While Rai and his group battled the infernal beast, the scene shifts to Corp and Pragaya. Their fight was reaching its conclusion. Pragaya stood tall, unwavering, while Corp, battered and breathing heavily, looked at him with a defiant smirk.
"You act as though you're the good guys," Corp said, his voice laced with bitterness. "As if everyone from Hell is some irredeemable monster. Do you even know what real struggle is?"
Pragaya said nothing, his stoic demeanor unshaken. He simply stared, as if inviting Corp to continue.
Corp's smirk faded slightly, replaced by a fleeting look of pain. "Let me tell you," he muttered.
The scene shifted to a memory from Corp's past.
A young boy, no older than seven, sat on the filthy ground of a bustling street. His clothes were nothing more than tattered rags, his face smeared with dirt, and his ribs visible through his thin frame. He stretched out his hand toward the passing crowd, begging in a trembling voice.
"Please… spare some food… anything…"
Hundreds walked past without so much as a glance. The noise of merchants shouting their wares, the clatter of horse-drawn carriages, and the laughter of children playing nearby were a cruel backdrop to his silent suffering.
"I don't even know who my parents were," Corp's voice narrated over the memory. "Maybe they're in Hell now too. I wouldn't know… I've been alone in this life and hell for as long as I can remember." Corp Narrated over the flashback.
The young boy clutched his stomach as it growled in protest, his body too weak to ignore the pain any longer. He spotted a restaurant worker tossing a bag of scraps into a bin behind the building. His eyes lit up with desperation as he crawled toward it.
Rummaging through the garbage, he found half-eaten pieces of bread and some wilted vegetables. Just as he brought the food to his mouth, the restaurant door burst open.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" one of the workers shouted, storming toward him.
The boy stumbled back, clutching the scraps. "Please! I'm hungry! You're just throwing it away—why not give it to me?" he begged, tears streaming down his face.
The man's face twisted in disgust. "Get outta here, you filthy rat!" he yelled, kicking the boy in the stomach.
Young Corp fell to the ground, coughing and clutching his side, but he didn't let go of the food. Another worker joined in, pulling the scraps from his hands and tossing them back into the bin.
"Go beg somewhere else," the man spat, slamming the door shut.
The boy lay there, defeated, tears mixing with the dirt on his cheeks. As he tried to crawl away, passers-by avoided him like he was a disease.
"No one cared," Corp's voice echoed over the scene. "Not once. No matter how much I begged or how many times I was beaten down, the world didn't give a damn if I lived or died."
Corp's voice narrated with a mix of agony and venom, "They would rather throw food into the bin than feed me a scrap," as the memory showed the young, emaciated Corp lying in the dirt, tears streaking his face. His trembling hands clutched his growling stomach. The scene was raw and unrelenting, a boy abandoned by the world. "That's when I'd had enough. These useless magic eyes couldn't feed me... but at least they could feed my heart and desires," his voice turned cold, a hint of malice creeping in.
The memory shifted. The young Corp struggled to his feet, his frail body shivering with rage. With a surge of determination, he conjured a Cloud Sword, the energy weapon shimmering faintly in his bony grip. His narration deepened with bitterness. "Desires... What did I desire back then? Sorry, I forgot what it feels like to desire something. A soul is required for that. But if I had to guess... I wanted to gut those men and bathe in their crimson blood."
His laughter echoed through the memory, chilling and unhinged. The restaurant door creaked open again, and two workers stepped out, laughing and lighting cigarettes. Young Corp, hidden in the shadows, moved with eerie calm. Without hesitation, he lunged, driving the blade into the gut of the first man. The man's scream was raw, filled with agony, but to Corp, it was symphonic.
Corp's narration took on a disturbing glee. "Oh, the music... It was beautiful, wasn't it? Their screams, their fear—delicious." The second man, horrified, kicked Corp in the face, sending the boy tumbling backward.
The men, clearly not adept in magic, panicked. One yelled for help, but Young Corp, his face now twisted into a terrifying, bloodthirsty grin, didn't relent. He pounced on the second man, pinning him to the ground and plunging the blade into his chest repeatedly. His hands became slick with blood, but he didn't stop. The narration continued, "Over and over again. Until my hands were soaked, until their breath was gone, until..."
