Chapter 212 - Demon Council ( Part 2 )

The Demon Citadel was silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

There was a distinction.

The kind of silence that was felt right before the battle would begin – the hold of breath before the storm, before the massacre. It was the silence of the predators that lurked in the shadows, the silence of the killers. It pressed against the walls, alive and oppressive, saturated with the malice of millennia.

Deep under the black castle, past the council chamber, under layers of centuries old rock, there was a chamber that was locked for a thousand years.

The walls of the chamber were full of demonic symbols. Thousands of them were carved into the surface of obsidian using tools that were made in hell. These symbols were glowing with crimson color – like veins, like a heartbeats in the darkness. They told the tales of suffering and sacrifices, of rituals that were breaking the minds of lesser creatures, of power bought with blood and souls.

Chains were hanging from the ceiling. These chains were huge – each chain link was the size of a human head and they were made from black iron that was melted in the fires of hell. They were gently swaying, even there was no wind. As if they were alive, as if they were waiting.

Five giant stone platforms were standing in the center of the room. These platforms were old altars made from obsidian and adorned with glowing purple runes. Each altar was able to hold a grown man and it was surrounded by a series of magical circles that were rotating in the air.

On these platforms...

Five people were tied.

Their wrists were bound with black iron that was specially crafted to nullify any divine power. Their ankles were bound with the demonic chains that were burning with cold fire. In the vicinity of each platform there were rotating crimson magic circles with ever changing symbols.

The five Legendary Divine Mark bearers were brought here.

Alive.

Almost.

Draven stood in front of them.

The Black Warlord was wearing his huge black armor with the images of ancient battles. His hands were resting on the handle of the monstrous war axe. This axe drank the blood of thousands, never tasted defeat.

Behind him stood dozens of Demon Soldiers. Their armor was black and spiked; their eyes were glowing crimson color. They were standing in perfect formation, ready for an attack. The faces of the soldiers were hiding under the helmets of bone and iron.

Morgatha was getting ready for the ritual. Her dark robes were swirling around her like liquid shadows, her fingers were moving in the air, drawing ancient signs of magic. Strange symbols were appearing in front of her, rotating slowly and emitting power.

Lokiar was observing from the shadows. His silver mask was gleaming in crimson light, and the body was flickering sometimes being a smoke and sometimes materializing.

Grom was standing with his arms crossed. Yellow eyes of the Beast King were focused on the prisoners, and his claws were scratching the stone floor, digging deep furrows in the obsidian.

Azrael was silent. The Second Demon General was separated from the rest, crossing his arms and looking unapproachable. His dark eyes were moving between the prisoners and the magic circle, something was flickering in them – perhaps, doubt.

At the end of the chamber...

Noctis was sitting on his throne.

The Seventh Demon General, the Lord of the Demon Council, the sealed supreme commander of the Demon Army.

His face was hidden under dark helmet, and his crimson eyes were gleaming from the shadows. He did not say anything after he entered the chamber. He was just watching.

Waiting.

Draven was looking at the five prisoners. His voice was cold, commanding.

"Wake them."

Demon soldier moved toward the prisoners. In his hands he was holding a bucket of darkly enchanted water – it would burn when it would touch the skin, would bring the prisoner back from the depths of unconsciousness.

He poured it over the first prisoner.

The young man was gasping. His body was jerking from the chains, his eyes were opening. At first they were unfocused and confused – eyes of somebody who was pulled from the unconsciousness.

But then the expression of his face changed.

He was looking around the chamber. From the soldiers to the rotating magic circles to the five stone platforms. To Draven.

"Where... am I?"

Draven smiled. It was terrible smile – smile of the predator who cornered the prey.

"In the Demon Citadel."

The face of the prisoner changed. Fear flashed in his eyes, but it was instantly suppressed by the determination.

He pulled himself from the chains. Black iron was cutting his wrists, drawing blood. Chains did not move.

"Free me!"

Draven laughed. It echoed in the chamber like cracking of the bones.

"Do you really think that you are in a position to give orders?"

The body of the prisoner was lighting up. The golden symbol appeared on his chest – it was shining with the divine light, with power and hope. The Legendary Divine Mark.

The mark was pulsing. Divine power was filling the chamber, pushing away the darkness, lighting up the walls with golden light.

One of the soldiers took step back. His hand was reaching for his weapon and his eyes were widening in the fear.

Draven was looking at the mark with interest. His smile was widening.

"The first."

He approached the prisoner and made a step, and his footsteps echoed in the chamber.

"Divine Mark of Valor."

