The echoes of the grand banquet hall grew louder as the Great Tyrants—Gills, Soehpt, Kira, Tyrnat, Yulius, Nera, Bhaadon, Solom, Orak, and Razhïel—advanced beneath obsidian vaults, where pillars carved with roaring demons seemed to whisper ancient curses. Black banners, woven with pulsing golden runes, snapped in an infernal breeze, their motifs of skulls and flames dancing in the flickering light of eternal torches. Massive basalt tables, etched with scenes of carnage, groaned under infernal offerings: black fruits oozing scarlet juice, throbbing meats impaled on bones, crystal goblets filled with a red liquid that quivered like a captive soul. Red imps darted between guests—succubi with enchanting laughter, horned warriors in spiked armor, chained specters with hollow gazes—orchestrating an opulent chaos that thrummed with an energy both festive and menacing. The glowing red arch at the far end, framed by liquid flames, opened onto a volcanic crater, a promise of Satan's throne, its call pulsing in their Rings of Tyranny like a primal drum.
Gota's return in the previous hall, her warm whisper to Bhaadon—"I'm behind you, my love"—and Natass's detached provocations—"You'd already bolted"—had left a complex imprint: hope for some, mistrust for others. Gills led the way, his gauntlets glinting with a subdued scarlet glow, no longer a growl of defiance but a calculated vigilance in his eyes. "This hall… it's a stage," he murmured to Kira, his low voice tinged with newfound curiosity. "Satan wants to show us off, but to whom?"
Kira, her Astrugg Cestuses resting on her hips, raised an eyebrow, a smirk replacing her usual savagery. "Doesn't matter who's watching," she replied, her teasing tone masking a hint of tension. "We'll give them a show they won't forget." She shot Gills a conspiratorial glance, an intimate spark in her eyes, revealing their bond without words.
Soehpt, walking with measured steps, brushed a rune on a table, his blue flames streaked with black glinting like pensive fireflies. "These preparations… They're not just for us," he observed, his analytical voice more curious than cold. "There's a bigger game here. The Monarchs, perhaps?" His eyes scanned the crowd, seeking clues in the chaos.
Tyrnat, his cloak of shadows rippling like a tide, didn't mock this time. He paused by a pillar, his fingers tracing a demon carving with strange fascination. "This glory… it comes at a cost," he murmured, his tone less provocative, almost introspective, his black eyes gleaming with restrained ambition. "I wonder what Satan will offer… or take."
Yulius, carrying Massacre over his shoulder like a trusted companion, watched the guests with a predatory smile, not of rage but of excitement. "Look at them scramble," he said, his deep voice vibrant with rare amusement. "They think we're their toys. We'll show them." He cracked his neck, ready to savor the trial ahead.
Nera, gliding between tables like a liquid shadow, plucked a black fruit and twirled it between her fingers, her shadow threads dancing around her like a living web. "So much power gathered," she murmured, her sly smirk replaced by a calculating glint. "And us at the center. An opportunity, no?" Her cursed dolls, hidden in her sleeves, quivered with anticipation.
Bhaadon, walking beside Solom, no longer scanned the crowd with rage but with silent intensity, his demonic horns glowing faintly. "She's here," he said softly, not a growl but a gentle conviction, his eyes searching for Gota among the shadows. A stone levitated beside him, not in anger but as a protective reflex. Solom, one hand on his Ivory Staff, nodded, his golden sparks glinting like reassuring stars. "We've got your back," he replied, his voice warm and steady, a rock in the storm.
Orak, apart from the others, leaned against a pillar, his spear resting at his side, a frosty mist swirling around him. "All this noise… for what?" he muttered, not with disdain but with weary fatigue, his gray eyes studying the Monarchs as if sizing up foes. Razhïel, ever silent, adjusted his cracked mask, Tenebris Lux glinting in the shadows. He tilted his head slightly toward the arch, a subtle but laden gesture, as if sensing an approaching fate.
The glowing red arch opened onto a volcanic arena, a titanic crater where rivers of lava traced incandescent veins between obsidian bleachers. The crowd—roaring demons, succubi with burning gazes, cackling imps—filled the ranks, their cries forming a deafening cacophony. Abaddon loomed over one bleacher, his chains clinking, green necrotic fumes drifting like a miasma. Beelzebub, perched like a giant insect, let his Voracids crawl around him, his wings humming softly. Cania, shimmering with frost, observed with clinical coldness, her icy scythe resting on her shoulder. Brazh'Furia, her flaming hair dancing, pounded her axe against the ground, a cruel smile on her lips. Natass, in a corner, whispered to Gota, whose spectral medusas swayed, her warm smile contrasting with the enigmatic aura in her eyes.
Satan sat enthroned at the center, a colossal figure on a seat of black flames and broken chains, his twisted horns piercing a crimson sky where lightning danced. His glowing red eyes, vast as cursed suns, fixed on the Tyrants with an intensity that seemed to bend reality. His armor, a blend of black metal and liquid lava, pulsed like a living heart, and his captains—Bhaal, Azazel, Razagoth—stood at his sides, their crushing auras amplifying his majesty.
"My blades," Satan thundered, his voice a rumble that cracked the basalt beneath their feet, "ten years in Lilith's crucible have forged you. Tonight, you are my glory." He raised a massive hand, its claws glinting like magma, and the crowd erupted in roars, a chorus of deranged cries and shrill laughter. "But glory is nothing without trial. Show them your chaos!"
Gills crossed his arms, his scarlet flames glinting softly. "Another test?" he asked, not defiant but with a hint of amusement, as if embracing the challenge. "What kind of show do you want, Monarch?"
