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In the heart of a vast and shadow-drenched chamber, silence reigned—a silence so heavy it felt alive, as if it waited, watched, and breathed. The stale, metallic scent of alchemical fluid clung to the air, mixing with the faint coppery undertone of blood. Faint hissing sounds echoed intermittently, the result of arcane compressors and failing filtration runes humming low like the distant growl of a buried beast.
The chamber stretched endlessly into the gloom, the only illumination coming from the pods—rows upon rows of tall cylindrical glass capsules arranged like pillars in a mausoleum of forgotten experiments. Each one pulsed with a dull, eerie light from within, casting ripples of color across the blackened stone floor. Inside them floated bodies suspended in viscous, green-tinged fluid—some humanoid, others grotesque fusions of man and beast, their limbs fused with carapace, bone, or metal.
Yet one pod towered above the rest—larger, reinforced with metallic bands inscribed with flickering arcane glyphs that glowed with a sinister crimson hue. The pod itself was not of standard make. It was old—ancient, even. The symbols etched along its surface pulsed with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat, though not one of any human origin. Chains bound its base into the floor, not for structural support, but to keep something within… sealed.
Within the thick red liquid inside the pod, a massive figure hung suspended—a Nemeanian Beastman, easily over nine feet tall, his form caught between regal majesty and brutal savagery. His thick fur, once perhaps the color of orange, was matted and darkened by the fluid. Muscle rippled across his body like coiled steel beneath skin. Jagged scars crisscrossed his chest, hints of old battles, while his claws were bound by arcane manacles etched with containment runes that flickered every time he moved even slightly.
His face—part lion, part disturbingly human—was hidden in shadow, save for the gleam of a single eye that snapped open, glowing with a feral amber light. For a moment, the glyphs on the pod flared as if in protest, reinforcing their binding spells. A low growl reverberated through the fluid—muffled, yet unmistakable. Not asleep. Not dead. Merely dormant… waiting.
The air in the chamber shifted. Even the other pods seemed to dim in comparison, as though recognizing the dominance of the being encased within the central tank. Runes etched into the floor began to flicker, ancient warning glyphs pulsing in sync with the creature's breathing. Somewhere far above, the rusted chains in the ceiling groaned, and a shard of stone crumbled from the dark, vanishing into the depths below with a sound that never reached the ground.
The warning glyphs pulsed violently—once, twice—and then exploded into brilliant red light as the pod at the center of the chamber began to tremble. The arcane chains that once held the structure firm creaked and snapped under the pressure of a rising force. A guttural, soul-shaking roar erupted from within, and in that instant, King Sirius, the Beast King, opened one eye.
The air itself twisted.
A wave of accursed energy surged outward from his awakening form, raw and furious. The reinforced pod could no longer contain the power. With a deafening crack, the containment glass exploded outward in a cyclone of shattered alchemic crystal and corrupted healing fluid. The blast incinerated nearby glyphs and collapsed the lesser pods lining the chamber, glass and bodies rupturing in unison. Greenish liquid spilled across the black stone floor, hissing as it evaporated against the unleashed infernal heat.
The shockwave was felt beyond the chamber's walls. Within moments, the heavy doors slammed open. A flurry of figures rushed in—Fallen Beastmen, misshapen creatures twisted by dark pacts and infernal rites, their eyes glowing with primal reverence. Among them were robed Healers, cloaked in shadow-woven fabrics, their auras pulsing with unstable magic. All fell into silence the moment they saw him.
King Sirius stood tall at the heart of the devastation, his enormous form silhouetted by the faint light of the dying glyphs. The dark aura coiling around him was not mere energy—it was sentient, writhing like a storm of wraiths, distorting the air with its malign heat. Once a noble orange, his fur was now tinged with black streaks of seared corruption. His body radiated raw might, muscle carved like it was sculpted from obsidian, his claws dripping with remnants of shattered sigils.
His eyes—one now fully open, the other still sealed shut by a burn-shaped scar—glared across the room, feral and calculating. Slowly, his mind pieced itself back together. The surroundings confirmed his suspicions: the Infernal Healing Chambers, a forbidden vault deep within the Under-Dens, where those near death were brought to be restored using ancient, brutal techniques—lifeforce extraction, soul branding, and infusion of pure Infernal energy.
Memories returned in fragments.
The flash of divine lightning. The destruction of his Infernal Engine. The cry of pain as his soul convulsed under the rupture. A girl, her presence crackling like a thunderstorm—Freya Lughter, wielding a spear of celestial lightning that bypassed his defenses. And another... Emily, with hands soaked in forbidden forge-light, shattering his Infernal core with a single attack.