The first man, clutching his wounded stomach, staggered back into the restaurant and emerged with a kitchen knife. He stabbed Corp in the back, the blade piercing his lungs. Corp's small frame jolted, blood dripping from his lips, but even then, he didn't falter. With bloodlust overtaking pain, he turned on the man and lunged again.
The memory slowed, the sound of the boy's wheezing breaths and the wet thud of the blade creating a haunting rhythm. Over and over, the knife struck, until the man lay lifeless on the blood-soaked ground. Young Corp's body swayed as he stood, his breaths ragged, blood oozing from his back wound.
He staggered into the night, his bloodied form illuminated by the dim streetlights. His voice, now devoid of any emotion, finished the narration. "Satisfied with my revenge, I took a few steps... but my legs gave out, and soon... the life drained from my body too."
The scene ended with Young Corp collapsing into the dirt, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. His narration concluded, bitter and cold, "The world killed me long before I drew my last breath. All I did... was return the favor."
The flashback dissolves, and the scene transitions back to the present with Corp's maniacal laughter echoing through the battlefield, his face twisted in malice. His words drip with contempt and mockery as he stares down Pragaya, whose stoic demeanor remains unwavering, though his eyes reflect a flicker of sorrow.
Corp sneers, his voice a venomous blend of arrogance and twisted glee:
"You see? All I did was fill my desires. Was that so wrong? Would you not have done the same if you were me? Those two had no right to live anyway, but thanks to them, I finally felt something for the first time in my miserable existence. It was glorious."
His laughter crescendos, wild and chilling, as he continues:
"After that, I woke up in hell. I knew it had to be hell because it was so much better than the living world! Then they came to me—the so-called 'higher-ups.' They offered me two choices: suffer and atone for my sins, or continue to feed my desires. Of course, I chose the latter!"
Pragaya doesn't flinch, his expression calm yet heavy with unspoken emotions. His silence only seems to fuel Corp's mockery.
Corp still lying on the ground paralysed. His grin is feral, daring:
"And now, it's your turn, oh mighty Pragaya. C'mon! Conjure one of your fancy spheres or whatever and drive it right through my heart. Do it! Put me out of my misery, or is your so-called 'justice' nothing but words?"
Pragaya stood still, his stoic demeanor unshaken, but the sorrow in his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil. "What the world did to you was cruel," he began, his voice soft yet resolute. "But we do not have the authority to take someone's life. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed someone. If I had been, I would have saved you, given you a home, and blessed you with everything you rightfully desired. But I wasn't there... and for that, I am deeply sorry."
A light sword materialized in Pragaya's hand, its radiance illuminating the somber battlefield. Corp's expression shifted—his manic grin replaced by one of quiet resignation. Tears streamed down his face as he spoke, his voice trembling. "This is it for me, isn't it? You kill me here, and I'm gone for good. My soul... fed to the devil as per the contract. Well, maybe that's a good thing. The world doesn't need someone like me."
He paused, his tears falling freely now, before looking at Pragaya with a pleading expression. "Hey, old man... would you do me one last favor?"
Pragaya's gaze softened ever so slightly. "What is it?"
Corp hesitated, his voice breaking. "I'm still hungry. Could you give me some food, please?"
Pragaya's stoic facade finally cracked. A single tear traced its way down his cheek as he quietly replied, "I'm sorry." His sorrow was silent but heavy, a grief too deep for words.
With one swift motion, Pragaya swung the light sword, severing Corp's head. The blade dissipated into the air, and Corp's head rolled to the ground, his face now at peace—a warm smile etched onto it, as though he'd finally been freed from his torment.
Pragaya remained standing, rigid and upright, his expression as stoic as ever. Yet tears continued to fall silently down his face. He clasped his hands together in a solemn prayer, his voice low and heavy with melancholy. "May your soul finally find peace."
As the sun broke through the clouds, its rays bathed the scene in a gentle glow. Corp's body disintegrated into shimmering particles, carried away by the wind as if his pain had finally been lifted. Pragaya stood alone, the weight of the moment etched deeply into his heart, but the world around him seemed just a little quieter, as if acknowledging the end of Corp's suffering.