Satan let out a booming laugh, a sound that shook the bleachers. "The greatest," he replied, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. "My Crimson Legionnaires against your Chaos Forms. Dazzle my Monarchs… or burn." He snapped his fingers, and a portal of flames opened in the arena, spewing a horde of Crimson Legionnaires—demons in scarlet armor bristling with spikes, their lances spitting infernal flames, their glowing red eyes shining beneath horned helms. Their guttural roar shook the crater, a challenge hurled at the Tyrants, their lances tracing arcs of fire in the ash-laden air.
Kira burst into laughter, clashing her cestuses together. "Finally, some action!" she called, her tone vibrating with pure excitement, her eyes sparkling as if already dancing. Soehpt adjusted his stance, a faint smile on his lips. "Let's see what they've got," he murmured, his blue flames igniting like a spectral firework.
Tyrnat stepped forward, his scythe glinting in the shadows. "An audience… perfect for a lesson," he said, his voice smooth and calculated, as if seeing an opportunity beyond the fight. Yulius spun Massacre, a rough laugh escaping his throat. "I'll carve it into their bones," he growled, not with rage but with brutal joy.
Nera let the black fruit fall, her shadow threads spreading like an invisible web. "A life-sized puppet show," she murmured, her eyes glinting with newfound malice. Bhaadon, hovering slightly, gripped a stone, not in anger but in resolve. "To prove we're ready," he said to Solom, who nodded, a golden spark dancing in his palm. "Together," he replied, his voice a confident murmur.
Orak drove his spear into the ground, a shimmering wave of frost swirling around him. "Let them come," he said, not with defiance but with cold resignation, as if accepting an inevitable burden. Razhïel, motionless, raised Tenebris Lux, a dark rune flaring. "Let chaos sing," he murmured, his low voice vibrant, a rare spark in his silence.
The Rings of Tyranny pulsed in unison, a wave of ominous energy surging as the Tyrants summoned their Chaos Forms, transforming the arena into a kaleidoscope of raw power under the crowd's cheers. Gills became the Demon of the Crimson Blaze, a titanic figure draped in swirling scarlet flames, his eyes burning like infernal suns. A torrent of fire swept a wave of legionnaires, their armor melting in a crackle that drew Abaddon's roaring approval.
Kira, in Astrugg Fury, grew into a massive form, her blazing cestuses tracing incandescent arcs. She dove into a battalion, shattering their lances in an explosion of red shards, her regeneration erasing their counterattacks. "Dance with me!" she cried, her laughter echoing as a challenge. Soehpt, as the Spectral Blue Demon, glided through enemy ranks, his cyan flames forming a Soul Blade that cleaved a dozen demons, their flames extinguishing in a spiritual flash.
Tyrnat, as the Reaper of the Black Vortex, rose in a maelstrom of shadows, summoning Nidhoss. The twin-headed serpent spewed corrosive venom that melted a platoon, their screams drowned by Beelzebub's applause. Yulius, as the Bloody Bone Berserker, charged like a storm, Massacre carving a bloody path through the legionnaires, a spray of black blood splattering the arena under Brazh'Furia's cheers.
Nera, as the Puppeteer of the Otherworld, wove a web of shadows that immobilized a group of demons, her cursed dolls dancing among them, shredding their armor with surgical precision. Bhaadon, as the Grand Nephalem, levitated a massive slab, crushing a battalion with a low rumble, his gaze meeting Gota's in the crowd, her warm smile giving him wings. Solom, as the Demon of Celestial Thunder, summoned a golden storm, electrocuting a wave of demons, their smoking armor collapsing under Cania's cheers.
Orak, as the Lord of Eternal Frost, sculpted an ice rampart, freezing a squadron before shattering them with a spear strike, his face impassive despite the acclaim. Razhïel, as the Black Archangel of Calamity, unfurled his wings in a storm of dark runes, shredding the last legionnaires in apocalyptic chaos, his silence more eloquent than the crowd's roars.
In moments, the arena was littered with smoking husks, the Crimson Legionnaires annihilated under a thunder of applause. Abaddon nodded his skeletal skull, Beelzebub buzzed, Cania tilted her head, and Brazh'Furia slammed her axe into the ground, a rough laugh escaping her throat. Gota, beside Natass, clapped softly, her medusas swaying as if echoing the victory, her enigmatic smile fixed on Bhaadon. Natass chuckled, his yellow eyes glinting with calculated malice, a fleeting glance at Gota betraying a shadow of protection.
The Tyrants deactivated their Chaos Forms, their bodies trembling from the effort, infernal sweat gleaming on their faces. Gills ran a hand through his hair, a tired but satisfied smile on his lips. "We scored points," he murmured to Kira, who replied with a wink. Soehpt watched the crowd, his blue flames fading softly. "They want us as weapons… but at what cost?" he murmured, pensive.
Satan rose, his shadow crushing the arena like a living mountain. "Superb!" he thundered, his voice shaking the bleachers. "You are my blades, forged to cleave the heavens." He pointed a claw at the crimson sky, where lightning revealed unstable portals—echoes of the White Cities. "Your first trial awaits. A Celestial Outpost, the Tower of Radiance, defiles my hells. Destroy it. Break their angels. Prove you deserve the Crown of Black Flames."
The crowd erupted in roars, a chorus of deranged cries, as Natass chuckled in the shadows, his eyes glinting. Gota tilted her head, her warm smile masking an unreadable glint. Bhaadon, fists clenched, murmured, "For you…" his eyes fixed on her. Gills exchanged a glance with Soehpt, a silent question: Obey… or dig deeper?
"We'll handle it," Gills replied, his voice clear and resolute, his flames glinting like a promise. The Tyrants nodded, their fragile unity palpable, as the arena blazed under eternal flames, a prelude to the war looming on the horizon.