A lone figure climbed a vast, barren hill. The old man was emaciated, his skin pale from years without sunlight, thick smoke clouds choked the sky, banishing all light from the planet's surface.
His hair had long since fallen out, poisoned by the toxic air, and festering boils covered his frail body like marks of suffering. He wore nothing but tattered remnants of what had once been fine clothing, now hanging from his skeletal frame in shreds, hinting at a past of wealth and power. And indeed, he had not only been wealthy—he had been a king, ruler of vast lands, a sovereign whose name had once inspired awe and reverence.
Now, as one of the last surviving humans in his kingdom, he stood atop the hill, gazing down into the valley where his very own city had once stood. Though his memories blurred with time, he could still remember it clearly.
Giant forests had once surrounded it, where hunters roamed freely, bringing back enough game to feed even the poor, and loggers felled sturdy trees for construction and warmth.
Beyond the city walls, golden fields stretched endlessly, feeding his people with bountiful harvests.
Inside, life had flourished like a well-kept garden. Markets thrived with bustling merchants, and the streets echoed with laughter, arguments, and conversations. The gates stood open beneath the warm sun, welcoming travelers, traders, and allies. But those days of peace and prosperity had crumbled into dust.
For thirty years, the old king had watched helplessly as these... creatures spread ruin across his world. They did not simply conquer—they desecrated. The fields burned, the trees became nothing but blackened husks, and all living things were either enslaved or exterminated. They spread nothing but Chaos and destruction!
Where once his proud city stood, an evil fortress now loomed, a twisted monument to his people's suffering, built from the ashes of his empire. His city had been torn down, its materials repurposed to construct this monolithic abomination.
The fortress was beyond anything mortals could conceive. It dwarfed even the once mighty and green mountain the old man was standing on, which had been ground down until it was little more than a stunted hill beneath its shadow.
A massive wall encircled the structure, its sheer size making his former city's defenses seem like a mere fence in comparison. The wall's surface was coated in an obsidian-like substance that devoured all light, making it appear as if it was hewn from the void itself. A colossal gate marked the entrance, accessible only by an immense staircase with steps broad enough for entire battalions to ascend side by side.
Symbols, carved with otherworldly precision, covered every surface, pulsating with unholy power that made the very air tremble.
Five tall watchtowers pierced the sky, their eternal torches flickering in defiance of the lightless world around them. But even now, the fortress was not complete. To the north, thousands of figures labored like ants, their bodies bent and broken, slaving away endlessly to finish the last section of the wall.
The old king knew its completion was near. Half a century of toil and countless lives lost, all to build this monstrosity.
Beyond the walls, the fortress itself rose like a dark obelisk of despair. Its walls were black as a starless night, making it appear as if it was devouring the world itself. The spires clawed towards the heavens, uniform in height, except for the monolithic tower at the center.
This one stood taller, broader, crowned with a vast platform ringed with jagged battlements. It was a structure that defied all logic, more unnatural than the fortress itself. A tower not built by mortal hands, but a monument reaching the very throne of God. Four immense sigils adorned its structure, each pulsating with unseen force. The old king dared not look at them for long; even a glance sent a wave of nausea through him.
He exhaled shakily. For decades, he had done nothing but hide, watching as the monster ruling this fortress defiled his land, his people, his world.
But he was old now—over eighty, his body decaying, his spirit exhausted. He had spent too long in the shadows, dragging out the inevitable.
He felt death approaching, and he would not let it find him cowering in some forgotten cave. He refused to perish as a coward. He would fall as he was meant to— as a ruler, a king who gave his life for his kingdom, even knowing it could not be saved.
With slow, deliberate steps, he descended the hill, walking over the scorched earth where once fields of wheat had thrived.
Tears burned in his sunken eyes as he recognized the burned remains of farmhouses and stables, the shattered remnants of his people's effort.
An hour passed before he reached the great staircase leading to the fortress gate. Enormous banners flanked the entrance, hanging like ominous curtains. They were black, their edges traced with shimmering gold. At their center, a three-clawed hand dripping with crimson blood, stitched with eerie precision,—a stark warning of the blood price paid for this empire.
His bones ached, his breath was ragged, but he continued climbing. He won't give up now. Each step sent pain through his limbs, but he pressed on.
Suddenly a searing light erupted before him, brighter than any sun, forcing him to his knees as his skin prickled with heat. His eyes clenched shut in agony. Then, just as abruptly as it appeared, the light vanished, leaving behind only blinding afterimages.
When his vision returned, he saw a figure standing above him.
The shock sent him tumbling backward. He crashed onto the steps, rolling down in a painful cascade before coming to a halt. His weak and old bones snapped like brittle twigs, agony searing through his body. He drifted in and out of consciousness, the sheer intensity of the pain anchoring him to reality.
But gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright, showing a sheer amount of willpower. Normally, the king would have simply lain there and surrendered to the void. But not now. Something drove him forward—perhaps hatred, perhaps agony, perhaps sheer stubbornness. Or maybe it was simply the fact that death loomed so close that there was nothing left to lose. But he kept going. His eyes locked onto the being before him.
At a distance, it could almost pass as a human.
But only almost.
Its height was unnatural, its form eerily perfect, yet obviously wrong. Twin horns, dark as night, curled from its forehead, protruding from his midnight-black hair. Its hands were pale as dead flesh, ending not in fingers, but in three elongated, razor-sharp talons. And its eyes—those piercing, slitted yellow eyes—burned with intelligence beyond mortal comprehension.
A demon.
A Polykenas.
One of the creatures gifted with infernal power, the very scourge that had ruined his world!
A deep, guttural roar tore from the old king's throat. Rage, grief, and despair ignited within him, burning away his weakness.
He lunged, his broken body moving on sheer will alone. The demon tilted its head, its expression unreadable, its golden eyes narrowing in something almost like amusement. As the old king drew near, it simply lifted a clawed hand and snapped its fingers.
A golden crescent of energy slashed through the air, slicing through the king's throat like a blade through silk.
His momentum came to an abrupt halt. He stood frozen, eyes wide in shock, a gurgled breath escaping him.
A few heartbeats passed, the stillness hanging heavy in the air. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his head slid from his neck and rolled down the stairs. In those final moments, the king felt no fear, no rage, not even pain or sorrow. Only an immeasurable relief... finally... finally, he could surrender to the darkness. Then his eyes lost all life and his last thought was thought.
He died.
The demon gazed at the corpse, expressionless. Then, with a mere flick of his fingers, a burst of golden flame consumed the remains, reducing them to nothing but drifting ashes. Not a single scorch mark marred the steps beneath them.
Without another glance, the Polykenas turned toward the fortress. With a surge of power, he ascended, gliding effortlessly over the massive wall.
Thousands of eyes followed him—guards, sentries, warriors. None moved to stop him, for they knew who he was.
He was one of their rulers.
Beyond the walls, an extensive, paved road stretched from the main gate to the fortress's heart. Towering structures lined both sides, their chimneys vomiting black smoke into the grey sky.
The streets swarmed with thousands of demons, some stalking on the ground, others soaring through the air.
But he ignored them.
He landed before the fortress entrance, where power radiated from the symbols etched into its immense doors. They had been carved with diamond dust, rendering them nearly impervious to harm. Hundreds of protective sigils shimmered in response to his presence. Though no force remained in this world that could challenge them, still, precautions had been taken.
As he stepped forward, the sigils flared, casting eerie shadows. The guards at either side activated two obscure symbols, and with a deep, resonating groan, the fortress doors swung open, welcoming him.
He stepped inside.
And the gates closed behind him.