Chapter Twelve (and a half) - The Abyss Beckons

Joshua stood alone, poised at a crossroads where duty eclipsed self-preservation. He was no longer quite as he had been, his immortal form now enmeshed with Ettskinnavstål (Skin) - a living suit of abyss-resistant armour forged from the alien brilliance of Stålmannen’s domain. That battle, fought in the deep shadows of Stålmannen’s world, had altered more than the course of a war. It had changed Joshua. The suit, fluid and metallic, had fused perfectly with his body - its essence woven into his bones, its will entwined with his own.

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Now, on the cusp of the Abyss, Joshua prepared for a descent that would sever him from everything he knew. He did not descend alone - Skin, now more than armour, more than tool, was a sentient partner, a silent whisper of resolve clinging to him in both mind and flesh. Together, they would descend into a void few dared to name.

​

He stood in the Grand Plaza before the Cathedral of the Serpent - a vast concourse within the Courts of Chaos. It was a place steeped in ceremony and authority, bounded on one side by the yawning Abyss and on others by the gates of the Royal Palace, the towering cathedral, and the spires of civil governance. It was the heart of Chaos - a place where serpentine dogma and royal power warily coexisted.

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But now, something had changed.

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The edge of the Abyss, once an open wound into nothingness, had been fenced off. Not with steel, nor stone - but with sorcery. There shimmered a field of translucent magical force, a defensive veil engineered not by the Crown, but by the Church of the Serpent. Its purpose was unmistakable: to deny access to the Abyss to all who might seek its secrets. A reaction, no doubt, to Joshua’s prior journey to its depths - a warning and a barrier in one.

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Cloaked in invisibility, Joshua wandered unnoticed through the shifting throng. The plaza teemed with activity, murmuring with tension. Chaos Lords and Serpent priests argued openly; ancient faces sparked recognition in his mind from lifetimes past. He saw dignitaries loyal to the royal court squaring off against zealous members of the Church. Heated exchanges, suppressed duels, and psychic protests buzzed faintly in the aether. He had lived lifetimes in Chaos, and still - this felt new. Unstable. On the brink.

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Choosing a quiet corner near a discreet café, Joshua sat beneath an awning, adopted a nondescript disguise, and pulled his Trumps. One card slid into his hand with familiarity: Suhuy, the timeless sorcerer and enigmatic advisor of Chaos. His finger traced the card’s edge.

The connection flared.

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Suhuy’s image resolved with his usual stoic expression. He did not flinch at Joshua’s altered form.

“What’s happening in the Courts?” Joshua asked, his tone neutral but probing.

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The ancient man sighed. “The Church of the Serpent and the royal court are accelerating toward open conflict. The line once tread carefully has been crossed too many times. The situation is deteriorating.”

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Joshua's gaze lingered on the barrier at the Abyss’s edge. “There’s a magical barrier around the Abyss now. Did you have any part in it?”

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Suhuy shook his head. “No. That is the Church’s work. I never had much to do with the Abyss, save for its more… interesting inhabitants. But no, this is the Church’s decree made manifest. They are emboldened in ways they never would have dared even a century ago. That is a large part of the tension you sense. The Crown is… displeased.”

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“And if someone breached that barrier?” Joshua asked.

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“If they were caught,” Suhuy replied, “there would be consequences.”

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“For whom?”

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“For them alone, unless there was an obvious connection to others.”

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Joshua nodded. “Good.”

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Suhuy frowned slightly. “Joshua… what are you planning?”

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“There’s something I have to do,” he said. “Something only I can do. I have to go into the Abyss. Properly. This isn’t a scouting mission. This maybe the end of the road.”

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“You’ll not return,” Suhuy warned flatly. “The Abyss does not give up its secrets freely. You will be tainted. There is no recovery from Abyssal infection. It will kill you, in days or decades, but you will die.”

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“Then I’ll find a way to report back before that happens.”

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“You speak of self-sacrifice. This is not bravery - it is finality.”

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“There is no other path. The threat is too large. If we don’t understand what’s coming… we won’t survive it.”

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The silence between them hung for several seconds. Then Suhuy relented.

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“If you are determined, come to me. I will take you past their barrier.”

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Joshua nodded. “Bring me through.”

 

Suhuy’s hand emerged from the Trump, and Joshua stepped through.

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They stood in a narrow corridor, thick with enchantments. The air shimmered faintly - each surface etched with warding runes, the bones of some vast and secret protection. The route they walked was labyrinthine, turning through half-familiar tunnels and halls that may not have seen the tread of a single foot in centuries.

