Breaking Will of Eternity

-----Chapter 5: The Devil's Council -----

Deep within the heart of Purgatory, where shadows pulsed like living things and the air reeked of brimstone, a council of darkness gathered. The chamber, carved from obsidian and slick with the essence of torment, stretched endlessly, its ceiling lost in a void of writhing darkness. The walls pulsed with an eerie glow, veins of molten fire snaking through them like a breathing organism. A table, vast and jagged, stood at the center, formed from the shattered bones of fallen gods. Around it, seated on thrones sculpted from suffering itself, were the highest demons of the underworld.

A thick tension lingered in the air, a pressure so dense that lesser beings would have crumbled beneath it. For the first time in eons, the balance of the realms had shifted, and they, the masters of ruin, now had a choice to make.

Balgrith, the Warlord of Annihilation, moved first. His form, towering and monstrous, radiated raw destruction. His skin was a fusion of molten rock and blackened steel, his very presence causing the table beneath his massive hands to crack. When he spoke, it was as if the earth itself groaned under his voice.

"Enough deliberation. The gods will act, and so must we. They will attempt to mend the rift, to guide the mortals back into their embrace. I say we shatter their hopes before they can even take root. We march upon the Lower Realm and leave nothing but ash!"

His declaration sent a ripple through the chamber, but not all shared his hunger for immediate devastation.

A slow chuckle echoed from the opposite side of the table. Izerion, the Whisperer, leaned back in his seat, his silver eyes gleaming with amusement. Slender fingers traced the rim of a goblet filled with thick, dark ichor. Where Balgrith embodied raw destruction, Izerion was the embodiment of corruption—an artist who worked in lies, a sculptor whose hands twisted fate itself.

"And what then, oh great destroyer?" he mused, taking a slow sip. "You burn their homes, crush their cities, slaughter their weak... and in doing so, you hand the gods exactly what they need."

Balgrith's molten gaze narrowed.

"Explain yourself, snake," he growled.

"Gladly." Izerion set his goblet down, leaning forward with a smile sharp enough to cut. "When mortals are destroyed, they do not despair. They do not curse their gods. No, my dear Balgrith, they become martyrs. They become symbols of resistance. And in death, their faith in the heavens will burn brighter than ever."

The chamber fell into silence, a silence thick with contemplation. Balgrith's fists clenched, the metal of his gauntlets groaning under his grip, but he did not immediately counter. Even he, in his thirst for war, knew there was truth in Izerion's words.

From the shadows, another voice drifted into the space like a poisoned lullaby. Velmora, the Mistress of Illusions, let out a quiet, amused hum. Her form was ever-shifting, a mirage of flickering beauty and horror, her silhouette bending and twisting like mist caught in unseen currents.

"Perhaps we do not need mindless destruction," she murmured, her voice layered with eerie echoes. "Perhaps we let them destroy themselves."

Balgrith turned to her, his scowl deepening, but she continued before he could interrupt.

"Think, dear warlord. If we descend upon them in fire and rage, the gods will have an easy enemy to rally against. But if we plant the seeds of doubt, if we turn the mortals against their so-called saviors, then we will have already won before the first blade is drawn."

She leaned forward, fingers gliding over the bone-carved table as if tracing the strings of fate itself.

"We send whispers before we send fire. False prophets to lead them astray. Miracles that crumble into curses. Kings driven mad by paranoia. Let their trust in the gods rot from within, so that when the heavens finally reach out to them… they slap the hand away themselves."

Balgrith's scowl did not fade, but his silence was enough to show he was considering it. A slow, wicked grin spread across Izerion's lips.

"So we are agreed," he said, voice smooth as silk.

Balgrith exhaled sharply, but then nodded.

"A twofold strike," he muttered. "First, we corrupt. Then, we annihilate."

The council fell into grim agreement. Without another word, they rose as one and made their way toward the towering doors at the far end of the chamber.

Beyond them lay the throne room of their lord.

The doors swung open with a sound like shattering mountains, revealing a space that defied logic itself. The Devil's throne room was endless and finite at once, an abyss where time and space bled into one another. The walls were woven from shadows deeper than night, shifting with every heartbeat. The air was thick, oppressive, heavy with a power that coiled around the soul like unseen chains.

At the center of it all sat the Devil himself.

He was an enigma, his form ever-shifting yet unchanging. Eyes like twin stars burning with malice regarded his subordinates with amusement, his lips curled into the faintest smirk. His very presence was suffocating, an unspoken reminder that here, in this realm, he was not merely a king—he was everything.

The demons kneeled before him.

Izerion spoke first.

"My Lord, we have come to a decision."

The Devil tilted his head, a silent invitation to continue.

Velmora stepped forward.

"We will let the mortals destroy themselves first," she purred. "We will send whispers before we send war. Let them turn on one another. Let their faith crumble into dust. And when they are weak…"

Balgrith finished her sentence.

"We will burn whatever remains."

The Devil's gaze swept across them, lingering on each in turn. And then, slowly, he chuckled. It was a sound like the grinding of the universe's bones, like the dying breath of forgotten gods.

"Good." His voice was soft, yet it carried across the room like a decree carved into the very fabric of existence. He leaned forward, resting his chin upon his knuckles, amusement dancing in his infernal eyes.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

He smiled, and the room darkened.

"Prepare."

Purgatory roared to life.

The underworld, once stagnant and brooding, became a hive of motion. Legion upon legion of demons stirred from their slumber, their blades forged anew in the rivers of torment. The Weavers of Plague wove sickness into existence, curses laced into every breath of air. The Shadow Priests raised their hands to the abyss, summoning false gods and hollow miracles to deceive the desperate. War beasts, long shackled, shattered their chains, their roars shaking the very foundations of the realm.

From the depths of darkness, the Devil's emissaries began their march.

And above it all, upon his throne of ruin, the Devil watched with a knowing smile.

"Let the gods believe they still have a chance," he murmured. "Let them whisper of hope."

His eyes gleamed as the first shadow passed through the veil, stepping into the unsuspecting world.

"For soon, it will be nothing but dust."

---

Just as the demons reached their decision, a sudden, eerie tremor shook the very fabric of the cosmos. In an instant, the universe itself seemed to rebel—scattering stars, worlds, and the essence of life into disarray. The familiar order that held the realms together wavered, replaced by a wild chaos that swept through every corner of existence, leaving gods, the demons and mortals alike to confront a new, overwhelming uncertainty.