Chapter 51 - Scales of Hell

Beyond that apocalyptic panorama, Alfons' armor resembled a demonic eastern god, poised to deliver divine judgment upon Lazrael. The latter only stared, entranced by the dark majesty before him. Those skeletal limbs writhed behind Alfons' back, thirsty for blood; that infernal mask dripped with the essence of destruction itself.

"Mukade no Yokai... Sounds like something from the northwestern isles of the mortals' supercontinent. Furazani Island, the place where the titanic centipedes feast upon the hatred of the dead. I never thought you'd possess such a thing, much less fuse its essence with the Third Circle Guardian's Lagus, Leviathel. I'd wager those legs behind your back are starving for my blood, considering Leviathel was a grotesque glutton who devoured children and pregnant women," Lazrael said with a twisted tone of admiration.

Alfons stood silent and motionless, his gaze fixed on Lazrael while the hiss of molten stone echoed around them.

"You're the reason I had to bring them back from the dead," Lazrael continued. "I'll admit, Alfons, you did a fine job tearing their bodies apart... except one. One mistake that cost you the power you've coveted for centuries."

Alfons didn't reply. He didn't even blink.

"Anadir... Perhaps you were tired, that'd be understandable. Or maybe... you just weren't strong enough."

At that, Alfons' right arm morphed into a massive blade and sliced through the air at terrifying speed. For a moment, nothing happened, then five colossal cannons split cleanly in half. Their remains crashed down upon the scorched earth as Lazrael's crimson eyes followed the motion with a smirk.

"Impressive," he said, gesturing for the remaining cannons to open fire.

Before they could, the ribs on Alfons' back extended outward like the limbs of a great octopus, lashing toward the weapons with inhuman speed, ripping them apart before they could even power up. His arm returned to normal. He spread both arms wide as if proclaiming himself a god, the ribbed tendrils behind him weaving outward like a spider's web, lifting him into the smoky sky.

The debris of shattered cannons rained to the ground. Alfons raised his left hand toward Lazrael, commanding the ribs to surge forward.

"Draken Ragna — Mutuëa Fazahen!"

The ground beneath them erupted as if Lazrael himself had sown a field of mines. The ribs shattered, some breaking apart, but others pressed on, slicing through the smoke toward their prey. Lazrael didn't dodge. Instead, he opened his arms wide, welcoming the attack.

Realizing something was wrong, Alfons tried to redirect the tendrils, but it was too late. Lazrael caught one in his bare hands.

"Draken Ragna — Kona Rai Masro!"

The rib began to detonate along its length, each explosion rolling closer to Alfons. In response, Alfons transformed his left arm into a sword and sliced the rib apart before the blast reached him. The pieces fell to the ground, erupting in a chain of fiery bursts.

He summoned more ribs from his back, launching them toward Lazrael's left flank.

"Draken Ragna — Jahan Nama!"

Like a dragon awakened, Lazrael exhaled a torrent of fire that scorched the battlefield, melting the oncoming ribs. But suddenly, dozens more erupted from the ground behind him.

"What the hell?"

"Just a distraction," Alfons muttered.

The ribs impaled Lazrael through the back, abdomen, legs, and arms.

"Khhhaack!" Lazrael coughed blood.

The tendrils lifted his body into the air, thrashing him violently, stabbing, tearing, splitting him apart like a tortured marionette. One rib pierced through his skull, blood cascading from the wound like a crimson waterfall.

Alfons stood below, eyes cold as iron, watching the gruesome dance performed by his own creation, the centipede-like limbs writhing behind his demonic armor. Lazrael hung crucified upon them. But then, a mouth opened on his abdomen.

"Hmm!?" Alfons narrowed his eyes.

"Draken Ragna — Batada Yiaka!" the mouth roared.

Steam burst forth with unbearable heat and pressure, forcing the ribs to recoil and melt away. The vapor thickened, glowing with a blinding white fury, consuming everything around it.

"Tch!" Alfons grimaced.

