Azrith

  The moment my hand closes around the hilt of the Primordial Weapon, the world changes.

  Power explodes through me. Not like fire. Not like lightning. Something older. Something deeper. It surges from the blade into my arm, racing through every vein, every nerve, every breath in my body. My muscles lock as if the weapon is rewriting me from the inside.

  For a moment I cannot move.

  The arena disappears.

  All I see is light—not the warm light of the sun, but something ancient, violent, endless. Voices whisper through the power flooding my mind, languages older than kingdoms, older even than the Citadel itself.

  My grip tightens around the hilt.

  The weapon feels impossibly heavy, and yet it moves like it was forged for my hand alone. The fire circling the blade sinks into my skin. Heat spreads through my chest, through my bones, through my thoughts. My heartbeat slows. My breathing steadies.

  The chaos inside me settles into something terrifyingly calm.

  When the light finally fades, I am still standing in the arena.

  But the arena is no longer quiet.

  Hell is roaring.

  Demons crowd the edges of the Citadel, their voices shaking the stone walls. Flames surge upward from the abyss as if the entire underworld itself is celebrating.

  “The weapon has chosen!”

  “The weapon has chosen!”

  The chant spreads through the darkness like thunder.

  I barely hear it.

  My eyes move across the arena, searching.

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  Phoenix.

  The edge of the platform.

  The abyss.

  Nothing.

  The Devil steps forward, his smile wide and pleased, his eyes gleaming like polished obsidian.

  “Well done, Azrith.”

  His voice carries easily across the Citadel.

  “You have done what countless warriors before you could not.”

  He gestures toward the weapon in my hand.

  “The Primordial Blade recognizes you.”

  His smile widens further.

  “Hell has a new champion.”

  The crowd roars again.

  I tighten my grip on the weapon. The power inside it pulses once, as if responding to the attention.

  Above the arena, the sky tears open again.

  Two massive presences descend.

  The Lord of Darkness.

  The King of Light.

  Even the roaring demons fall silent.

  The Lord of Darkness watches me with sharp amusement, shadows twisting around his throne of black fire.

  “Interesting,” he says, his voice like cold iron scraping across stone. “A mortal who survived the trials.”

  The King of Light stands beside him, radiant and calm, his golden armor shining even against the darkness of the Citadel. His gaze studies me carefully.

  Then he nods once.

  “Well fought, Azrith.”

  There is respect in his voice.

  But there is something else too.

  Disappointment.

  Perhaps he had hoped someone else would stand here. Perhaps he had hoped it would not be me.

  The Devil laughs softly beside me.

  “You see?” he says loudly. “My champion.”

  Hell erupts again in celebration. Flames burst higher, demons cheering as the Citadel trembles with the noise.

  And yet—

  I am not listening.

  My eyes move across the arena again.

  The broken chain.

  The edge of the platform.

  The endless abyss below.

  Phoenix.

  My chest tightens.

  The Devil notices.

  His smile sharpens.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “You have everything now.”

  His gaze drops briefly to the weapon in my hand.

  “Power. Victory. The admiration of Hell itself.”

  I meet his eyes.

  “Where is she?”

  The Devil raises an eyebrow.

  “Who?”

  “Phoenix.”

  The name feels heavier than the weapon in my hand.

  The Devil chuckles.

  “Ah.”

  He tilts his head slightly.

  “You mean the girl who threw herself into the abyss?”

  My jaw tightens.

  “Yes.”

  The Devil watches me carefully now, curiosity flickering behind his amusement.

  “You stand here with the most powerful weapon forged since the beginning of this world,” he says slowly. “Demons celebrate your victory. The rulers of light and darkness acknowledge you.”

  He leans slightly closer.

  “And yet you are asking me about a girl?”

  A few demons nearby laugh quietly.

  I do not smile.

  “I’m asking,” I say calmly, “where she is.”

  The Devil studies my face for a long moment.

  Then he laughs again.

  Not mocking this time.

  Genuinely entertained.

  “Are you worried about a girl, Azrith?”

  My grip tightens around the Primordial Blade. The weapon hums softly.

  “No,” I say.

  The Devil’s grin grows wider.

  Then I correct him.

  “I’m worried about my girl.”

  Silence spreads across the Citadel.

  Even the flames seem to pause.

  The Devil’s smile slowly widens.

  “Well,” he says softly, “now things are getting interesting.”

  I step forward toward the edge of the platform, toward the abyss where Phoenix disappeared.

  The darkness below swallows the light.

  Endless.

  Bottomless.

  The Primordial Blade burns brighter in my hand.

  I stare into the abyss.

  And for the first time since the trials ended, I make a promise.

  “Phoenix,” I whisper.

  My voice disappears into the darkness below.

  “If you’re still alive…”

  The blade ignites with blazing fire.

  “…I’m coming.”

  The flames of Hell roar louder as I step closer to the edge.

  And the abyss stares back.