AK : RISING MYTHIC

The crimson skies of the demon realm churned with thick, black storm clouds. Lightning cracked through the horizon not with light—but with shadows. Beneath the scorched and twisted cliffs of Dargan'zul, a massive fortress of obsidian stone loomed like a wound in the earth. Its spires scraped at the dead heavens like claws.

Within its deepest hollow, beyond spiked gates and rivers of molten ash, two towering figures walked down an ancient staircase carved into the mountain itself.

These were no ordinary demons.

One was tall, with horned armor that shifted like flowing magma, his eyes glowing emerald with infernal wisdom. The other had obsidian skin, scaled like a serpent, and his voice echoed like death itself.

They were Demon Lords—feared across countless realms—and tonight, their faces were laced with something rare: concern.

"Kar'Thael has bound with a new vessel," said the horned one, his voice crackling like burning coal.

The obsidian-skinned lord growled low. "Yes… the signs were clear. Thunder in the lower skies. Silence in the Gates. And the lightning that scorched the Ninth Sky—it all confirms it."

They reached the end of the staircase. Before them stood a sealed gate, forged of blackbone and crystal, engraved with chains and runes pulsing dark red.

The first demon waved his clawed hand, and the gate creaked open with a tortured groan.

Inside was not just a dungeon.

It was a prison of legends.

Rows of high-magic containment cells extended endlessly, forged with ancient spellwork and demonic binding seals. And within these glowing cages sat figures of immense power—yet visibly weakened. Silent. Still.

Each one resembled Kar'Thael in one way or another. The same flame-shaped aura lay dormant in their veins. Same coiled energy. Same cursed dignity.

These were not just prisoners.

They were Kar'Thael's kin—siblings, perhaps… or more disturbingly, his family.

The Demon Lords paused before one of the cells. Inside, seated calmly on a jagged rock, was a tall figure cloaked in dark gray tattered robes. His face bore deep scars, and his horns had been partly severed—but his eyes… they burned with wisdom and sorrow.

One of the Demon Lords sneered. "Your son has done it. He bound with a vessel again. But this time…" he leaned closer to the bars, "…he chose the wrong world to survive."

The captive looked up, eyes calm, voice coarse but unwavering. "That world… is my son's only hope. And perhaps its only hope too."

"We'll retrieve the last three stones from the Threshold in a matter of days," growled the second demon lord. "And then… we'll tear open the Sundusk Vaults. The human world will fall. And your son—this Kar'Thael—will burn alongside his mortal shell."

The captive smirked slowly, a quiet, amused exhale leaving his lips. "You still think you can kill him?"

The other prisoner in the adjacent cell stirred. A human man—chained, bruised, but not broken. His hair was disheveled, but his eyes—shining grey-blue—held a fire that time and torture had failed to dim.

It was Arslan's father.

He rose to his feet and stepped to the bars, excitement surging in his voice.

"The time has come," he said with a grin. "I can feel it… Our beloved sons will make it soon."

The Demon Lords turned toward him in fury.

"You dare speak of hope, mortal?" spat the horned one. "You bastards think they will defeat us?"

But Arslan's father only laughed, proud and fearless. "Not think…I believe"

Then Kar'Thael's father added with a deep, thunderous tone, "You will see it with your own eyes. You kept us chained. You used our powers, tortured our memories, tried to erase our legacies—but what you didn't understand…"

He stepped forward within the cell, as far as the magic would allow.

"…was that one day, we would leave a spark behind."

The obsidian demon hissed. "Enough of your riddles."

The prisoners said nothing more. They simply stood there—two broken legends, whose faith had not died.

Outside the cell, the Demon Lords walked away, their shadows dancing like beasts behind them. But for the first time in centuries, they didn't feel like victors.

They felt like a storm was coming.

And it bore the names Arslan and Kar'Thael.

In the scorched halls of the Demon Realm, two of the ruling Demon Lords stood before the blazing Vault of Sundusk, the air thick with smoke and ancient power. Before them rested three of the six stones, already pulsing with infernal energy—stones they had claimed long ago through blood, trickery, and war.

One of the Demon Lords, a towering creature with eyes like molten gold, snarled, "The humans have found the remaining stones. I'm sure of it. But they're clever… they're hiding them."

The second lord, smaller but far more cunning, grinned darkly. "Then we stop waiting. We'll use what we already have—three stones are enough to unlock one Vault Gate. That allows us access for Mid-Level Demons—not enough for our generals, but enough to start the cleansing."

The first nodded. "Good. We begin with the lowest ranks—goblins, imps, shriekers. Let them flood the borderlands of the human world. Let the weak scream. Let fear take root."

He clenched a massive, clawed fist.

"Once chaos spreads, the humans will have no choice but to act. And when they're desperate enough... they'll come crawling to us, offering the stones in exchange for survival."