The Meeting Hall — Chamber of the Hollow Table
Deep within the fortress, where the darkness was suffocating and the air reeked of scorched sulfur, the Demon Lords convened in a chamber known only as the Hollow Table.
At its heart stood a colossal table forged from pitch-black obsidian, adorned with carvings of gold and silver. Towering chairs encircled it, each bearing the crest of a great demonic clan. And seated upon them were lords whose names alone commanded fear—each one a power to be reckoned with.
The silence shattered under the weight of a voice—deep and grating, like a hammer striking molten iron:
— "All are present. Nezira… present what has summoned us here."
Nezira lifted her head slowly. Her features were hauntingly beautiful, otherworldly in nature. Silver hair cascaded over her glowing eyes, alive with mysterious energy. She did not smile—yet confidence dripped from her as if she already knew too much.
— "I was using my magical artifact, the Eye of the Future, to trace fluctuations across the threads of time…
And within one of those paths, I saw something that demands your full attention."
One of the seated lords scoffed, resting lazily on his throne:
— "Let's hope this isn't just another hysterical warning from a nervous fortune-teller."
Nezira leaned back, lifting a brow with disdain:
— "And what if I told you… that an ancient demon is about to break free?
Not just any demon—but one of the Twenty Sealed Catastrophes.
According to my readings, the probability exceeds seventy percent."
A heavy silence fell over the chamber.
The lords instinctively straightened in their seats. For a being to be ranked among the Catastrophes was no accident—it meant the very balance of the world stood at risk.
All but one remained rigid. Then, in a voice as cold as stone, he spoke:
— "Can you show us what you saw? To my knowledge, your artifact records visions."
Nezira sighed, irritation lacing her voice:
— "I wish I could, Malzafir—if only to spare myself the mockery of fools…
But the artifact was destroyed."
Gasps echoed around the table, but she continued, her tone now grim:
— "When I activated the Eye, I saw a figure—chained in a colossal chamber, surrounded by shattered sealing circles.
And when I looked into his eyes… he looked back. And smiled.
The artifact exploded a heartbeat later."
She folded her hands before her, voice sharpening:
— "No one can break through my artifact's defenses… unless they possess power great enough to warp multiple timelines at once."
Shock spread across Malzafir's face. He sat up slowly, as though some ancient wound had begun to ache.
— "Were his eyes… etched with ancient script?"
Nezira's expression froze. The challenge vanished from her voice, replaced by something else—uncertainty.
— "Yes. Exactly. Do you… know him?"
Malzafir clenched his jaw. Veins pulsed in his temples as he slammed a fist against the table:
— "Damn it… no. No, it can't be him."
The others stared in disbelief.
Malzafir—the eldest among them, a being over a thousand years old—had never shown such dismay.
He buried his face in one hand, his voice cracked with dread:
— "That demon… his name is Aziriel. Known as The Abyss of Light.
A creature without emotion, without purpose, without allegiance.
To him, all are nothing more than toys—enemies and allies alike."
He paused, and when he continued, his voice burned with anger:
— "He's slaughtered generations.
Empires once sworn to war came together—dragons, humans, high demons—just to stop him.
In the end, even the Demon King and the Dragon Sovereign had to intervene… and seal him themselves."
A deep voice cut through the chamber—a masked demon seated at the far end:
— "The Demon King himself? And dragons too?
Why was this never spoken of?"
Malzafir went quiet for a moment, then answered with a bitter edge:
— "Because we buried the truth.
It was a disgrace… that even the Demon King could not defeat him."
His tone dropped to a near whisper:
— "The battle was a massacre.
It came to be known as The Blood Flood…
And the earth drank the blood of both the old and the young… for decades."
He rose from his seat and slammed the table once more:
— "We cannot let him return.
We must find the location of his seal—immediately—and ensure it is obliterated once and for all."
He turned to Nezira, his gaze blazing:
— "Did he free himself… or was he released?"
Her reply was barely a whisper:
— "There was someone else there… but my vision was obscured.
It was as if a magical field cloaked the figure entirely."
Malzafir closed his eyes and exhaled, his breath thick with fury:
— "It's not enough that hell is rising again…
Someone opened the gate and welcomed it."
He raised his hand, and a torrent of dark energy burst from his palm—ripping a glowing fracture into the air.
A dimensional rift widened before them, pulsing like a wound in space.
Just before stepping through, he cast one last command to the others:
— "Search the old scrolls. The Demon King's private letters.
We must locate the prison.
I'm heading to the Black Dragon Tribe to speak with their king."
He turned toward the masked demon, voice sharp as a blade:
— "
Don't fool yourself into thinking this is a battle you could ever win.
If that demon regains even half his strength…
you'll become nothing more than a disgrace—mocked by generations to come, Moomano."