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Suhuy moved with solemn precision, unlocking sealed doors with whispered incantations that crackled and pulsed with his personal signature. Each layer was older, deeper, more private than the last - until finally, they emerged onto a narrow stone balcony, set perhaps fifty feet below the plaza level.

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The barrier shimmered above them. But here, it did not reach.

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The Abyss waited below. A vertical yawn into nothingness.

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“You can leap from here,” Suhuy said, folding his arms. “The barrier ends at the plaza above. It will not stop you.”

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“Thank you,” Joshua replied. “If you see your favourite student, tell her this is the road I’ve taken. I may not be able to send a message back… but I will try.”

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Suhuy’s expression didn’t change, but his tone grew grave. “I’m sure she’ll be… delighted… to hear of your suicide.”

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There was no embrace, no sentimental farewell. Instead, Suhuy gave him a gesture of parting - an old sign, one Joshua recognized. It was a signal used when parting with someone you did not expect to see again. There was something ceremonial about it. Final.

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Then Suhuy left, locking the doors behind him.

 

Alone, Joshua took a breath and prepared. There were rites to perform, but not in the religious sense. Personal rites. Warrior’s rites. A goodbye to self.

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And then, a flare of rebellious inspiration.

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He raised a hand, whispering a complex spell. High above, in the monochrome sky of Chaos - where the heavens spun like oil in water - fire bloomed. A message, inscribed in pyrotechnic fury:

“Beware the false prophets of the Church!”

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Then, without hesitation, he leapt.

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He soared beyond the ledge, arcing outward over the Abyss for all the plaza to see. Shouts rang out, some of outrage, others of astonishment. The moment burned itself into memory. And then - he dropped.

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He plummeted.

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The event horizon of the Abyss rippled around him like a skin. As he passed through, he saw an echo of himself etched into the rim above - his form fixed in place, like a metaphysical watermark. A part of him remained. The rest fell.

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And the Abyss took him.

 

The descent was unlike anything Joshua had ever experienced - not falling through air, not plummeting in space. This was falling through non-reality. The Abyss was not simply a void; it was an anti-place, a devourer of meaning and shape. Gravity, time, direction - all became meaningless in moments.

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Around him, the blackness pressed in - not oppressive in the usual sense, but uncanny, dislocating. He became aware of lightless colours, of patterns without form, shifting without direction. Things moved - not things he could describe, but impressions, entities that weren’t fully there. The senses rebelled.

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Joshua attempted to activate his camouflage, to become invisible again. He reached for that familiar psychic technique, willing himself into translucency. But almost immediately, the Abyss rejected the gesture. The air - if it could be called that - clung to him, thick as tar, slowing him, pulling at him. The magic that kept him hidden began to erode.

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“I can sense the change,” Skin said, for the first time since the leap. Its voice was calm, resonant - not in his ears, but in his skull, his thoughts. “But I will handle this.”

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Even as it spoke, Joshua felt Skin shift across his flesh. The metallic sheen dulled and then absorbed all light, like Vantablack made sentient. He became a hole in the dark, lightless in a realm of shadow.

Skin added, “You are now unseeable. Not invisible. Not shielded. Simply… unrenderable.”

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Even that concept made his stomach churn. There was no hiding here by normal means. Camouflage itself had to be redefined.

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Shapes flickered in and out of his vision. Some were vaguely humanoid - others contorted into configurations that no body could have taken willingly. He saw the remains of others who had fallen - other divers into the Abyss. Some hovered nearby, suspended in the slow stew of unreality, their bodies bloated or skeletal, faces frozen in rictuses of agony or madness.

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Some looked recent. Some looked ancient beyond reckoning.

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None of them moved.

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“Can you sense life?” Joshua asked aloud, though the act of speaking felt crude, unnecessary. The answer came from Skin directly into his mind.

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“I can sense… something. But what constitutes ‘life’ here is flexible.”

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Joshua reached out psychically - an instinct, a reflex - but found only noise. Mental flickers surged and vanished. Consciousness blipped in and out like faulty bulbs. There was no continuity, no stability.

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And worst of all, there was no sense of place. No up, no down, no direction. He floated, drifted, moved - but could not say how or why. Occasionally, he slowed, as if arrested by the Abyss itself.

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“You’re slowing,” Skin said. “We are nearing a region of buoyancy. Something about this level resists gravity - or what remains of it.”

