In the deepest pit of the Abyssal Sanctum, the Hell King stood still, surrounded by silence so vast it seemed to press against the very bones of reality.
Flames—black as night and cold as death—danced around his form, casting flickers of light across walls carved from the corpses of fallen angels. Every surface pulsed with demonic scripture, ancient marks etched by forgotten gods in a war long buried beneath mortal history.
A figure entered the chamber.
Lucian Kaelion—face unmasked, eyes glowing with a crimson hue that had not been there a week ago.
He didn't kneel.
The Hell King looked upon him, and where another would have disintegrated under the weight of that gaze, Lucian stood firm.
"You've returned," the Hell King said, voice like crumbling stone.
Lucian tossed a scorched talisman onto the floor. "Vault XI has been cleared. No resistance. The cultists guarding it died easily."
The Hell King grinned, lips pulling back over shattered teeth. "Then you have it."
Lucian raised his hand—and from the shadows, a shape began to form.
It wasn't a sword. Not really.
More like a shard of something far greater.
A hilt without a blade, etched with celestial glyphs that flickered between holy and hellish. Its core vibrated with an unstable hum, as though containing a scream that hadn't yet escaped.
"The first Hollow Frame," Lucian whispered. "A failed Heaven Key."
"Not failed," the Hell King corrected. "Unwanted. Rejected by its creator. That makes it all the more powerful."
Lucian turned the artifact in his hands. The hilt pulsed with his touch, reacting to the Kaelion bloodline.
"How many more?" he asked.
"Six," the Hell King said. "One for every plane the heavens abandoned."
Lucian's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then I'll burn the sky down one realm at a time."
The chamber pulsed.
Suddenly, the wall to their right shimmered—and a demon general stepped through the veil. Cloaked in armor forged from soulsteel, the creature bowed before them.
"Lord Lucian. The Inferna Cadre reports movement near the Iron Marsh. The girl survived Vault XIII."
Lucian's jaw tightened. "Syra."
The Hell King tilted his head. "She was supposed to die."
"She didn't," Lucian replied. "And worse—he's with her."
"Author?"
Lucian nodded. "He gave her a book. Something old."
The Hell King growled. "He plays both sides. Always has."
"I'll deal with him," Lucian said. "Once the next Hollow Frame is secured."
He turned and walked toward the exit of the sanctum, the artifact still pulsing in his hand. But as he reached the archway, the Hell King called out—
"You carry power, boy. But remember: only I hold the chain."
Lucian stopped.
Then looked over his shoulder.
"For now," he said softly.
And left.
Elsewhere — Hunter Academy
Syra sat beneath a broken archway, journal in hand.
Riven snored softly nearby, arms crossed and head tilted.
Kaien stood watch, as always.
But Syra… Syra read.
The pages of the Author's book weren't just ink and paper. They spoke. They moved. Sometimes they vanished only to reappear in a different order.
One passage had burned itself into her memory:
"When the first Hollow Frame awakens, the Hunt will begin. The world will forget time. And those without purpose will be rewritten."
Syra didn't know what that meant exactly.
But she felt it.
In her blood. In her soul.
The rules were changing.
She slammed the book shut and looked at Kaien.
"We have to move."
Kaien nodded. "Where?"
"Where the next flame lights."
A beacon had flared hours ago—across the Vireskar Mountains, in a city built atop ruins no one dared speak of.
Kaien asked, "You think Lucian's going for another Hollow Frame?"
"I don't think," Syra replied. "I know."
Riven groaned awake. "Can I at least get some breakfast first?"
Back in the Abyss
The Hell King walked deeper into the Sanctum—into a vault that none, not even Lucian, had seen.
He placed his hand on an altar of shattered halos.
The floor split open.
From below, a massive skeleton rose—wreathed in eternal shadow. Its head was crowned with rusted keys and its spine was fused with weapons.
The Hell King stared at it for a long time.
"Soon, old friend," he whispered. "The frame will be complete. And we will rewrite everything."
To Be Continued...