The prisoner glared at him. The eyes of the prisoner were burning with defiance.

"I will not give you anything."

Draven smiled. "I did not ask."

He touched the mark.

The prisoner screamed.

It was a sound of pure pain – scream that tore through the chamber, echoing from the walls, shaking the foundations of the citadel. The magic circle under him was reacting immediately, lighting up with the crimson light.

His power filled the chains. Golden energy flowed from the mark through the chains and into the ritual circle. The signs absorbed the energy, gaining new strength.

Morgatha watched from the other side of the room. Her eyes glowed with satisfaction.

"Interesting."

She moved some magical stones near the ritual circle. The stones started glowing in response to the extracted power.

"His mark reacts well to physical pressure. Extraction will become easier."

Draven grinned. "Good."

The prisoner clenched his teeth. Blood flowed from his wrists under the pressure of the chains.

"You monsters..."

Draven bent over the prisoner and whispered into his ear.

"Monster?"

His smile disappeared. His eyes became cold, empty—eyes of a creature who had lost mercy a long time ago.

"You haven't seen monsters yet."

He grabbed the prisoner's head and slammed it on the stone platform.

Bang!

The entire chamber shook. Dust fell from the ceiling.

Other prisoners watched him—their eyes were wide with horror, their bodies trembled in response to the other prisoners' pain.

Draven lifted the prisoner's head again. There was blood coming out of his forehead and his eyes were unfocused.

"Your bravery is admirable."

Bang!

He slammed the prisoner again. The stone cracked from the impact.

"But brave without power is nothing."

Azrael's eyes narrowed slightly. His voice pierced the chamber like a knife.

"Enough."

Draven paused. He looked at Azrael, irritated.

"What?"

Azrael's voice was as calm as always. It was the voice of a person who saw too many acts of violence to be surprised by them.

"Destruction of the vessel will impair the ritual."

Draven stared at him for several seconds. The tension in the chamber was tangible—two Demon Generals, locked in a fight of wills.

But then Draven laughed. The laughter was hollow.

"Of course."

He released the prisoner. The prisoner fell against the platform, breathing heavily, blood flowing from the wound on his head.

Draven turned to the other four prisoners.

"Let us be more careful then."

He approached the second prisoner.

It was a woman. Her black hair fell in pools on the stone. The Divine Mark of Tidal Heart burned on her shoulder—divine mark, looking like the sea surface and beating with the rhythm of tides.

Draven inspected it. His eyes followed the lines of the mark, doing some calculations.

"Tidal Heart Divine Mark."

The woman lifted her head. Her eyes were cold, defiant—the eyes of the person accepting death.

"You won't get my power."

Draven grinned. "Water."

He looked at Morgatha. "Useful?"

"Extremely."

Morgatha continued preparing the ritual. Her hands moved accurately, placing crystals and runes in combinations comprehensible only to her.

"Water-based Divine Marks have a unique relation to the life energy. Her power will ensure the smooth transition from the physical world to the sealed realm."

The woman looked at Morgatha. Her voice was sharp.

"Transition?"

Morgatha finally looked at her. Her eyes were ancient, wise—the eyes of a person studying forbidden knowledge for thousands of years.

"You are not just sacrifices."

The woman froze.

"You are keys."

Morgatha smiled. This was no pleasant smile.

"Your Divine Marks will act as a bridge."

The third prisoner started struggling.

There were red lines covering his body—veins of fire, pulsing under his skin. The Divine Mark of Flame was burning on his back, its heat causing the air to shimmer.

Draven looked at him. "Fire."

The man spat on the floor. His saliva sizzled on the obsidian floor.

"I'll destroy this whole fortress before I give you my power."

Draven laughed. "Exactly the spirit I like."

Suddenly the mark of the prisoner erupted. Flames appeared on his body, spreading quickly—not ordinary fire, but the divine flame, white and pure. It destroyed chains, platform, the very air.

Demons surrounding them took steps back. Smoke started rising from their armor, their eyes widened with terror.

The temperature in the chamber grew. The heat became so intense that sweat started pouring from the demon soldiers.

The prisoner smiled. Blood was flowing from his lips, but there was triumph in his eyes.

"You see?"

The flames were growing bigger. They were licking the ceiling, the walls, the ancient signs.

"I'll take you all with me."

Draven looked at the flames. His expression did not change.

Then he raised his hand.

Dark aura erupted from him. It was cold—colder than ice, colder than the void between the stars. The aura spread in the chamber like a wave, putting out the flames, extinguishing the heat.