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“What kind of form is suitable here?” Joshua asked, already preparing to shift.

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“There is no form ‘suitable’ for this,” Skin replied. “But if you must… something that moves independently of gravity.”

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Joshua summoned his demon form. He let his shape change: leathery wings burst from his shoulders, limbs stretched and contorted. Even his face shifted, accommodating sharper senses. Skin adapted instantly, folding its camouflage into the new form. They were still unseeable, but now also manoeuvrable.

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Still, the landscape remained a blur of chaos. Psychedelic swirls, impossible geometry, folds of space that inverted upon themselves like origami in a fourth dimension.

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Joshua could sense Skin adjusting its own perceptions.

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“Do not be alarmed,” Skin said. “Your biological mind is too limited to parse this place. But I see more clearly. I remember the path we took in. I will guide us out.”

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Joshua, trusting, gave a nod.

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“Good. Let’s explore.”

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Skin shimmered again, performing what Joshua could only describe as a ‘tweak’ - some invisible change to his eyes, his brain, his interface with reality. Suddenly, forms appeared. Not clearly, not fully - but enough.

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Beings moved through this realm. Some shimmered with grotesque elegance, some pulsed with jagged hunger. Groups clustered here and there. Occasionally, a landscape would blink into existence - a real space, with hills, architecture, or forests - and then vanish again. They weren’t illusions, but rather moments where this dimension overlapped with others.

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“Shadows?” Joshua wondered.

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“No,” Skin said. “Realms. Or echoes of Realms maybe. Each one briefly manifesting along our path, but unreachable without anchoring. We are not shifting through them - they pass over us like waves.”

The Spikard, normally a wellspring of energy and control, hung inert on Joshua’s finger. Its connection to greater powers above was gone. Even his own magical senses felt like they were being slowly drowned in static. The pressure of the Abyss was constant, numbing him.

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Still, a feeling emerged - something new. A subtle pull. A direction.

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“There’s something,” Joshua said.

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“Yes,” Skin agreed. “A gathering. A locus. And there is power there.”

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Together, they moved toward it.

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As they advanced, the terrain around them began to make more sense - not because it became less mad, but because Skin was adjusting Joshua’s perceptions further. Beings passed them, some massive, others serpentine or insectile. Many resembled demons - twisted forms with horns, claws, and wings, like nightmares drawn in smoke.

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Joshua focused on their forms. If he could mimic their appearance, he might pass undetected.

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Skin sensed his intention and acted, reshaping their shared shell into something more Abyssal. It enhanced the musculature, sharpened the silhouette, reshaped wings and skin tone. Joshua felt the process like a seamless wave of evolution.

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“You blend well now,” Skin assured him. “But remain cautious. They are not ruled by appearances alone.”

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Their path took them past more and more demons. The feeling of direction intensified - no longer just a pull, but a certainty. They were heading toward something monumental.

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In the distance, a baleful glow rose. Its light wasn’t warm or radiant - it was dreadful. A sickly red-orange that bled into every space around it, pulsing with entropy.

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As they neared, a structure emerged from the madness.

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It was immense.

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A building - cathedral? fortress? - loomed into view, standing atop an elevated rise of blackened stone. It was surrounded by pillars, stairs, walls - all jagged, spiked, and carved with runes that twisted as you looked at them. The architecture reeked of symbolism older than the Pattern, more brutal than the Logrus.

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Demons filled the area. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. A churning mass of them stretched to either side, to the horizon. Joshua couldn’t count them - he didn’t dare.

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At the base of the steps to the cathedral stood something that made his breath catch.

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His dragon.

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There, motionless but unmistakably alive, stood Joshua’s dragon.

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It stood among a host of other mythic beasts - creatures of legend rendered real: chimeras with slavering jaws and horns of iron, cockatrice with eyes like obsidian suns, winged hippogriffs wrapped in smoke, and massive griffins carved from midnight and moonlight. They ringed the wide steps leading to the cathedral’s dais, forming a perimeter like guardians or chained saints. But none loomed so large, nor radiated such subdued fury, as the dragon Joshua had once called ally, perhaps even friend.

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It did not move. It did not flinch. Its black scales shimmered subtly with restrained energy, its wings folded, head lowered but watching. It stood with its back to the raised dais - between the vast cathedral and the waiting sea of demons. A sentinel.

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And it had seen him.

