The wind howled through the crumbling ruins of the Sunken Sanctum, winding through broken archways and fallen columns like a ghost mourning its past. The ancient stone pillars leaned inward, as if bowing under the weight of centuries. The air was thick with old magic, the kind that clung to your skin and whispered things you didn't want to understand.
Dexter sat cross-legged across from Tulopia, the flames of her summoned fire casting her face in dancing shadows. The crimson blaze burned low, unnatural and steady, pulsing in time with some unseen heartbeat. Her golden eyes flickered with more than firelight—they held memory, and something older. Something dangerous.
"You didn't bring me here just to sit and stare at fire," Dexter said quietly, his voice edged with unease. "This place… it's sacred. And cursed. Isn't it?"
Tulopia nodded slowly. "Both. That's why the truth belongs here." Her voice was soft, like silk wrapped around steel.
Dexter's hands rested on his knees, trembling slightly. He still hadn't fully adjusted to the thing inside him—the demon blood that whispered in his dreams and laughed at his fear. He didn't know if he wanted answers.
But he needed them.
"I want to know…" He hesitated, swallowed, then forced the words out. "What caused the First War?"
"You want to know where it all began," Tulopia said, not as a question, but a statement.
"Yes."
She gazed into the fire for a moment. Then: "It didn't start with blood. It started with fear."
Dexter leaned in, the firelight painting deep shadows under his eyes. His breath was shallow, caught between anticipation and dread.
Tulopia raised her hand over the flame, and suddenly, the fire twisted, shifting from red to gold, then to a blinding white. Images swirled in its heart—golden cities floating in clouds, towers of light piercing the heavens, and a sky tearing apart in a blaze of red and silver.
"Long ago," she began, "demons weren't what we call them now. They were guardians—celestial beings, formed from the same light and dark that birthed the realms. The Ring… it wasn't a prison then. It was a sanctum. A perfect balance. A place the First Makers forged to contain the raw forces of existence—chaos and order."
Dexter frowned. "But something changed."
Tulopia's eyes glinted. "Yes. One of the Guardians—the Keeper of the Ninth Flame—his name was Primal. He was powerful, perhaps too powerful. He began to question the balance. Believed it was a lie. That it was weakness."
The fire surged upward, revealing a towering figure cloaked in shadow and flame. Wings like blades stretched from his back, and his eyes glowed like dying stars.
"He believed demons were meant to rule, not protect. And he hated humans most of all. Said they were flawed copies—mockeries created in the image of the Makers. He thought they were unworthy of the power they were given."
Dexter's mouth felt dry. "He was the first to rebel?"
She nodded. "And not the last. Primal's rage spread like fire in dry grass. Other demons—powerful ones, ancient ones—followed him. They turned the sanctum into a warzone. What began as defiance became full rebellion."
The fire darkened, turning into a storm of shadows and screams. Dexter saw cities in flames, angelic forms falling from the skies like shooting stars, and oceans boiling under crimson skies.
"The First War shattered the realms," Tulopia said, voice low. "The Makers, desperate to stop it, sent their greatest champion—Kronux, the First Keeper of Flame. He wasn't just powerful. He was absolute."
A new image formed—Kronux, shining like the sun, wielding a blade made of starlight. He stood against Primal in a storm of fire and fury.
"He struck down Primal, but it wasn't enough. The rebellion had spread. Seven elders had joined Primal's cause. Kronux hunted them one by one. In the end, they used the Ring—not as a sanctum, but as a cage. The rebellious demons were sealed away. Primal was the last to fall."
Tulopia paused.
"But he didn't die."
Dexter's eyes snapped to her. "What?"
"He was sealed. But not destroyed. His essence clings to the Ring like a wound that never heals." She looked at him steadily. "Primal was your father's twin brother."
Silence stretched between them like a blade.
Dexter stared into the fire, lost in thought. "And after the war?"
"The Makers knew Primal would return. So they made a choice. They sent three demons into the human world—quietly, secretly. Their mission was to guide, observe… and if needed, control. Your father was one of them. He completed his task. But he fell in love with humanity. He stayed."
Dexter's hand rose to the silver band on his finger. It was warm—always warm. It pulsed once.
"It's his mark, isn't it?"
Tulopia gave a slow nod. "And your curse. You carry the blood of the last Guardians. When the seal cracked during the Convergence, it stirred the old blood in you. The demon you feel inside—it's not separate. It's part of you."
Dexter stood, his breath shaking. "Then how do I control it? It's wild. Hungry. Every time I use it, I feel like I lose more of myself."
Tulopia stood too, stepping close. She placed a hand over his chest.
"Then feed it truth. The demon inside you isn't your enemy. It's your weapon. But only if you command it. Not with fear. With will."
Before he could answer, the fire surged.
It exploded into tendrils of light and heat, lashing toward Dexter. He cried out, falling back, the fire wrapping around him like a cocoon. Pain stabbed through his veins. His bones felt like they were cracking from the inside.
And then—silence.
He saw. Not with his eyes, but with something deeper.
He saw cities falling, skies burning, the first scream of betrayal echoing through the sanctum. He saw Kronux's blade striking Primal. He saw his ancestors—bound, defiant, powerful.
And at the center of it all, a shadow with a cruel smile.
Astaroth.
Dexter hit the ground on one knee, panting, smoke rising from his skin. He looked up.
His eyes glowed red. His skin was marked with faint, glowing glyphs. But he wasn't trembling anymore.
He wasn't afraid.
He was in control.
For now.
Tulopia's lips curved into a small, proud smile.
"Welcome back, Guardian. Your brother will be arriving soon."
Dexter didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Something inside him had awakened.
And the war was far from over.