The flames disappeared. The prisoner looked at him, his eyes wide with surprise.

Draven started approaching him. His steps were slow, methodical.

"Do you think you're the first one to threaten the Demon Citadel?"

He grabbed the prisoner's neck. His grip was of iron, unbreakable.

"You are not even the first one in this century."

The prisoner's feet were off the ground. He scratched Draven's hand, but the demon's grip only tightened.

Draven held him there, like a puppet.

"Remember something."

His eyes became cold. Empty.

"You are alive because we need you alive."

He threw him on the platform. The prisoner landed on the stone, breathing heavily.

The fourth prisoner remained silent.

She was young – almost the same age as Jennie. Silver hair, cut short, and a silver Divine Mark glowed upon her forehead. It pulsated with power of winds and skies.

Draven moved closer to her. His shadow enveloped her like a pall.

"Wind."

She didn't say a word. Her eyes were fixed somewhere far away, as if seeing some vision only known to her.

"The Divine Mark of the Sky."

Again, no answer.

Draven's head tilted to the side. There was a hint of curiosity, almost amusement, in his expression.

"Not going to talk?"

Her gaze went straight to Noctis.

Her voice sounded quietly, but rang through the whole chamber like a bell.

"You won't succeed."

The whole chamber went completely silent. Even the demons ceased their movements.

Draven turned his head. His eyes slightly widened.

Noctis stayed still. Crimson eyes watched from under the helmet.

The woman kept speaking in the same voice of quiet conviction, as one who found peace in her death.

"Whatever you are trying to awaken…"

She swallowed. Her throat was dry, but she managed to speak.

"...it won't obey you."

Draven burst into a harsh laugh.

"You don't know our Emperor."

"No."

Her gaze followed Noctis.

"But I know power."

For the first time since meeting, Noctis slightly raised his head. It was a barely noticeable gesture, but everyone noticed.

The woman felt his gaze – like crushing of a mountain, like drowning in darkness, like looking into abyss and seeing itself there.

Her expression remained firm.

"The thing you are trying to resurrect…"

She swallowed again.

"...isn't a god."

Noctis said nothing. Crimson eyes kept watching her, without blinking.

Draven came closer.

"You should be careful."

She smiled bitterly. Blood dropped from the corner of her mouth.

"Why?"

Draven moved even closer. His breath was hot against her face.

"Because courage becomes annoying when it survives too long."

Before he could touch her, the fifth prisoner spoke up.

"Leave her alone."

Everyone turned to look.

It was a young man. His Divine Mark was unusual among others – it was dark violet, covering the entire back, pulsating with psychic energy.

Lokiar's eyes narrowed. Silver mask glowed in crimson light.

"The Divine Mark of the Mind."

The young man looked at him. Calm and analytical eyes – eyes of the one who sees everything and tells nothing.

"You know what it does?"

Lokiar smiled. "I know what it can do."

The prisoner closed his eyes.

The air changed. It became thick, heavy – as if reality itself was bending around him.

For a moment, it seemed like everything distorted in the chamber. The walls began to ripple like water. Shadows moved against the light. Demons' faces were full of fear.

One of demon soldiers suddenly threw his weapon away. His eyes were wide open and blank. He was stuck in the nightmare.

Another took a step back, raising his hands in defense. He fought with non-existent enemies.

Grom's eyes narrowed. Claws elongated.

"Illusion?"

Lokiar smiled. "No."

He looked at the prisoner with some hint of respect.

"Psychic interference."

The prisoner opened his eyes. His voice was quiet, but carried the power of command.

"You should be afraid."

Lokiar laughed softly. "I am."

The prisoner looked surprised.

Lokiar continued, his tone thoughtful.

"That's why I won't let you use it."

He snapped his fingers.

Black chain wrapped around the prisoner's head. It wasn't physical – it was made of shadow, willpower, dark magic and ancient knowledge. Coiling around the prisoner's mind, it suppressed his power.

Divine Mark of the Mind flickered, and the illusion vanished. Demons stumbled and were freed from the nightmare.

Prisoner groaned, collapsing against the chains, while blood dropped from his nose.

Draven looked at all five.

Five marks. Five powers. Five keys.

But they were still fighting. Still resisting. Still hoping.

He looked toward Morgatha. "How long?"

"Almost ready."

Morgatha put the last crystal in the ritual circle. It was huge – the shard of obsidian that was pulsating with dark power and absorbing light around it.

The whole chamber shook. Ancient runes illuminated the walls, shining with crimson light. Seven circles formed around the five prisoners.