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Only barely. A tilt of the head. A flick of nostrils. No overt recognition - but a moment of connection. Enough to bring back a thousand memories. Enough to remind Joshua of the dragon’s intelligence, its sense of honour, and the price it once paid.

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He forced himself to look away before full recognition occured.

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The ground trembled.

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Atop the black dais, framed between two colossal pillars of obsidian entropy, a towering demon stepped forward. He was larger than the others, taller by two full heads than the cluster of lieutenants that flanked him. His horns were jagged crowns; his wings spanned wide and shadowed even the baleful glow behind him. His eyes glowed - hellish, cruel, familiar.

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Joshua knew those eyes.

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This was the being who had broken his hold on the summoned demon back on Terra Prime. This was Verithraxus.

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The demonlord raised his clawed hands and roared. “Brethren!”

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A tremor passed through the masses like a gust across wheat. All movement ceased. A wave of noise, like hundreds of thousands of things gasping or hissing in unison, swept outward.

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“The next manifestation is at hand!” he boomed. “Prepare yourselves!”

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Around Joshua, the sea of demons knelt. The motion was fluid, rehearsed, instinctive. Even the most titanic among them dropped to one or both knees, wings folding, horns lowered.

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Joshua mimicked them quickly, Skin adjusting the illusion to show due submission. Their form - already matching nearby demons - dropped low.

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Verithraxus turned, pacing between the great black pillars. At his feet, flames burned not with fire, but with raw entropy - swirling vapours of abyssal power.

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“Bring forth the sacrifices,” Verithraxus commanded.

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A new group of demons emerged from the fringes, dragging others - unwilling, panicked, marked for death. These sacrifices were thrown forward, clawing and wailing. Some begged. Others had already gone mad.

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Verithraxus showed no hesitation.

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He reached down, seized one by the skull, and snapped its spine with a crack like thunder. Another he tore in half, casting each twitching piece into the swirling pool between the pillars. The other demonlords followed suit. Dozens died within minutes.

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From each corpse, a smoky essence rose - green, red, purple, white - tendrils of energy that coiled and twisted like souls screaming upward. They did not vanish. They circled the space between the pillars, spiralling into the darkness. Feeding it.

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Joshua remained still, gaze lowered, heart pounding.

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Skin whispered, “This is no ordinary ritual. The essence is being consumed. That void is no metaphor. It is drinking.”

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“Drinking for what?” Joshua asked.

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“Something is coming.”

​

​

As the sacrifices continued, the crowd stirred only once - when the dragon moved.

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Joshua caught it first. A slight tilt of the head. Then a faint hiss, barely audible above the ambient wailing. A breath of smoke curled from its nostrils. Nothing overt. Nothing violent. Just…

acknowledgment.

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But Verithraxus noticed.

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He stalked from the dais with a single beat of his wings, landing before the dragon with a slam that sent fissures through the black stone. His palm flashed, and he struck the dragon across the jaw.

The impact echoed. The dragon snarled, twisted its head in defiance, and let out a low, venomous growl - but then lowered itself again, seemingly submissive.

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Verithraxus stood over it a moment longer before turning away.

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And then, without warning, his eyes locked on Joshua.

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Even in the numb, chaos-suppressed state that dominated this plane, Joshua felt it - the stare, the recognition. Verithraxus saw something. A shape out of place. A presence that didn’t belong.

He was moving.

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Joshua didn't hesitate. Slithering backward, wings folding, he began shifting - gaseous form, dispersal, movement beneath and between the limbs of nearby demons. Skin followed the instinct, mutating alongside him, preserving camouflage.

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But Verithraxus was too fast.

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The demonlord clapped his hands once. A shockwave burst outward - a wall of force that crushed several smaller demons and sent others sprawling. The air screamed.

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“Intruder!” Verithraxus roared. “I feel your presence!”

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He surged forward.

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Joshua tried to break line of sight, hiding behind several grotesque, winged demons - but Verithraxus blasted them aside like toys.

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A clawed palm extended. From it burst tentacles, black and writhing, faster than thought. They pierced Joshua’s gas form, found purchase, and yanked.

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In moments, he was dragged before the demonlord. Words of power were spoken, forcing Joshua into his demon form. He was slammed to the stone floor, and held by the throat.

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Skin’s voice returned. “Do not resist. Not yet.”

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Verithraxus leaned close. “What have we here?” he growled. “A little boy?”

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Joshua said nothing.