Lazrael's body regenerated completely, flesh reknitting, wounds sealing as if he had never been touched. He landed lightly on the scorched earth, unharmed.

"I knew the cockroaches were durable," Alfons said, his voice edged with irony. "But not that durable."

Lazrael shed his tattered coat and blood-soaked shirt, revealing a lean, muscular body glistening with heat.

"Alfons," he said, "I'd suggest you change that armor."

"How kind o' ye, givin' me advice in the middle o' a bloody war," Alfons replied, his voice carrying that low Scottish rasp.

"I think I've toyed with you long enough," Lazrael said, eyes blazing scarlet. "Now you die."

He drew from his pocket a small metallic sphere plated in gold. It unfolded, and began absorbing the green from his hair until it gleamed with the same metallic hue.

"Bastard," Alfons growled. "Ye haven't changed a damn bit since the day ye slaughtered my family."

"Be grateful, Alfons," Lazrael sneered. "I gave your life meaning."

Alfons severed the remaining ribs from his back and landed on the ground, face to face with his nemesis. Lazrael raised both fists, taking a martial stance. Alfons morphed both arms into massive blades, crossing them before him like a knight preparing to charge. Behind Lazrael, two draconic wings unfolded, dark crimson scales shimmering, each tendon tipped with cruel talons.

"Can't remember the last time I saw a dragon's wings," Alfons muttered.

Lazrael took flight with divine fury, the shockwave of his ascent tearing the land beneath him apart. Alfons leapt upward to meet him, the force of his takeoff leaving a crater in his wake.

They clashed midair. The shriek of colliding blades screamed across the skies, each strike spawning storms of lightning and quakes that split the world below. The ground shattered, swallowed by the abyss they had created. Their power was titanic, beyond reason, beyond mortality.

Both were thrown back, Lazrael hovering, Alfons landing upon a jagged rock. Beneath them churned an ocean of molten fire, glowing like the heart of hell itself.

"You've done it," Alfons said, his voice cold as steel. "Ye've turned the world o' the livin' into a bloody hell."

Lazrael rose higher above the lava sea. Alfons lunged after him, his leap obliterating the rock beneath, sending it tumbling into the molten depths. Lazrael dove down at breakneck speed, meeting him midair. Their blades clashed once more, unleashing a blinding thunderstrike that crashed into the molten sea below.

Lazrael pursued as Alfons fell toward the lava, ready to finish him. But Alfons conjured his ribs again, latching onto the cliffside like a spider's web, halting his fall.

"Draken Ragna — Jahan Nama!"

Once more, Lazrael unleashed a colossal wave of fire from his mouth, his breath engulfing the horizon, turning the sky and earth into one endless inferno. Lava and flame, the twin sisters of apocalypse, devoured everything.

"Tch! I've got no choice then," Alfons muttered, slicing his ribs apart with his own blade.

He let himself fall into the burning sea.

"No! I won't let you!" Lazrael roared, diving after him.

He caught up within seconds, just as Alfons looked up at him, calm amid the chaos.

"Ye were right, Lazrael," Alfons said with a grim smile. "I needed a new armor..."

Note: The structure of the mortal supercontinent, Zagros, closely resembled that of Pangaea, the supercontinent that once existed on planet Earth roughly 250 million years ago. The correlation between the shapes of these two landmasses likely has to do with Earth itself, for as explained at the beginning of this tale, the fantasies of humankind from Earth gave birth to this world. As such, coincidences of this kind are perfectly natural.

What is not natural, however, in this world teeming with fantastical elements, is the way the mortal nations that inhabit it are organized. It is also worth emphasizing the resemblance between the name of the mortals' supercontinent and that of the angels' capital kingdom, Saint Zagra. No, it is not a coincidence that these two names sound strikingly similar. Angels are the most revered of the divine beings, held in the highest regard by mortals. Out of faith, reverence, and hope in their benevolence and divine deeds, all mortal nations agreed by consensus that the vast land they shared would bear the name Zagros, a word whose etymology derives directly from Saint Zagra.

