. His eyes, a fiery shade of red, sweep over the arena, finally resting on Azathoth.
"Azathoth."
His voice rolls out, a deep and resonant echo that disrupts the uneasy silence enveloping the training ground.
"There is much to discuss, but first, let us begin your training."
Virzod's lips twitch upwards in a sly, predatory smile. His eyes sparkle with anticipation and something akin to approval. Recognizing the silent challenge, Azathoth rolls his shoulders, steeling himself mentally and physically for the taxing session ahead.
{Ah shit, here we go again.}
"In the dominion, we hail from,"
Virzod's voice echoes, resonating with an authority that spreads across the silent training ground.
"to survive is not merely to overcome, but to prevail with an enduring grandeur."
His incandescent gaze narrows, an unspoken challenge rippling in the simmering air. "Demonstrate your pride, Azathoth."
Azathoth responds with a silent, steely resolve, clenching his fists, a testament to his acceptance.
As Virzod commences the duel, the very earth seems to quake under his immense form.
In stark contrast, Azathoth is light and nimble. He deftly sidesteps the initial onslaught, his evasive maneuvers marked by the clouds of dust kicked up from the ground. While he may lack Virzod's daunting strength and formidable size, Azathoth wields his tenacity and agility less like a honed warrior and more like a survivor clinging to life.
He parries, weaves, dodges - each move a testament to his innate survival instincts.
With each passing moment, Azathoth finds himself embracing the brutality of the situation, matching Virzod's strikes with a kind of raw determination that surpasses his physical capabilities.
{Come on, come on...}
Suddenly, he sees it. An opportunity presents itself – a split second where Virzod's defences seem to lower. Azathoth, seizing the moment, lunges, his movement swift and desperate.
Only to meet a punishing blow from Virzod, a calculated ruse that he'd fallen for.
{Damn, I was foolish.}
A gasp escapes him as he reels back, the taste of blood permeating his senses. But he doesn't allow himself to crumble. Their duel continues a relentless dance of brutality.
"Your pride, Azathoth, where is it?"
Virzod taunts. His voice is sardonic, paired with his signature grin.
"A true demon of pride doesn't cower or evade; he stands tall and fights with all his might."
Azathoth's brows furrow at the words, a pang of anger sparking within him. But he dismisses the sentiment, refocusing his attention on the daunting task at hand.
{I just need to last.}
Meanwhile, concealed within the shadows, a figure observes with a stern, critical gaze. The disappointment in his eyes is as palpable as the tension in the air, a stark contrast to the fervour of the battle.
But Azathoth remains oblivious to the presence. His attention, his entire existence, seems to be consumed by the challenge at hand.
Despite the onslaught, Azathoth refuses to kneel, and refuses to be dominated. His stubborn tenacity paints an arduous spectacle for the concealed observer, inspiring yet tragic.
{Come on... Damn, he just never stops!}
Azathoth's battle cries echo throughout the arena, punctuating the symphony of their clash. His every attack, every evasion, every stagger, pulses with his resounding resolve.
His pride may not be conventional, but it exists. Not as an overwhelming, domineering force but as an unyielding, enduring flame.
Time ticks on. The world holds its breath. The observer in the shadows watches, their disappointment static.
Time ticks on. Each passing moment is a testament to Azathoth's incredible endurance and resilience. Virzod's attacks come in like a tempest, ferocious and unyielding. Yet, the young demon withstands, his form persisting amidst the storm.
Time ticks on. Virzod intensifies, a blazing inferno against the twilight. In an abrupt surge of power, Virzod lunges at Azathoth, his every muscle coiled for the strike. But Azathoth, driven by sheer instinct, sidesteps, narrowly evading the oncoming attack. His heart pounds in his chest, his breath laboured, his body screaming for respite.
"Is that all, Azathoth?" Virzod's voice booms out, dripping with scorn. "Can't a demon of pride muster more than this?"
{Damn it, I need to hold on...}
As the echoes of Virzod's taunts dissipate, Azathoth gathers himself once more. His gaze hardens, his grip tightens, and his stance readjusts. He's spent, battered, and bruised, but not broken.
Virzod, seeing his opponent's unwavering resolve, seems to find new amusement in the duel. His smirk widens, revealing rows of sharp, white teeth.
"Interesting," he muses out loud, a glint of curiosity flashing in his eyes. "You refuse to kneel."
Azathoth, struggling to keep his composure, returns the observation with a silent glare. His mind buzzes with a single, repeating mantra, {Survive, survive...}
Watching from the shadows, the observer scrutinizes Azathoth's strained breathing. The young demon resists defeat, yet their determination sparks not admiration but disappointment in the onlooker, who expected a pride demon's ferocity, not a survivor's resilience.
In a surprising twist, Virzod steps back, his devilish grin remaining intact. "A break, Azathoth," he declares, to the latter's surprise. "Take a moment to catch your breath. You've earned it."
Caught off guard, Azathoth nods in reluctant gratitude. He knows his limitations and would be a fool not to seize this unexpected chance to regain his strength. Yet, he can't help but question Virzod's motives.
{What's he planning...?}
The figure in the shadows appears to be questioning the same. Their brows furrow, scrutinizing the scene with renewed interest. Something is happening, a shift in the dynamics of the interaction. They sense it, but the meaning behind it remains elusive.
As Azathoth draws ragged breaths, trying to calm his racing heart, he can't help but observe Virzod. The red-skinned demon is the embodiment of strength and power, a living testament to the harsh world they hail from.
{I need to understand him... to survive him...}
As he recovers, Azathoth's mind is a whirlwind of strategies and tactics, seeking a way to turn the tide in his favour.
Despite his pride, he is, first and foremost, a survivor. And he intends to survive, no matter the cost.
Azathoth's breaths eventually grow less ragged, his heartbeat calming from its frantic staccato. He eyes Virzod warily, his brain working in overdrive as he tries to decipher the enigma that is his opponent.
Meanwhile, Virzod exudes an air of unruffled calm. He gazes back at Azathoth, the glint in his eyes resembling that of a predator watching its prey struggle.
The interlude is brief, the storm of battle soon returning with renewed vigour. But as soon as the first steps are taken.
﹝Good Morning, Azathoth.﹞