Far across the seas, beyond fractured borders and lands long forgotten by light, the continent of Drakhal stirred with old echoes. Smoke and rot danced in the air. The sky itself hung low, red and gray with ash, like a dying god's breath. At the heart of this cursed place stood the obsidian fortress of Mor'Vaereth.
And beneath its crumbling spires, in the blood-washed arena of the Demon Throne, stood a boy.
Abbadon.
Barefoot. Bare-chested. Blade in hand.
His black hair clung to his sweat-slicked forehead, his pale skin a canvas of bruises and dried blood. His eyes—black as void—looked down at the corpse of a demon twice his size. The crowd of warriors roared, their cheers thunderous. Yet Abbadon stood silent, watching the blood drip from his sword with an expression that was almost… joy.
On the obsidian throne above, King Vorthag grinned with serrated pride.
"That is my son."
Abbadon was six when Vorthag first broke his bones.
Not from punishment, but from instruction.
"The world does not gift you power," the demon king had said. "You must rip it from the throats of your enemies."
And so he taught the boy how to form a Demonic Core—a seed of abyssal energy bound to hatred, pain, and the act of violence.
Most demonspawn spent decades forming theirs.
Abbadon forged his in a month.
But not without cost.
The truth of the Demonic Core was cruel: every wound you inflicted upon others would echo back into you.
Vorthag called it a divine curse turned into a blessing.
And Abbadon had smiled through the screams.
Pain, after all, made him stronger.
Because he liked it.
Not because he was a monster—though many called him that—but because deep in his soul, something sacred and broken thrived on it.
The part of him that was not demon.
The part that was angel.
A Nephalem—child of light and rot.
His aura was an abomination.
Priests could not look at him.
Demons bowed when he passed.
A haze of inky black miasma shrouded him like a cloak, tendrils of raw hatred ever-shifting around him. But within that abyssal cloud, stars shimmered—tiny lights of impossible purity.
Holy and unholy.
He was contradiction made flesh.
At eleven, Abbadon had long since surpassed the warriors of Mor'Vaereth. He killed without flinching, but not without feeling. Every slash, every crush of bone, each spell of decay—he felt their agony rip through his nerves. It made his heart race. His breath shallow. But it did not break him.
It forged him.
He welcomed it.
The more he suffered, the more his core pulsed.
He was not like other demons who avoided backlash or sought numbness. Abbadon trained to absorb it. To wield it.
His swordsmanship was brutal, but efficient. No flourish. No wasted movement. He fought like someone who already knew what pain was worth.
Sometimes he laughed in combat.
Sometimes he cried.
But never for mercy.
"Do you feel guilt?" one of the older knights asked him once, after a bout where Abbadon slaughtered four prisoners with chains still on.
Abbadon looked up at him with quiet calm.
"No," he said.
"Then why do you cry when you kill?"
He tilted his head.
"Because I can feel them not wanting to die."
"Then why keep killing?"
"…Because I was born to."
The knight never asked again.
He dreamed of fire.
Not always.
But often enough.
Sometimes a woman in white held him and sang backwards lullabies. Sometimes a silver sword broke in his hand as he stood against winged beings of light. And sometimes… he dreamed of her.
A girl with silver hair.
Crimson eyes.
He never saw her face clearly, but he always knew when she was near.
She was humming.
A melody no one ever sang to him.
And he would hum it back.
"Father," he asked one day, kneeling in the throne chamber, "what do stars feel like?"
King Vorthag raised a brow. "They feel hot, boy. They burn."
"I don't mean their fire."
"Then what?"
"…Their sadness."
Vorthag stared.
But said nothing.
Because even he did not know what his son was becoming.
That night, Abbadon walked the ruined garden of Mor'Vaereth. It was a graveyard of thorns and black ivy, overlooked by broken statues of gods the demons no longer remembered. His footsteps were silent.
He sat beside a cracked fountain and looked into the water.
His reflection stared back—eyes bottomless, flickering with holy glints.
Then another face flickered beside his, just for a heartbeat.
White hair. Red eyes.
The hum returned.
His fingers curled.
His demonic core throbbed, then stilled.
He smiled.
"I'll find you," he whispered to the silence. "Even if I have to tear the world in half to do it."
And across the sea, though she could not hear him, a girl smiled beneath moonlight, her hand brushing over glass.
Humming.
Still humming.
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Status Window — Abbadon
Name: Abbadon
Race: Nephalem (Demon x Angel Hybrid)
Age: 11
Core Type: Demonic Core — Cycle of Agony
Class: Painforged Heir / Dualborn Reaper
Titles:
Son of the Demon King
The Wound That Smiles
Starborn Scourge
The Black Crowned Flame
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Lineage Blessings
Lucifer's Blessing — Holy Star of the Fallen
Grants divine resistance to demonic corruption and the ability to perceive truths beyond illusions.
Passive aura of reversed holiness: hurts the pure, soothes the wicked.
Angelic affinity toward soul structures and anti-miracles.
Vorthag's Inheritance — Throne of Wrath
Amplifies power based on inflicted or received pain.
Can store residual agony as fuel to enhance next action.
Instinctual combat instincts sharpen in high-bloodshed zones.
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Core Mechanic: Demonic Core – Cycle of Agony
A core that thrives on violence and suffering. Every injury Abbadon causes reflects back into his own senses—pain and memory alike. By enduring this feedback, he grows exponentially stronger. The more pain he feels with awareness, the more power he can call upon.
Feedback Type: Emotional and physical.
Amplification Curve: Increases exponentially with consecutive kills or emotional resonance with target.
State: Stable (but emotionally volatile).
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Aura
Hybrid Radiance: A black mist infused with glowing white motes—angelic light corrupted by demonic hatred.
Causes mental confusion or spiritual fear in lesser beings.
Highly reactive to other celestial or abyssal presences.
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Known Techniques
1. Scourge Bloom — A wave of corrupted energy born from stored pain, explodes in a cone of razor miasma.
2. Starbleed Veil — Defensive mist that deflects minor holy or demonic projectiles.
3. Pain Echo — Channels past inflicted wounds into a single vengeful strike.
4. Inverse Blessing — Momentarily suppresses angelic part to allow full demonic rampage (risk: core destabilization).
5. Apostate Grasp — Touch attack that burns away protection-based spells and spiritual barriers.
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Combat Rating
High Intermediate (Potential: Advanced)
In raw power, Abbadon is unmatched for his age. Despite erratic growth, his hybrid nature grants him overwhelming advantages in endurance, aura pressure, and destructive combat—balanced only by mental strain and emotional instability.
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Traits
Pain Resonant Memory — Gains experience from emotional weight behind suffering.
Dualborn Sensitivity — Can feel celestial or infernal presences from great distances.
Crown of Contradiction — Exists at a magical frequency that resists both divine and demonic dominance.
Emotional Conduit — Can unintentionally channel emotional weight of others into magical backlash or defense.