The wound had not just pierced his flesh. It had torn into his very soul—a wound that no normal healing could mend. It was only thanks to the unholy rituals of this place, powered by the drained lifeforce of lesser beings sealed in nearby pods, that Sirius still existed. Their energy had been filtered through dark channels, merged with his essence, and rebuilt what had been broken.
His gaze flicked to the Healers, standing frozen in a semi-circle, unsure whether to kneel or flee. One of them stepped forward cautiously. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and scales shimmered along her collarbone. From the waist down, she bore the coils of a serpent, her eyes slitted and radiant with infernal magic. The Fallen Naga Healer bowed her head low, though her voice still trembled.
"It has been fifty years, my liege…"
Sirius's brow furrowed. His voice, when it came, rolled like thunder from the abyss, laced with authority and an edge of restrained violence.
"Fifty years…"
The words echoed through the chamber like a death knell. He turned slightly, his aura lashing outward and cracking the stone beneath his feet. His claws clenched. "Terra… the Asha'Yee…"
"Terra has awakened," said the healer, Kohva, her name whispered by one of the Beastmen behind her. "The Celestial Realignment continues. The Veil is broken. The world… has changed."
He wanted to roar. To destroy this chamber. To bring ruin upon the ones who had dared to stall his rise. Fifty years gone, wasted, lost in the haze of healing and dormant rage. His plans, his march, his vengeance—all scattered to dust.
Yet, he did not scream. He forced the wrath down, crushing it beneath the weight of his will. The fury became stillness—a dangerous, simmering quiet.
His mind wandered not to Freya Lughter, not even to Emily, the one who had destroyed the Engine.
No.
It was Leon Haravok.
That damn solar prince, whose blinding radiance had turned the tide. The one who had distracted him kept him occupied long enough for the others to act. Sirius could still feel the phantom heat of Leon's presence—a force so noble it burned. And in that moment of memory, his lip curled back, baring his jagged fangs.
"The sunspawn… he will pay."
And as his words settled over the chamber, the very glyphs along the walls began to dim, as if even the magic etched into the stone feared the return of King Sirius.
****
The throne room of the Beast King's Citadel was a place that blurred the line between the primal and the divine. Hewn into the hollowed-out heart of a dormant volcanic mountain, its walls bled with veins of molten stone, casting an eerie amber glow across the chamber. Pillars of blackened bone and twisted steel rose like fangs toward the ceiling, where glowing runes hung suspended in midair, drifting like embers caught in an unseen current.
At the center, raised above a platform of obsidian and skull-forged iron, sat King Sirius, now fully adorned in his regal warplate. Crafted from the scale-hides of void serpents and engraved with infernal sigils, his armor pulsed faintly with the same malevolent power that ran through his veins. A long crimson cloak, torn at the edges like flayed sinew, hung from his shoulders and flowed down the steps like a river of blood.
Though his body was healed, the scar across his right eye remained—a permanent reminder of the spear that nearly claimed his soul. But it gave him no shame. It gave him purpose.
Before him stood his inner circle, the High Command of the Fallen Beasts, each one a commander of blood-soaked legions, each one loyal to him through terror, respect, or shared damnation.
Closest to the throne, standing on the right, was Kiara Nightveil, the Bat Beastwoman General. Slender and tall, her wings folded behind her like a velvet shroud. Her skin was a pale violet, and her eyes, large and luminescent, saw not only the material but the hidden—a talent gained from generations of mutation. She wore a corseted armor of echo-forged metal that enhanced her sonar manipulation. When she spoke, her voice was smooth as wine but layered with a razor's edge.
To the left was Rhyka Bloodclaw, the Wolf Beastman Warlord. Broader than most, he bore armor of cracked dragonbone, with pelts from the hunts of extinct beasts hanging from his shoulders. His muzzle was marred by battle, one eye missing, replaced by an obsidian orb that burned with Infernal light. If Sirius was the King of Beasts, Rhyka was the howling executioner who painted the frontlines red.
Beyond them, others gathered: Velgros, the Spider Beastman tactician, his many limbs folded as he silently observed from the shadows, web-thread scrolls of prophecy clutched in his claws. Dran'gol, the Crocodilian war priest, draped in blood-soaked vestments, his breath steaming with infernal hymn-smoke. Ashari, the Pantheress Nightblade, master of infiltration and the dagger's whisper.
The hall quieted as the final voice finished echoing through the crystal comm-rune embedded in the obsidian table between them. Kiara stepped forward, her wings twitching slightly.
"My King," she said, bowing her head just enough to show respect, "the latest reports from the Eastern Fringe confirm escalating skirmishes along the Ganymede-Federation border. Our scouts observed a clash between the 12th Stellar Vanguard of the Divine Federation and the Adamant Phalanx of the Ganymede Empire."
