The battlefield trembled beneath the chaos of war. Skies ripped open with divine fury, and titanic auras clashed above the broken earth. Amidst this apocalyptic maelstrom, the very air shifted—thickening, darkening, humming with a haunting resonance.
From the edges of the void, through cracks in space itself, emerged Noir, the Primordial Black.
A shadow made flesh, his coat fluttered like torn reality. Midnight energy shimmered around him, and his gaze—two stars devouring light—scanned the battlefield with theatrical detachment.
"Such beauty in destruction," Noir said softly, his voice like silk laced with poison. "Perhaps I'll join the waltz."
In an instant, he vanished—and appeared in front of Leon Cromwell, who had just obliterated a divine-class airship.
Leon's eyes widened. "Primordial Noir. Rudra summoned even you?"
Noir smiled with unnerving calm. "He made a compelling case. But worry not, I have my own curiosities."
Leon's blade ignited with golden fire. "Then let's test your resolve."
Their collision lit the sky. A ballet of brilliance and darkness. Every strike cracked the heavens; every parry scorched the earth. Their battle became a godly spectacle.
Yet even that divine duel came to a pause.
From atop his celestial warship, Rudra activated a massive projection spell, his voice amplified to reach across the world.
"VARVATOS!" he thundered. "Will you cower in your palace forever? Are you content to let children fight battles in your name?"
The world paused. Soldiers halted. Demon Lords turned their heads.
"Face me, oh so-called Eternal King! Or is your silence proof that your era has ended?"
A heavy silence followed.
Then… the palace gates of Nyvaris slowly opened.
The heavens darkened.
From the towering obsidian palace, he stepped forth—Varvatos, the Eternal Monarch.
Each footstep echoed through space, collapsing the air around him. His cloak shimmered with stardust, his eyes burning orbs of eternity. Power surged with every breath he took.
Benimaru, staring from below, whispered, "He's really coming… The King moves."
Velzard's eyes widened. "It can't be..."
Veldora gulped, suddenly subdued.
The people of Nyvaris collapsed to their knees.
"Our King... our Savior!" cries echoed through the streets.
With slow grace, Varvatos ascended, his body lifting into the air. He rose past the sky, through the protective barrier, into the open firmament. The clouds parted for him. The world hushed.
Even the chaos of battle ceased.
Guy Crimson, mid-duel with an Exarch, froze. Bloodied, yet wide-eyed, he stared skyward.
"Oh no..." he murmured. "He's going to erase everything."
Noir stopped his fight, sweat dripping down his temple. His body trembled.
"What is this pressure...? This… presence...?" Noir whispered, instinctively kneeling mid-air.
Varvatos floated above them all, expression calm yet absolute. His voice now carried not just through the air, but through space and soul.
"Demon Lords of this world… I have watched in silence. Your valor is commendable. Your sacrifice… respected."
"But this chaos… must end."
He raised his right hand, fingers glowing with divine script. He uttered a single word—one not meant for mortals to hear. A word that carried the weight of the cosmos.
"Éz'valtrum."
Time shuddered.
The skies cracked. The flying ships of the Eastern Empire screamed as their cores imploded. One by one, they fell like dying stars, crashing into the earth.
Soldiers screamed, but their bodies froze. All of them—immobilized. Their auras extinguished. Their magicules sealed.
Even the Demon Lords could not move.
Velgrynd, straining to fly to Rudra's defense, found herself unable to flap her wings. Her mouth could not form words.
Noir, still kneeling, bowed his head lower.
"This… is dominion… This is... reverence," he whispered. "This... is a King above kings."
High above, Rudra, still aboard the last functioning warship, trembled. For the first time since his birth, he felt it.
True fear.
Varvatos turned his gaze toward him. He uttered another word:
"Val'reiss."
A flash of silver light. Rudra vanished from his ship and appeared directly before Varvatos in mid-air, kneeling. His body convulsed, frozen by unseen shackles. His voice was gone. His thoughts… fragmented.
His soldiers below screamed in horror.
"Your Majesty! No!"
Varvatos looked down upon him—not in rage, but in disappointment.
"Rudra. Once a sovereign of order. Once a bearer of hope. Now, a ghost of ambition."
He lifted a single finger and touched Rudra's forehead.
"The skill granted to you… Michael. It is not yours to wield. You never earned it. You let it consume you."
He said another sacred word:
"Ephraën'thol."
Rudra's body twisted. The divine architecture of Michael unravelled like threads torn from reality. Energy surged out of him, spiraling into nothingness.
The Ultimate Skill: Michael—was no more.
"This world's structure of power is a flaw. Arbitrary, fragile… unstable. But I will fix it. In due time."
Rudra collapsed, gasping. No longer a god. No longer a tyrant. Just a man.
He opened his eyes, confusion dawning.
"What… What have I done…?" he murmured.
Varvatos turned, now facing all.
"Let this moment echo across the stars. Let every king, god, tyrant, and warrior know: True power is not the right to rule—it is the burden to protect."
He snapped his fingers.
A divine gate opened.
In a flash of celestial light, Rudra, his army, and every remaining warship vanished—teleported back to the Eastern Empire.
Then, Varvatos spoke one final time:
"Asira'mur."
Time resumed. The skies returned. The winds blew. Magic surged once more.
The battlefield was still.
