A titanic rumble shook the volcanic arena, a pulsing crater at the heart of Satan's volcano, where rivers of lava traced incandescent veins under a crimson sky torn by lightning. The black obsidian bleachers, carved with roaring demons, vibrated under the roars of an infernal crowd—horned demons, succubi with shrill laughter, cackling imps. Satan sat enthroned at the center, a colossal figure on a seat of black flames and broken chains, his twisted horns piercing the darkness, his glowing red eyes vast as cursed suns. His captains—Bhaal, Azazel, Razagoth—stood as menacing shadows, while the Monarchs—Abaddon, Beelzebub, Cania, Brazh'Furia—watched, their crushing auras amplifying the moment.
"My blades!" Satan thundered, his voice cracking the basalt, a rumble that bent the air. "The Tower of Radiance is dust, the heavens tremble. Now, the White Cities open to you!" He raised a magma-glinting claw, and a gargantuan portal tore open the sky, a vortex of flames and white light revealing ivory towers shimmering like stars, angelic legions in silver armor, skies streaked with purifying rays. An abyssal rune, pulsing with black radiance, flickered in the vortex—a remnant of Mephisto, the ancient god of the hells, swiftly swallowed by the brilliance.
The Great Tyrants—Gills, Soehpt, Kira, Tyrnat, Yulius, Nera, Bhaadon, Solom, Orak, Razhïel—stood at the arena's edge, their Rings of Tyranny vibrating with uncertain light. Natass's revelations—Satan's cursed pact, the Black Flames drawn from Mephisto's soul fragments, the hidden Crown, Lilith's strangely unbinding mark—weighed like invisible chains, their fragile unity facing a monumental fate.
Gills, his scarlet flames crackling, fixed his gaze on the portal, his eyes burning with resolve. "A war against the heavens," he murmured, his voice blending defiance and caution. "But we won't be his pawns."
Kira, her Astrugg Cestuses glinting, smirked. "Let them send their seraphim, I'll rip off their wings!" she said, her provocative tone masking sharpened mistrust, a conspiratorial glance shared with Gills.
Soehpt, his blue flames dancing like specters, studied the fleeting rune. "Mephisto… his power lingers," he murmured, his mind seeking hidden truths in the chaos.
Tyrnat, his cloak of shadows rippling, flashed a suave smile. "The heavens, the Crown… all there for the taking," he murmured, his black eyes glinting with ambition, a silent challenge to Satan.
Yulius, Massacre slung over his shoulder, let out a rough laugh. "Angels or demons, I'll carve them all to pieces!" he said, his eyes sparkling with battlelust.
Nera, a shadow thread between her fingers, studied the portal with a cunning smile. "So many players… Satan, Lilith, Mephisto," she murmured. "And we, the master pieces."
Orak, his spear driven into the ground, shrugged, a frosty mist swirling around him. "War or not, let's get it over with," he muttered, his tone weary but resolute.
Solom, a golden spark in his palm, nodded. "We fight for ourselves, not him," he said, his voice a reassuring rock in the storm.
Razhïel, unmasked, his runic scars glowing, fixed his gaze on the portal, his golden eyes burning with vengeance. "Alkahël will know soon," he murmured, Tenebris Lux glinting like an oath.
Bhaadon, hovering slightly, felt a gentle hand on his arm. Gota, her spectral medusas swaying, offered him a warm smile, her eyes shining with deep tenderness. "Look beyond the flames," she whispered, her voice a cryptic murmur, a promise that gripped Bhaadon's heart. A stone levitated beside him, quivering with emotion. "Always with you," he murmured, their gazes sealing an unbreakable bond.
Natass, apart, chuckled softly, his black horns glinting under the lightning. His yellow eyes fixed on Gota, a protective glint masked by his smirk. "Not yet, my master…" he murmured, an echo to Mephisto, his words drowned in the crowd's clamor.
The portal widened, revealing the White Cities in full mobilization—archangels with silver lances arrayed in phalanxes, seraphim with flaming wings soaring like comets, Omniviels with central suns pulsing like stars. A towering silhouette, draped in light, stood among them—Alkahël, her eyes fixed on the vortex with a glint of defiance, an echo of Razhïel's threat. Mephisto's rune flickered again, an abyssal pulse suggesting the ancient god of the hells still whispered in the shadows.
In the Black Eden, Lilith watched a shadow mirror, her lips curling into an enigmatic smile. "My blades will cut more than the heavens," she murmured, her voice a venomous breath. Lilith's mark, pulsing on the Tyrants' arms, glinted briefly, a mystery Natass hadn't pierced, a promise of betrayal or freedom.
Satan rose, his shadow engulfing the arena like a living storm. "You are my blades, forged for eternity!" he thundered, his voice shaking the bleachers. "Let the White Cities burn under your flames!" His glowing red eyes slid to the Rings, a menacing glint—the cursed pact—flickering in their radiance, a warning the Tyrants, alerted by Natass, could not ignore.
Gills stepped forward, his scarlet flames roaring like a challenge. "We march to the heavens," he proclaimed, his voice clear and unshaken, a leader facing fate. "But our flames are our own!" The Tyrants nodded, their gazes burning with fragile determination—Gills resolute, Kira provocative, Soehpt pensive, Tyrnat ambitious, Yulius eager, Nera cunning, Bhaadon emotional, Solom reassuring, Orak weary, Razhïel haunted. Their shadows stretched across the obsidian, silhouettes ready to defy the hells, the heavens, and the shadows of a forgotten god.
The portal roared, a bridge to a war that would shake eternity, as Mephisto's rune pulsed one final time, a whisper of a master who had never truly perished.