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Verithraxus’s grip was iron - not metaphorically, but literally searing. Joshua could feel his throat burning where the demonlord’s claws clamped around it, the contact boiling his skin even through the protective interface of Skin. The pain was tremendous, elemental, and utterly inescapable. Yet Skin worked subtly in the background, shifting molecular structure, deadening nerve endings just enough to prevent total incapacitation.

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The demon’s crimson eyes peered into Joshua’s own. “You’re not one of mine,” Verithraxus hissed. “Your scent is foreign. Your presence is wrong.”

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Still, Joshua said nothing. He willed his face blank, devoid of emotion, giving the demon nothing to interpret. Beneath the surface, he felt Skin adjusting, forming defences, recalibrating internal systems.

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“I will know what you are,” Verithraxus growled. “I will strip your essence from your bones if I must.”

The massive demonlord carried him - by the throat, with one clawed hand - back toward the dais. The crowd parted in eerie silence, like waves before a tidal monster. The ritual had not stopped; the sacrifice continued behind them. Demons chanted. Runes glowed. The air pulsed with the scent of blood and annihilation.

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Joshua could feel Skin shifting beside his skin - concentrating, resisting.

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“He’s trying to pull me out of you,” Skin warned softly. “He wants to separate us. I… I don’t know if I can hold.”

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Verithraxus uttered words of power. They cut through the air like shattered glass, etching glowing symbols that danced across Joshua’s chest and face. Each syllable stabbed into him with surgical pain. Even his demon form wavered - struggling to retain cohesion in the presence of such overwhelming, abyssally-aligned authority.

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And Skin - Skin screamed.

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Not aloud. Not in his head. But through him. Joshua felt the symbiotic entity surge in agony, straining against an impossible pressure. He could feel its threads being pried apart. He could feel pieces of himself being split.

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“Hold on,” Joshua whispered internally.

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Skin did.

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The battle of will - one demonic overlord attempting to extricate a fused living suit from its host, the other resisting with pure adaptive survival - lasted timeless moments, and through it all Joshua shared the experience.

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And then, silence.

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The spell ended.

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Joshua sagged slightly in Verithraxus’s grip, the pain subsiding to a dull, molten throb.

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Verithraxus snarled with frustration. “Keep your secrets then. They will not serve you long. Your soul will be laid bare soon enough.”

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He flung Joshua to the foot of the pillars, and immediately, tentacles burst from the demon’s back - slick, black, and writhing. They snared Joshua’s arms, legs, waist, and neck, suspending him in midair like an insect caught in the web of some vast abyssal spider.

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“Bow,” Verithraxus commanded the demon masses. “Bow before your Lord God!”

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The twin pillars that Verithraxus stool in front of were not just structures - they were conduits. From them radiated waves of metaphysical nausea. The inky blackness that existed between them pulsed, thickened, and began to… open.

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The temperature dropped. Not into cold, but into absence. It was as though reality itself receded.

A shape emerged.

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First, a silhouette - hulking, massive. Then light began to crackle across its outline, revealing form.

At the apex of the baleful glow, a creature manifested: a hybrid of divine monstrosity. A humanoid upper torso of impossible muscle and symmetry, clasped at the centre as if in meditation. Below, the body of a scorpion - eight segmented legs, each ending in dagger-like claws, and a tail coiled with malignancy. Its carapace shimmered with sickly light - purple, black, iridescent red.

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And when its eyes opened, every being in the plaza felt it.

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Fear surged.

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Joshua felt it not just in his gut but in his blood, his thoughts. Even numbed and suppressed, even shielded by Skin’s protections, even as a master of self-control, he felt himself tremble.

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The being radiated authority.

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“Abaddon,” Joshua whispered in awe.

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It could be no other.

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Demons across the massive concourse dropped as one - prostrating, screaming, laughing, weeping. Thousands of them bent low, chanting names, syllables of pain and glory.

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Even the demonlords bowed. Verithraxus dropped to one knee, head lowered. His back-tentacles did not release Joshua - but they, too, drooped in reverence.

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Abaddon raised his head and spoke.

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“Oh, my children… the time is almost at hand,” he intoned, each word a blade of fire inside the skull. “My permanent manifestation draws near. When it is complete, the worlds above shall know true fear. Chaos shall be crushed. Order shall be torn. And the Phoenix will be cast into the Abyss, never to rise again.”

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His voice sent shudders through space itself. The pillars surged in brightness.