The Demon Lords fell to their knees, gasping.
Velzard had tears in her eyes.
Benimaru exhaled deeply, voice shaking. "That… that was divine judgment."
Noir, still floating mid-air, placed a hand on his chest and whispered:
"I have seen the true King. And now, I believe."
The citizens of Nyvaris sang, cried, and cheered in awe and devotion.
And above them all, Varvatos descended slowly, like a falling star, his expression unreadable.
While Varvatos was descending slowly back toward Nyvaris, the air calm and still, Velgrynd rose into the sky to meet him. Her movements were gentle, no longer burdened by the heat of war. Her crimson hair flowed behind her, catching the winds like fire dancing in reverence.
She hovered in front of Varvatos, her eyes soft yet trembling with emotion.
"I don't know how to thank you, Varvatos," she said, voice uncharacteristically quiet. "You could've destroyed everything. Rudra… the world… but you didn't."
Varvatos gave a simple nod, his silver hair glinting in the twilight. "I do not erase what can be healed," he replied, eyes half-lidded, "Even broken stars still shine."
Velgrynd lowered her gaze, placing a hand over her heart. "For what it's worth… thank you."
Varvatos continued his slow descent, saying nothing more.
Then came the other Demon Lords, gathering silently in the sky, drawn like moths to an unknowable flame. Their pride, fear, and awe were tangled in their expressions. Among them, Guy Crimson stepped forward, arms crossed, cloak tattered from battle, eyes narrowed yet respectful.
Varvatos turned toward him, stopping mid-air.
"Crimson King," he said, using Guy's ancient epithet, "You fought well today."
Guy clicked his tongue, slightly annoyed but more embarrassed than anything. "It's not like I had a choice. It was either fight or let the world burn."
Varvatos allowed himself a rare chuckle, rich and deep like rolling thunder. "And yet… you chose well. You are not the Mediator of this world just for show."
Guy smirked. "Flattery from you feels more like a warning."
As Varvatos resumed his descent, something unexpected happened.
A dark presence moved forward—composed, elegant, and quiet. Noir, the Primordial, stepped out from the gathering Demon Lords and dropped to one knee mid-air, head bowed.
His voice was deep, reverent, and uncharacteristically solemn. "My lord… will you make this lowly demon your subordinate?"
Gasps broke out among the gathered Demon Lords.
"Wait, what the hell is Noir doing?" Leon muttered.
"That weirdo's always up to something," Milim whispered, eyes wide.
Luminous arched a brow. "Does Noir… want to serve Varvatos?"
Even Guy looked baffled. "That bastard's not joking…"
Varvatos arched an eyebrow, eyeing Noir with a glimmer of curiosity. "If you are able to pass through this barrier," he said, voice slow and thunderous, "then I shall make you my subordinate."
The wind shifted.
Everyone turned toward the glowing perimeter that surrounded Nyvaris—a divine barrier that even the strongest dared not approach. It was more than a shield—it was a judgment, a mirror of intent. Any evil, deception, or aggression would be repelled and burned away.
Noir, head still bowed, said softly, "I shall, my lord."
He rose, floating downward slowly, each movement measured. His black coat swayed behind him, the energy around him beginning to dance.
As he approached the barrier, it flickered—runes spiraled, light flared—but then… stillness.
The barrier calmed. It accepted him.
No force lashed out. No rejection. Noir passed through untouched.
Gasps erupted.
"Impossible," Velzard muttered from below, eyes wide. She stood beside Veldora, Benimaru, and the others, each watching with silent shock.
Guy clenched his jaw. "Noir… he doesn't have any malicious intent toward Nyvaris… or Varvatos? That's the only explanation."
In the heart of the city, priests and sages knelt in awe. The impossible had occurred. A Primordial demon had passed the judgment of Varvatos' divine will.
Varvatos touched down upon Nyvaris, and Noir, now beside him, kneeled once more.
Amused, Varvatos looked down at him. "Many believe demons are born only to destroy. That your hearts hold nothing but chaos."
He paused. "But I see in you something else. Reverence. Loyalty. You have passed my judgment."
He placed his hand upon Noir's head. Divine light surged—not harsh, but warm, ancient, noble.
"From this day forward," Varvatos said, "you shall be one of my people. I name you… Diablo."
A ripple of energy exploded outward. Noir's form flickered, his aura shifting—still dark, still powerful—but now refined, polished like obsidian touched by starlight.
Diablo's eyes widened, crimson glowing softly.
"I... feel it," he whispered. "This power… your name… it resonates with my very existence."
Varvatos nodded. "Names are not mere sounds. They are bonds. Purpose. With this name, you are mine—not in chains, but in will."
Up above, Guy rubbed his forehead.
"He just named Noir… Noir is now Diablo… I think I need to go lie down. I've had enough headaches for one day."
Leon scoffed. "I second that."
Milim, still floating upside down for some reason, added, "I thought today would be boring. I was so wrong."
One by one, the Demon Lords turned, fading into the winds, each lost in their thoughts.
Diablo stood beside Varvatos, no longer just a Primordial—now something more.
He looked toward the skies, a soft smile curving his lips.
"For the first time… I feel peace," he said.
And beside him, Varvatos looked onward, the city of Nyvaris glowing beneath his feet.
The world had shifted.
A new star had risen.