Kael-Terun had its spires of iron and towers of marble, but far across the world, there was a different capital—Vorthaal, the Throne of Ash. Built into the hollow ribcage of an ancient behemoth god, long dead and fossilized, it stood as a monument to demonkind's hunger and fury. There was no sky above Vorthaal, only volcanic smoke and embers, always red, always burning.
In its center stood the Crimson Coliseum, where blood was spilled daily, not for spectacle—but for survival.
Abbadon was six.
And today, he killed his fifth demon.
The crowd didn't roar. They watched with reverence, with an awe that blurred the line between fear and worship. The coliseum was ancient stone and bone, littered with the fallen weapons of thousands of years. But the boy stood in the center of it barefoot, untouched by rust or blade.
The adolescent demon he'd just fought still twitched at his feet, a blade lodged in his throat. Abbadon had not screamed during the fight. He had not laughed. He did not cry. He only moved—like instinct poured into muscle. His small chest rose and fell as black blood stained the earth.
He turned his eyes to the throne above.
Vorthag the Godsplitter, King of the Rotlands, sat cloaked in skin-forged armor, his crown a wreath of horn and jawbone. His mouth split into a smile. His eyes gleamed.
"My son," he whispered to the demon priest beside him. "A child of pact and purpose."
Below, Abbadon raised his head—not to look at his father, but to the statue of Lucifer, carved into obsidian glass at the coliseum's edge. She had no face, only wings. She had given him power not with touch, but through blood. His birth was unnatural. Unholy. Perfect.
He felt her even now, a whisper through his veins:
"You are what they cannot imagine. Be the extinction they deserve."
And so, he trained. Every day since he could walk. He read languages that hadn't been spoken in a thousand years. He memorized war formations before he could write his name. He was fed on ash-meat, magic roots, and liquid fire.
And today, as he stepped over the corpse, a new feeling stirred in his gut. Not joy. Not guilt.
A strange emptiness.
"Next!" came the growl of the arena master, a demon covered in living chains.
The gates creaked open. Two more adolescents entered. Bigger. Older. One carried a bone scythe. The other had teeth all along his arms.
Abbadon didn't flinch.
He didn't wait.
In a flash, he closed the distance to the first, ducked a wild swing, and stabbed upward into the armpit—a vulnerable seam. The demon shrieked, but only for a second. The second was silenced with a kick to the neck.
The second opponent hesitated. That was all Abbadon needed.
He pounced like a predator, landed on his shoulders, grabbed the demon's twin horns, and with unnatural strength, twisted.
Crack.
The body dropped like a sack of meat.
Abbadon stood again. Breathing heavily now. But still no injury. Still no celebration. Just the silence of understanding.
Above, Vorthag rose to his feet. His voice, like rocks grinding under thunder, echoed:
> "Let this be known—my son will lead the extinction."
The crowd began to chant his name. "Abbadon! Abbadon! Abbadon!"
Their claws slammed against the stone. Blood rites were ignited. A thousand demons howled their approval.
But in the boy's heart, there was only a quiet question.
"Is this all I am?"
Not because he doubted his purpose. He didn't. He felt it in every bone. But for a moment, he remembered something he should never have known—something soft, like a breeze in a place that had no wind.
A hum.
Just a whisper.
It was gone before he could catch it, but it echoed strangely. He could feel it pulling at him, not backward, not forward—but inward.
---
That night, Abbadon knelt before the shrine of Lucifer.
He did not pray. He never prayed. He listened.
And the shrine responded, as it always did, not with light, not with fire, but with a voice that was colder than winter and deeper than oceans.
> "You are the beginning of the end, my child. There will be others. The war is older than you. You were never meant to be innocent."
> "I am not afraid," Abbadon whispered.
> "You will be."
Lucifer's presence coiled around him like a shadowcloak, neither comforting nor cruel—just real.
A whispering touch along his mind.
> "A tyrant has birthed a miracle. And angels have sewn their seeds. You are not alone. But you will make sure that they wish they were."
---
Back in the palace, Vorthag sat by his war-table, runes glowing with future movements and kingdom culling. A general spoke of human rebellions. Another of angelic interference.
But Vorthag raised a single clawed hand. He smiled.
"My son will handle it."
And in his mind, he saw the day when Kael-Terun would burn.
Not with demonfire. But with purpose.
And at its center, Abbadon—not yet a king.
But already a weapon.