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Joshua’s mind reeled. The Phoenix - Bennu? Bennu had risen once already. Was this Abaddon’s ultimate goal? Was this not simply about Order or Chaos - but the final death of their symbolic rebirth?

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Abaddon turned to Verithraxus.

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“Stand, Verithraxus. My greatest servant. What is it that you hold?”

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The massive demonlord rose, gesturing to Joshua’s suspended body. “An intruder, my Lord. A spy from above. Shielded by unknown power. I could not sever it.”

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Abaddon’s eyes narrowed. “He is of no use. Give him to the Nephilim. Let his soul be devoured.”

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At Abaddon’s command, the air tore open.

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Through the rift poured the Nephilim - hooded figures of despair, floating spectres that radiated entropy. Their faces were featureless voids; their hands skeletal and clawed. They surrounded Joshua in a circle, forming a psychic sphere that shimmered with jagged runes.

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The moment it closed, he felt his link with Skin waver again. Power faded. Movement slowed.

“They’re cutting me off,” Skin hissed. “I cannot reach the outside. I cannot shift us. I cannot fly.”

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Joshua struggled within the bubble - but the suppression was total.

​

Abaddon’s voice thundered again.

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“Summon the Groveller.”

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A moment later, another form materialised - twisted, ruined, broken. Joshua recognized it instantly.

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Brand.

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Or what remained of him.

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The Abyssal Brand prostrated himself at the base of the dais, forehead to stone.

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“My lord,” he groaned. “The droid is infested. Its Shadow resisted, but the taint has taken root. Stålmannen will fall.”

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Abaddon lifted a single hand - and pain erupted across Brand’s form. He screamed, writhing, clawing at his own skin.

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“The infestation was subtle,” Brand gasped. “It entered before aid arrived. They could not detect it. It now grows within him.” He paused, trembling beneath the weight of his master’s gaze. “But the Shadow was not overcome. Amberites and Chaosians arrived mid-battle - powerful ones. They intervened, repelled the demonic forces, and prevented the complete fall of the realm.”

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Abaddon’s expression remained unreadable.

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“Stålmannen endures,” Brand admitted bitterly. “But not for long. The infestation remains. It is latent - growing. His body is not yet aware of its doom.”

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“Then it is done,” Abaddon said coldly. “Forget the Shadow. Watch the droid. Report.” And then, ominously, each word enunciated with dreadful purpose, “You will not fail again.”

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With a lazy gesture, Verithraxus backhanded Brand into the air. His form flew - shrinking - and vanished.

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Then Abaddon turned back to his legions.

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“My time grows short. But the gate is open. Send the brethren through the Eldritch Maw. Recruit more. Feed me more Realms from the parallel Multiverses. Let their skies above burn.”

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With that, his form folded back into the blackness between the pillars, and the ritual paused.

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The Nephilim prison grew tighter. The shimmer of jagged runes circling Joshua’s form grew brighter, darker, heavier. He felt it not as mere confinement, but as a kind of erasure. His very self, seemed to bleed from the edges, his power compressing to the point of collapse. Even Skin, merged and potent as it was, began to recede.

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“I cannot break free,” Skin whispered in his mind. “This cage is not a structure. It is denial. It says we do not exist - and the Abyss believes it.”

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Joshua clenched his fists, but even motion was slowed. “Options?”

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“None. Unless the net is torn from outside. I cannot see a means from within.”

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Joshua narrowed his gaze toward the dais.

​

Verithraxus had turned his back. The demonlord now stood in council with the other massive demons, each of them seemingly issuing commands to subordinates, deploying demonic legions, planning the next act in Abaddon’s rising conquest. The dread lord’s absence had not lessened their momentum. They had orders. They had faith.

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And now they had Joshua.

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His eyes drifted to the base of the stairs. His dragon - his - still stood. Stock still. Watching. Silent.

But earlier, it had moved. A whisper of recognition. A breath of fire. A tilt of the head.

​

The Nephilim were closing in.

​

Their fingers, bony and smoky, extended. They shimmered with tendrils of anti-energy. The net was no longer simply holding - it was preparing to consume. To devour his soul. He would not die. He would be undone.

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“Can you reach out?” Skin asked. “There must be some thread. You and the dragon were bound once.”

Joshua closed his eyes. He focused - not on magic, not on power, but on memory. On the sound of the dragon’s roar. On the moment it first chose to serve him. On the sky-rending battles they had fought side by side. On the flight over Shadow, wings beating in harmony.

​

A flicker.

​

He found it.