Now, allow me to describe the geographical distribution of these nations across this colossal expanse of land. At the southern edge of the supercontinent lay the Nation of Hybrids. To its southeast and northwest borders stretched the lands of the Goblins and Titans, both of which vanished long ago under mysterious circumstances. At the center of the supercontinent was the Elven Kingdom, which suffered catastrophic losses in both population and infrastructure as a result of the vampire invasion. In the northeastern reaches lived the Dark Elves, who, curiously, remained untouched by the actions of those blood-drinking creatures.

The Human Nation, the largest of all mortal nations, extended across the southwestern and northwestern territories. Meanwhile, in the far northeast stood the Vampire Dominion, a realm where sunlight was scarce, making it an ideal refuge for their kind.

Flanking the supercontinent were two vast oceans: the Masagenba Ocean to the east and the Mahalapre Ocean to the west. Each was filled with thousands of islands, every one of them unique, home to distinct creatures and diverse cultures, most of which had never come into contact with the outside world.

The intellect of mortals was far inferior to that of divine beings; their magic, faint and limited. The earth itself, the soil beneath their feet, was fragile beneath the wrath of the gods. The only power mortals truly possessed was faith: to believe in a better tomorrow, a future sanctified by the pride and grace of the celestial beings.

For more detailed descriptions of the world of the mortals, the narrative shall guide you through them as this epic tale of fantasy unfolds...

Forty human merchants were traveling in horse-drawn caravans, transporting their goods northward toward the city of Alran, in the northern reaches of the Hybrid Kingdom. The journey had been long and exhausting. Within their wagons lay silks, corn, milk, silver, and weapons, goods they hoped to sell for a modest profit to improve their simple lives.

"Hmm? Is it just me, or is it getting a bit warm around here?" one of the merchants asked, wiping his brow.

"Maybe there's a fire deep in the woods," another replied.

"Must be a few kilometers away," a third suggested.

They continued their route, curiosity piqued by the growing heat. But the further they went, the stranger it became, trees were scorched, animals lay dead, suffocated by an unbearable wave of heat. The merchants began to wipe their sweat with damp cloths and took sips of water from their flasks.

"What in the blazes happened here? This can't be a normal fire," one muttered, bewildered.

They pressed on, until they stopped dead in their tracks.

"Oh, merciful heavens..."

"By the gods..."

"Agh'Urunda himself has come to curse us!"

Before them stretched a monstrous sea of lava, its horizon unreachable to the human eye. Tens of thousands of square kilometers of land had been turned into a molten wasteland. The bubbling mass groaned and hissed with the echoes of countless creatures that had been burned and dissolved within it.

"We have to inform King Patrick Silva the Fifteenth. This... this is catastrophic," said one of the merchants.

"Wait! What's that?" another asked, pointing toward the sky.

The rest followed his gesture, eyes squinting at the crimson speck rapidly approaching.

"What the hell is that?"

"It's a meteor! Run! RUN!"

Panic erupted. The merchants screamed and fled, but it was far too late. The fiery shape tore across the sky, its passing pressure alone melting everything in its path. In an instant, the merchants, their wagons, horses, and wares were reduced to nothing but glowing ash, obliterated before they even realized their fate.

The red figure streaked onward like a meteor possessed by rage and hunger. In the distance, the city of Strixina loomed, nestled just south of the Human Kingdom's borders, near the lands of the Hybrids. A bustling trade city, it was the heart of commerce between mortals and hybrids alike.

From atop the city walls, guards noticed the crimson light hurtling toward them.

"Something's coming! Something's coming!"

They rang the great iron bell, sounding the alarm across the city. But before anyone could react, the red figure tore through the walls like paper, melting the guards alive in an instant. It surged through houses, marketplaces, and streets, its fury unrelenting. People screamed, running in every direction like terrified ants. Buildings collapsed, crushing and burning anyone who tried to escape. The city was consumed by chaos.

Then, at last, the red figure crashed into a livestock stable, obliterating part of it in a burst of flame and smoke. The explosion quieted the city for a moment. Everyone waited, trembling, to see what had fallen from the heavens.