King Sirius remained silent for a moment, letting the report settle like ash on still water. His glowing eyes drifted across his gathered subordinates, each one a beast-turned-warlord, forged in blood and bound by dark pacts. They were strong, loyal, scarred veterans of countless battles. Yet even they bore the weight of stagnation. Fifty years without war. Fifty years of containment. And all because he had fallen.
He exhaled slowly, the breath coming out as a low growl, and leaned back into his throne. His claws tapped the armrest rhythmically, thoughts simmering behind burning eyes.
In his absence, they had remained confined to their shadowed domain—a forsaken world, buried so deep in the galactic underlayers that not even the Divine Federation's long reach could sense it. This planet, which bore no name outside their tongue, was whispered only as Sirius Prime, an exile's haven… and a future crucible.
It was a place forgotten by the stars.
The skies above were choked with a permanent veil of ash, and no starlight pierced its toxic clouds. The soil was black and lifeless, incapable of sustaining natural life. Even the rain, when it fell, came down in oily streaks that hissed as they touched the stone. No Odyllic flow, no Celestial resonance. It was cut off from the currents of the cosmos, a dead rock adrift in a forgotten orbit.
But this cursed world held a secret.
At its core churned a pulsing, living Infernal Engine—a relic from the First Descent, when the Infernal Realm had nearly breached the material plane. That engine bathed the planet in Infernal resonance, transforming it into a sanctuary for the Fallen Beasts, warping their bloodlines, enhancing their strength, and mutating their forms into living weapons of war.
And yet, the connection was incomplete.
Though the Infernal energy pulsed beneath the surface, the planet could not fully descend into the Infernal plane. It hovered on the brink of damnation, craving sustenance, craving a sacrifice that would complete the transformation.
That sacrifice was meant to be Terra.
Sirius's jaw tightened.
It was why he had unleashed the Blackearth Virus—a necrotic seed of planetary corruption, engineered in secret by his scientists and weavers of plaguecraft. The virus was designed not merely to kill, but to infect the very essence of Terra. It would corrupt its biosphere, twist its life energy into death, and anchor its core to the Infernal resonance of Sirius Prime. Once infected, the link between the two planets would be forged, allowing his world to rise and consume Terra whole, feeding on its potential, its life, its awakening magic.
A perfect assimilation. A cosmic predator devouring a newborn star.
And it had almost worked.
But his plan had been shattered by Freya's divine strike, by Emily's sabotage, and most of all, by Leon Haravok, whose interference had bought the time necessary to sever the virus's tether before the corruption could reach the core. Even now, the echoes of that failure burned behind Sirius's scarred eye. He straightened on his throne, the pressure of his presence warping the space around him. His aura flared—not with rage, but with unbending intent.
It was not over.
The window had narrowed, yes. But the Celestial Realignment was still underway. Terra's world core remained vulnerable, unanchored, its fusion with the cosmic lattice incomplete. There was still time.
But this time, he would make no mistake.
He would not underestimate the defenders of Terra. The Asha'Yee, the demigod of sunfire, the awakened champions—they were variables he could no longer ignore.
For Sirius Prime to devour Terra, he would need to crush every threat that stood in his way—burn, break, or bury them.
And so, as the flickering map of the galactic border war hovered before him, King Sirius issued no immediate command.
King Sirius's gaze drifted across the chamber, glowing embers in the sea of shadow. But then it stopped—fixed upon Rhyka, the hulking Wolf Beastman who stood just ahead of the other generals. The throne room was silent, the only sound the low hum of the sigils etched into the obsidian walls and the faint tremble of Infernal power that lingered in the air like storm-charged smoke.
And yet, in that silence, something shifted.
Sirius's golden eye narrowed. His senses, honed sharper than ever since his soul's restoration, caught a dissonance—a ripple in the flow of Soul Force. Not a wound. Not fatigue. Something deeper. A complete misalignment.
Rhyka… wasn't Rhyka.
For a king like Sirius, whose concern rarely extended beyond the performance of his subordinates, such scrutiny was rare. He ruled through strength and demand, not empathy. The fact that he now lingered on the soul of a general was not lost on the others. The chamber's atmosphere tensed, the weight of curiosity and unease settling on every shoulder.
The lore of the last war had never faded. It was well-known that Rhyka had been the one to challenge the Asha'Yee—and though wounded grievously, he'd returned months later from the healing pods stronger than before. Many assumed the King simply sensed his power increase.
But this... was not that.
Sirius leaned forward, the dim firelight flickering along the jagged ridges of his armor. "Who are you?" he said, his voice a slow thunder.
Gasps echoed faintly from the chamber's edges. The generals turned, eyes darting between Rhyka and their King.
The Wolf Beastman let out a soft chuckle—a sound that did not belong to Rhyka's voice.