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A sliver of familiarity. A fragile thread. The faintest echo of mind. Their mental bond re-established in a fragile way.

​

Joshua didn’t speak - not aloud, not even in thought - but he projected. He implanted. Gently. Subtly. An idea, a suggestion: the Nephilim are not what they seem. They serve not Abaddon, but a hidden purpose. They plot with Verithraxus’s. They intend to destroy what Abaddon seeks to build.

Let the thought seem to be the dragon’s own. Let it arise from doubt, not suggestion.

​

For a moment - nothing.

​

Then the dragon’s head turned. Slightly. Slowly. Its enormous eyes locked on the circle of Nephilim closing in on Joshua.

​

The dragon’s nostrils flared. Its wings unfurled - partially, enough to catch attention.

​

Then came the roar.

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A terrible sound - primordial, impossible to ignore. The sea of demons shuddered. Verithraxus’s head snapped around. The other demonlords froze.

​

The dragon inhaled, deep and slow.

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Joshua braced.

​

And then the fire came.

​

It was not red, nor orange, nor gold. It was black - a void flame. It erupted from the dragon’s maw in a perfect circle, targeting the prison that held Joshua. The fire didn’t burn - it erased. The runes of the Nephilim flared once, then shattered. The ring collapsed. The Nephilim screamed - a sound like wind on glass - and dissolved into streaks of nothingness.

​

Joshua fell. But only for a second.

​

Skin caught him. The suit surged with motion, reforming stability. Wings erupted. Boots locked. Eyes cleared. Energy flooded back.

​

Power returned.

​

Across the plaza, Verithraxus roared in fury. His form blurred as he launched toward them, wings tearing the air. The other demonlords followed.

​

But the dragon did not flee.

​

It turned.

​

Its tail cracked like a whip, smashing into Verithraxus mid-flight, slamming him into the other demonlords. The titans fell like skittles, crashing into the base of the dais, tumbling amidst shattered obsidian.

​

The dragon leapt - wings flaring, claws extended - and pounced upon Verithraxus before the demonlord could recover.

​

What followed was not a duel.

​

It was a war.

​

The dragon struck first, pinning Verithraxus beneath one clawed foot, driving the demonlord into the obsidian steps of the dais. It reared its head back and released another blast of black fire, searing Verithraxus’s face and chest. The demon screamed, twisting, but the dragon’s bulk pressed down harder.

​

A flurry of slashes followed - each talon tearing deep gouges into demonic flesh. Verithraxus shrieked, fury mingled with disbelief.

​

But he recovered.

​

With a roar of his own, he lashed out. His claws raked across the dragon’s chest, scoring deep wounds. Black blood fountained. The other demonlords surged forward, weapons raised, power crackling - but the dragon turned, swiping them away like pests.

​

Joshua, watching from above, knowing how potent his dragon was, but fearing the odds the beast now faced. They were many, and it was alone.

​

And it was already bleeding.

​

Skin spoke: “We must go. Now.”

​

Joshua hesitated. “Not yet.”

​

Inevitably, the battle turned.

​

Verithraxus, cunning and ruthless, the most powerful of Abaddon’s servants, lunged forward while the dragon was momentarily distracted. His claws sank into the dragon’s side. The other demonlords followed, converging with strikes of blade, fang, and spell.

​

The dragon reeled, staggering backward. But it was not finished.

​

It reared again, catching Verithraxus with one last breath of fire - searing his upper body, melting armor and skin alike. The demonlord fell to one knee.

​

But then, with terrifying speed, Verithraxus rose. A blade formed in his hand - not forged, but grown. A sword of pure Abyssal essence.

​

He drove it forward.

​

And cut the dragon’s head from its body.

​

Time stopped.

​

The plaza fell silent.

​

The dragon’s body convulsed, blood pouring in rivers. Its eyes, once filled with ancient thought, dimmed.

​

Its head fell to the stones.

​

Joshua felt the rupture like a psychic scream through the shared bond. A tearing in his soul.

Verithraxus turned, eyes locking on him.

​

And pointed.

​

Joshua didn’t wait.

​

The instant Verithraxus pointed, the air behind the demonlord shimmered - and wings erupted from the darkness. An entire fleet of abyssal flyers launched skyward at his command. Shapes with jagged talons, leathery wings, eyeless faces, some cloaked in flame, others trailing entropy like streamers. A host of demonic raptors, dozens strong, rose into the sky with one purpose:

​

To kill him.