Five of them were burning brightly – golden, blue, red, silver, violet.

Two remained dark.

Draven stared at them. His eyes narrowed.

"The missing two."

Morgatha nodded. "The ritual can begin with five."

"Can it succeed?"

"No."

Draven frowned. "Then why begin?"

Morgatha smiled. It was a cold smile – a smile of one, who knows every plan.

"Because the first stage doesn't require all seven."

She pointed at the center of the ritual circle. There was a huge symbol formed – the seal, ancient and powerful, glowing with divine light.

"We need to weaken the Divine Seal first."

The prisoners looked at each other. Fright was seen in their eyes.

One of them muttered, "What seal?"

Morgatha's smile disappeared. Her expression became serious.

"The seal that holds your Emperor."

Silence.

The prisoner with the Flame Mark shook his head. His voice was hoarse.

"Zuko…"

The name echoed in the chamber. It was the name that had been spoken in whisper during a thousand years – the name of destruction, darkness, the end of everything.

Even the demons became motionless.

At last, Azrael spoke. His voice was quiet, but cut the silence like a sword.

"Do you understand what you are doing?"

Morgatha looked at him. Her expression was calm.

"After a thousand years, you still believe that resurrecting Zuko is the right path?"

Azrael's expression remained unchanged. But his eyes… his eyes…

Draven laughed. "Here we go again."

Azrael ignored him. His gaze was fixed on Morgatha.

"Zuko was sealed for a reason."

Azrael looked at him. His expression didn't change.

Draven chuckled. "Perhaps that human teacher taught you too much."

Silence enveloped the chamber.

"You still have some kind of respect for him."

Azrael didn't object. His tone was soft.

"Leonis was my rival."

Draven smirked. "Your friend, you mean."

Azrael looked into the eyes of the demon leader. His eyes remained cold.

"Do not confuse respect with friendship."

The smile of Draven broadened. "He defeated your friends."

"He defeated those who dared to oppose him."

"He was human."

"Yes."

"He killed demons."

"Yes."

"And you still have some kind of respect for him."

Azrael glanced at five captives. Then at the ritual. Finally, at Noctis.

"Because strength has nothing to do with what side you choose to fight."

Draven's smile was gone. His gaze turned narrow.

The fallen angel continued. His tone was even, measured—the tone of someone who had considered the question of power for millennia.

"Leonis fought for humanity."

His eyes narrowed.

"That doesn't mean everything humanity did was right."

Prisoners looked at him. Hope shone in their eyes like a tiny spark.

"Like..."

Azrael turned his gaze on the dark throne. His eyes met with those of Noctis.

"...that being a demon doesn't mean doing everything the Demon Emperor does is right."

For the first time, Draven looked really furious. His hand went for the axe.

"You are questioning the will of Noctis?"

Azrael was calm.

"No."

He looked at Noctis. His tone was quiet.

"I am questioning the path."

The Demon Emperor remained silent. His crimson eyes watched the angelic prisoner without betraying anything.

Suddenly...

Low sounds were heard under the floor.

Boom.

All looked downward.

Boom.

Ritual circle started to glow. Symbols emitted dark energy. Crystals were burning crimson light.

Morgatha's expression changed. Her tone became sharp.

"It is time."

Her arms were raised in the air. Dark magic started to cover the chamber like wave—cold, heavy, charged with power accumulated during centuries.

Suddenly five prisoners started to scream.

Divine Mark of each of them simultaneously lit up. The first one was gold. Second one was blue. Third one was red. Fourth was silver. And fifth was violet.

Five different colors converged above the ritual circle and mixed there, creating vortex of divine energy.

Demons stepped backward. Their expressions became pale, their eyes wide.

Morgatha started to chant in ancient language. Her words were harsh, guttural and full of power that has been forbidden since the dawn of creation.

Walls started to shake. Floor cracked. Chains hanging from the ceiling were swinging fiercely.

Far below the chamber...

Something moved.

It was huge. Ancient. Angry.

Noctis slowly stood up. His cloak moved with rising magical pressure like wings of shadow.

Draven smiled. His eyes were burning with expectation.

"Finally."

Morgatha's tone was getting louder. Ritual circle was blazing with light—crimson, gold, blue, red, silver and violet, mixing into single bright glow.

Simultaneously five Divine Marks exploded.

BOOOOOOOM!

Chamber was shaking. Walls cracking. Ceiling falling down in dust.

And far below them, something ancient opened its eyes.

"The first stage..."

Morgatha's voice rang above the chaos.

"...begins."