"Hmph," came the reply, low and amused. "So you've finally noticed… Beast King."
A tremor surged through the throne hall.
The figure that had posed as Rhyka straightened, and the aura around him split like cracked armor. A sickening wave of heat and sulfur flooded outward. Black flame-like wisps curled from his back, fusing with the fur along his body. The flames engraved Infernal sigils—old, deep, and blasphemous onto the body of Rhyka.
"Rhyka," Kiara hissed, wings snapping open in shock, her voice venomous with rage. "Is that how you address His Majesty?"
"Silence, woman," Balial sneered, his power swelling. The very floor beneath him warped as his Accursed aura pressed out like a storm wall, crashing into the generals with suffocating weight. The temperature plummeted. Even the air recoiled.
He had held this form in check for decades, hiding behind the shell of Rhyka. The deception had been infuriating—but necessary. How he had loathed the act, the sniveling humility, the false loyalty. He had wanted the Beast King's body, not that of some lowly general. But he knew—even as a Trueborn Infernal, there were limits. King Sirius's soul had been too fortified, too anchored in Sovereign Will to devour. Rhyka, however... had been easy prey.
Sirius remained still, his expression unreadable, a quiet tension now curling in his jaw. "I asked you a question," he said again, voice lined with something sharper than power—contempt.
Balial bowed mockingly. "I am Balial, Herald of Demon King Eligos, and I have come to—"
"—to conquer Terra in your King's name," Sirius finished, voice dripping with disdain.
Balial's smile widened. "Prepare the way," he said. "But credit where it's due, Your Majesty—your plan with the Blackearth Virus? Magnificent. You nearly succeeded where every Infernal before you failed."
He paused, savoring the confusion and fury etched across the faces of the generals. Kiara's wings trembled with restrained fury. She could barely contain the urge to strike. The dishonor of this deception—this mockery of their King—seethed within her like acid.
But Balial did not care. The others? Irrelevant. He had surpassed them all. He wasn't just a Greater Infernal anymore. He had transcended into the Accursed Stage, his essence now woven into pure Profanity.
He was not some twisted soul fallen from grace—he had never known grace at all. Born in the Infernal Plane, cut off from the Odyllic, his soul was forged from the marrow of blight itself. His path was that of descent, not ascension—and his power reflected it.
"You have some guts," Sirius said, slowly rising from his throne. His movements were calm, yet the entire chamber trembled with each step. "To steal the body of my general and stand before me."
"I believed an alliance between us—" Balial began.
"Is this the will of your King?" Sirius interrupted, voice dropping into a growl.
Balial's eye twitched at the disrespect, but he composed himself.
"No. Eligos has granted me leeway to chart my own path. I merely thought—"
He never finished the sentence. The King's Will descended like the hand of a god. A titanic pressure crushed Balial mid-sentence. He collapsed instantly, knees driven into the stone, jaw slamming against the ground. Blood spilled from his mouth, sizzling as it hit the cursed floor. The throne room's sigils flared to life in horror. King Sirius had not moved. Only one claw rested lazily on the armrest. And still, it was enough to crack a Trueborn Infernal.
"I do not suffer parasites," Sirius said coldly. "I am not a pawn for some bloated devil to use. Tell your King… if he dares send another worm, I'll send his head back in a pyre."
Balial writhed, fury and disbelief twisted across his face. This was impossible. Even among the Accursed, Sirius's strength... it was overwhelming.
He could feel it now. The Beast King had ascended beyond the Defiled Realm, bypassing both the Fiend and Tyrant thresholds, resting squarely within the upper echelon of the Tyrant Realm—a realm few Infernals reached in the material plane. And it wasn't just power.
It was the weight of King's Will—a metaphysical authority that shaped reality, a soul-force so dense it defied profanation. Even Eligos, his own lord, did not possess this. Balial's pride screamed in protest, but his body obeyed the truth. Blood spilled again as the pressure spiked. And then, it vanished. Sirius reclined back on his throne, expression unreadable. He gave a nod toward the shadows.
From the far edges of the chamber, Velgros the Spider Beastman slithered forward, eight eyes glittering like black rubies. Two of his attendants followed, wrapping Balial in infernal webs of binding force.
"Dispose of the parasite," Sirius said.
Velgros bowed. "At once, Your Majesty."
They vanished into the gloom, leaving behind only a trace of ash and silence.
Sirius turned his attention back to his generals, who stood visibly shaken. Their fear was not from Balial's revelation—it was from their King's unquestionable supremacy.
"Prepare your troops. Ready the warships," he said. "The time for war… is now."
The generals bowed in unison, voices firm. "Yes, Your Majesty."
The war drums of the Infernal Beast Hordes began to beat again—for the first time in half a century—and the stars would soon tremble.