A battalion of roughly seventy soldiers cautiously approached the smoking ruin. The thick haze swirled violently as a sudden gust erupted from within, forcing the soldiers to shield their faces. Footsteps echoed through the dust.

"W–Who's there?!" one soldier stammered. "Show yourself!"

The footsteps grew louder. The soldiers swallowed hard, gripping their spears and swords tighter as sweat rolled down their faces. Scaled wings emerged first, massive and black-green. Then came short green hair... and eyes like crimson fire.

It was Lazrael.

His very presence sent a shiver down every soldier's spine, a pressure so immense it felt divine. Lazrael stepped out from the stable, and instinctively, the soldiers parted to make way, trembling as if guided by fear itself. His gaze swept across the ruined city, taking in the details in silence. Then he looked back at the soldiers with chilling calm.

"Cikin alummar kasanka dra motrane," he muttered unconsciously in the language of dragons. "I'm in the land of men."

"What... what language is that? I've never heard it before," one soldier whispered.

"You there," Lazrael said suddenly, in perfect human speech.

"M–Me?" the soldier squeaked, frozen in place.

"Step closer," Lazrael commanded.

The others exchanged fearful glances as the trembling soldier obeyed.

"In which city am I?" Lazrael asked.

"S–Stri... Strixina," the man stammered.

"Sai Ina kudu..." Lazrael murmured. "So, I'm in the south." He wiped his mouth with a gloved finger, then paused.

He stared at the blood on his fingertip.

"What the... Who are you? You have no right to enter here without giving us an explanation!" shouted another soldier.

"He's right! Speak, stranger!" others joined in, emboldened.

"He doesn't look like anyone from these parts. King Patrick Silva XV will want to see this man," said a third soldier.

Lazrael ignored them all, still staring at the blood on his finger.

"Tch. Za biya ku yadaëa, Alfons. Namaka za yaha cikin zuha har sai ka fara, sabodi radata kuka."
(You'll pay dearly, Alfons. I'll tear your flesh apart until you weep from agony.)

He spat the blood at the soldier's feet. The man burst into flames immediately, burned alive by the sheer heat emanating from Lazrael's disdain.

"You'll pay for that!" shouted one soldier.

"Kill him! KILL HIM!"

Dozens rushed forward, overcoming their terror. Lazrael didn't even glance at them. He simply walked, calm, unhurried. Yet, with each step, soldiers vanished into nothingness, their weapons and armor dissolving as if reality itself rejected their existence. It was as though an elephant had trampled a swarm of ants, effortless, merciless.

Lazrael had demonstrated, in the simplest way possible, the gap between a god and the mortal. The sight sent civilians fleeing again, terrified they'd share the soldiers' fate. Archers fired from rooftops, but their arrows melted in midair before reaching him.

"This... this can't be! He's literally a god!" cried one archer, his morale shattered.

Lazrael continued his advance, until an explosion thundered several buildings away.

"He's finally here... the bastard," Lazrael muttered.

From the smoke emerged a glow of blue flame. The ground trembled as the light drew closer—then a figure stepped forth.

It was Alfons.

"Armor Number Five — Lahavot Eisha," he declared.

The armor was deep, dark blue, its surface carved with runes that flickered like molten veins. His face was completely obscured, enclosed within a helmet woven from twisted, demonic strands of black metal that bound him like a prisoner within his own power. Upon his shoulders rested the twin skulls of Markhor beasts, from which hung a long, shadowed cloak. The very air around him burned with unholy energy, far stronger, far more fearsome than that of his third armor.

"This is your fault, Lazarus," Alfons said, his voice carrying that unmistakable roughness of a Highlander. "Ye gave me this cursed advice... but don't ye dare think ye can escape yer fate so easily."

Lazrael smirked. "I've always wanted to test myself against the might of the Magrael's fire."

Their eyes locked, one glowing blue beneath his mask, the other burning crimson in his fury. The air between them cracked, trembling beneath the weight of their divine wrath...