​

“Faster!” Joshua shouted to Skin.

​

“I’m going as fast as I can,” the suit replied. Boots locked, thrusters flared, and he shot upward in a streak of molten propulsion. Wings flared from his back. The sky - if it could be called that - bent around them.

​

The demons pursued.

​

He angled his flight upward, blindly aiming for above, trusting instinct and Skin’s orientation to guide them. The effort was enormous. The Abyss tried to pull him back - not physically, but metaphysically. The very idea of “escape” rebelled against the logic of this realm.

​

Two of the flyers were faster.

​

They gained.

​

“Adjusting form,” Skin said.

​

Joshua reshaped himself on the fly - sleeker, more aerodynamic, limbs tighter, wings swept back like a missile. Their speed surged. The mass of demons began to fall behind - except two.

​

The first demon reached for him.

​

Joshua turned his head, eyes flashing, and plunged into its mind.

​

Attack the other, he commanded.

​

The demon twitched. Then shrieked. Then turned and raked its claws across its companion’s chest, sending both tumbling backward in a tangled knot of hatred and confusion.

​

But then, everything changed.

​

A pulse. A flicker. A stutter in Skin’s presence.

​

Joshua felt it instantly - like a heart skipping a beat. A silence in his thoughts. A blank space where Skin had always been.

​

“Wait,” Joshua whispered. “What’s wrong?”

​

Skin’s voice returned, weaker, trembling. “I… I have been infested.”

​

Joshua’s breath caught. “What?”

​

“I kept it at bay as long as I could. But they seeded something inside me. An Abyssal taint. It is spreading fast.”

​

“Can you isolate it? Cut it out?”

​

“I’ve already done what I can. I’ve severed all non-essential systems. But the infection is intelligent. It knows how to propagate. I cannot guarantee your safety while we are merged.”

​

“Then - ”

​

“I must separate.”

​

Skin’s voice became resolute. “I have rerouted the propulsion into the boots. They will carry you up - briefly. Enough to escape. But I cannot go with you.”

​

“No.”

​

“There is no time, Joshua. I will not risk you. I will stay behind and self-immolate. It is the only way to destroy the pursuing swarm.”

​

“You don’t have to …”

​

“I must. It is already too late for me.”

​

Joshua felt the separation begin. A tearing - not physical, but intimate. Skin oozed out of Joshua’s pours and orifices, peeled away from his limbs, his chest, his back. Piece by piece, it unravelled its hold on him, drawing away like strands of silk pulled from skin. Only the boots remained - gleaming silver-white, glowing with built-up force.

​

Then Skin reformed - behind him, mid-air - into a humanoid shape of radiant metal. The same form it had taken when it first rose from the battlefield in Stålmannen’s shadow.

​

“Promise me, on your honour,” Skin said, its voice now distant. “You will save Stålmannen.”

​

Grim faced, Joshua answered. “I swear. It’s the first place I’ll go.”

​

Skin nodded once in farewell.

​

Then it turned and fell.

​

Hundreds of demons rose after Joshua now. A vast, winged tide of fury and vengeance. Skin plummeted directly into their midst - arms outstretched, light building around its chest.

​

Then came the blast.

​

A perfect sphere of white-hot energy erupted in the Abyss. Not fire. Not light. Something more. A conceptual detonation. An explosion of truth in a place built on lies.

​

Demons died. Hundreds, maybe thousands. They didn’t burn - they were undone. Wiped from possibility.

​

The blast wave caught Joshua, but the boots held.

​

The pressure hit him like a fist from a god, launching him upward, faster than ever.

​

Through the dark.

​

Through the tide.

​

Through the Abyss.

​

The Surface

​

Light.

​

Real light.

​

Colour.

​

Air.

​

Joshua burst from the surface of the Abyss like a rocket. The Courts of Chaos stretched beneath him - the Plaza, the Cathedral, the distant peaks. He soared above it all, boots glowing, wings catching the air. The Barrier’s shimmer passed below him unnoticed. He was free.

​

The boots sputtered.

​

Then cut out.

​

He was gliding now, high above the world.

​

Joshua reached for his Trumps. Fingers trembling. Cards flicked past: Benedict, Random, Suhuy -

There.

​

Suhuy.

​

He concentrated.

​

The Trump shimmered.

​

Contact.

​

The sorcerer’s image appeared, grim and unchanged. He extended a hand.

​

Joshua grabbed it.

​

Joshua gasped, “There’s a huge problem.”