The demon bled from its cauterized stumps as it stumbled forward, sand sticking to its wounds. Every few feet, it collapsed, only for Mike to growl or burn another part of it, until it staggered back up. The dragon didn't speak. He simply followed, claws churning red sand with each step.
The Pit stretched endlessly around them. The red sand cracked underfoot, sometimes hissing or twitching as if alive. Black spires jutted from the earth like broken bones. In the distance, shadows moved, slow, massive things that never approached but never vanished either.
Mike kept walking.
His essence still leaked from his form, faint and slow like embers escaping a fire that refused to die. His body ached. Not from wounds, but from the pressure and resistance in the air.
The Pit didn't want him here.
It pressed against his scales, against his soul. It recognized him as an invader. Not a demon. Not a damned soul. Not a servant of the Pit's hierarchy.
Ahead, the landscape began to change. The sand gave way to obsidian stone, paved like a massive black road veined with glowing crimson. The stones were warm underfoot, pulsing with the heartbeat of the pit itself.
The demon guide fell to his knees at the edge of this path. "Th-this is as far as I go. If I move closer, the sentinels will smell the weakness in me. They'll rip my soul apart."
Mike stopped behind him. "Then die here."
The demon's eyes widened, but he didn't beg.
Mike opened his mouth and released a brief puff of red-black flame, engulfing the creature in silence. It didn't scream. Just fell to ash.
He stepped onto the Obsidian Road.
Almost immediately, he felt a pressure shift like invisible eyes snapping open.
The road ahead bent and rose like the spine of a massive beast, coiling up toward the distance. From here, Mike could see the towering forms of the Daggered Spires, black monoliths carved by demons, each one etched with infernal glyphs that glowed faintly in the gloom.
Beyond them, faintly silhouetted in the fire-tinged sky, were the Three Thrones.
They stood like broken crowns upon the skull of the world. Enormous obsidian chairs set atop an altar of chained basalt, surrounded by massive statues of long-dead kings and dukes. They pulsed with dread, each throne emanating an aura that pushed back even the oppressive heat of the Pit.
Mike walked forward.
As he marched, sentinels emerged, twisted humanoid creatures ten feet tall, with no faces and chests covered in roving mouths that whispered curses. They moved silently, blades forming from their arms, radiating hatred.
The first sentinel leapt toward him without warning.
Mike stepped into the strike, caught the blade-arm with his left claw, and ripped it free with a single jerk. Before the thing could scream, he drove its own blade into its center mouth and slammed it to the obsidian road.
Its blood leaked out with a hiss, absorbed into the stone.
Two more charged him from each side. Mike spun, wings unfurling halfway, and his tail whipped through the air like a meteor. One sentinel's head snapped off its body and rolled like a kicked stone. The other caught a clawed uppercut that drove straight through its body, split it in two.
More came.
Five. Then ten.
A small army formed in the distance, souls twisted into flesh, marked with the brands of dukes and kings, risen from the Pit itself to defend their lords.
Mike didn't wait.
He ran into them.
The sound of battle erupted: stone cracking, bones shattering, flesh tearing.
Mike tore chunks of rotted flesh with his teeth and gulped them down as his minor wounds healed.
He crushed skulls underfoot. Tore limbs free with casual efficiency. Ripped through armored chests and tossed aside the remains. Biting chunks from demons as he worked his way through the horde.
When they stabbed him, his body burned brighter, healing as fast as they wounded. When they tried to swarm, he unleashed a burst of flame that blew them apart and turned them to ash.
Within minutes, the Obsidian Road was covered in bodies.
Mike stood alone again, blood dripping from his claws. His chest rose and fell slowly, as he focused on his flow of essence.
He hadn't lost control.
Up ahead, the Daggered Spires loomed. As he approached, he heard whispers of maddening voices promising dominion, revenge, or salvation. Tempting him to abandon form and become something else.
Mike ignored them.
He walked between the Spires, their glyphs reacting to his presence. Some pulsed with as he passed by.
And beyond them, he reached a massive black gate of twisted metal. Adorned with skulls and bones.
The Three Thrones sat upon a plateau of chained rock. Around them were lesser demons kneeling in worship, armor clanking as they pounded weapons into the ground.
The moment Mike stepped forward, a horn sounded. A deep bellowing sound reverberated the air as he kept walking towards the thrones.
The demons turned.
Dozens rose to their feet.
On the central throne sat a figure encased in black armor, face obscured by a horned mask. On the left, a pale, feminine form with hair of writhing smoke. On the right, a massive brute, bull-headed and covered in golden scales.
"The unholy pretenders acting like kings." Bahamut muttered with a low growl.
The center figure raised a hand.
The others paused.
Then the figure spoke.
"Who dares to bring the blood of Dukes and a soul unmarked into our domain?"
Mike stepped forward. Unflinching.
"Where is Hecate?"
The left throne whispered, voice like burning silk. "You speak of the Witch."
The brute on the right slammed a fist to his chest. "And you walk into the Pit as if it were yours?"
Mike's voice was low. Cold.
"Where is she?"
The central figure stood.
Even the other thrones shifted as he did.
"Then let us see," the voice said, deeper now, reverberating with weight.
"If the dragon is worthy of speaking with us."
The black-armored throne stepped down.
And the next battle began.