Chapter 45 – Scarlet Chorus

  The sky was a ruin of ash and aurora.

  Somewhere in the blur of fractured light and spiraling chaos, Lazaro adjusted his cuffs.

  He didn’t sigh. Didn’t groan. That required energy.

  Instead, he floated half a meter off the shattered ground, arms loose at his sides, like gravity forgot him.

  His coat fluttered in reverse, as though the world had forgotten its rules.

  And then—

  The world screamed.

  The archer fired first. Her arrow tore through the wind, faster than sound could follow.

  It was a silent strike. And then the boom came after, like tearing cloth. Aimed straight for his throat, no arc, no forgiveness.

  Time buckled.

  Lazaro twisted his wrist.

  The arrow bent mid-flight, froze, crumbled, and fell as dust.

  “Third dose?” Lazaro muttered. “You’ll overdose before you impress me.”

  She shot again—three this time.

  One spiraled like a corkscrew of plasma. One vanished halfway. One curved behind him, seeking a blind spot.

  Lazaro exhaled lazily.

  Then came the real problem.

  Ash.

  The ground beneath him howled as if the earth itself recoiled. A presence warped into reality—no sound, only intent.

  She rose from the shadow of the Ancient Weapon, not a demon of envy or desire, but a twisted reflection of both.

  Scarlet-glass eyes.

  Black lightning veins.

  The blade in her hand pulsed like it had a heartbeat of its own.

  Asmodeus was gone.

  This was something else.

  She lunged.

  Lazaro barely moved in time. A hand raised, gravity coiled into his palm.

  Her blade hit it, shattered it—not broke, but devoured.

  His arm snapped back, bones aching, his mind flickering with illusions that weren’t his.

  She whispered in his ear.

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  He turned.

  She was gone.

  No—behind him.

  The sword was already coming down.

  Lazaro yanked the gravity beneath him. He flung himself into the air, a crater forming where he’d just stood.

  Then came the others.

  Three, more broken than the last.

  One spun a staff-blade with one arm, the other cracked a metallic whip. Muscles taut, like a puppet mid-prayer.

  Another dragged two sabers, chained to his wrists, moving like a pendulum on speed.

  The last? Bare hands, but glowing runes carved into his fists.

  When he punched the ground, the earth screamed.

  They converged, silent, instinctive—no words, just hunger.

  Lazaro raised his hand.

  The world tilted.

  He flipped gravity sideways, sent the three off-course—but Ash corrected mid-air, slashing through the fabric of reality itself.

  Her blade grazed his cheek.

  He felt nothing.

  And then came the heat.

  His skin boiled where she’d cut.

  It wasn’t just a blade—it was infection.

  Lazaro muttered a curse older than language, stomped mid-air, and shot himself upward.

  Chains followed.

  Whips.

  Fists.

  Blades.

  He danced.

  It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t clean. It was chaos. Lazaro, dragged out of comfort, forced into speed. Every movement was a reaction, not a choice.

  He twisted time—slowed for a second, then snapped forward. A parry, two strikes backward in time.

  The archer adjusted her aim. She was faster now, eyes fully bloodshot, pupils gone.

  She felt nothing. That made her better.

  One arrow landed.

  Right in his shoulder.

  He flinched. Gravity rippled outward, a pulse.

  The punch guy landed a blow to his ribs, froze mid-strike.

  Lazaro’s time loop locked him in stasis.

  “Stay,” Lazaro grunted.

  But he didn’t have time to finish.

  Ash dropped like a meteor.

  Her blade dug into his gravity veil and sank. His powers folded under the weight. His body burned.

  He screamed.

  He hadn’t screamed in centuries.

  Blood sprayed upward as he dropped. The whip lashed across him mid-fall. The twin sabers cut into his back.

  He twisted. Forced a bubble of inverted force outward.

  It flung them all back—just for a second.

  He landed on one knee. Breathing. Shaking.

  “God,” he muttered. “I hate working.”

  And then it came.

  The sound.

  It wasn’t part of the fight.

  It ended it.

  A screech.

  Far away. Not near. Not from here.

  Like a god dying through a cathedral-sized throat.

  Like madness made audible.

  Everyone stopped.

  Even Ash.

  They turned.

  On the horizon—a silhouette.

  Insectoid. Twisted. Colossal.

  And then the eyes.

  Six of them. Burning gold. Like dying stars on a hellish crown.

  Belzeebub had arrived.

  And he had forgotten what it meant to be human.

  End of Chapter.