Chapter 146: Chapter 146: The Devil’s Bargain

Arthur turned slowly, every muscle in his exhausted body screaming in protest. Behind him, Fiendfyre still roared, devouring the last trace of what had once been Lord Voldemort.

He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that whatever entity had answered Tom’s desperate call would vanish with its would-be servant’s death.

But the air around him shimmered, heat curling in waves that had nothing to do with his cursed flames. Red smoke began to coil upward from the scorched ground, thickening until it became something almost solid.

Then, between one heartbeat and the next, a figure stood before him.

At first glance, the newcomer looked disappointingly human. Tall, sharp-featured, with dark hair styled immaculately despite the North Sea wind. His midnight suit was immaculate, paired with a crimson tie that rippled like liquid fire. But it was the eyes that gave him away—ancient, burning with an inner fire that had nothing to do with reflected light.

“How dare you.” The figure’s voice was controlled, yet far more terrifying for it. “When I command you to stop, you stop.”

Arthur schooled his expression into careful neutrality, even as his mind raced for options.

“I’m sorry,” he said evenly. “but in the heat of battle, with spells flying everywhere…” He spread his hands as if helpless. “I didn’t hear anything until it was too late.”

The man smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Please. Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence.” He stepped forward, and the ground beneath his polished shoes glowed briefly, cherry-red. “Do you know who I am, boy? Who you’ve just… inconvenienced?”

Arthur studied him carefully, searching memory after memory from both his lives. Nothing matched this figure exactly. He shook his head slowly.

“You should.” The smile widened, showing teeth just slightly too sharp. “I can feel it on you. You’ve visited my realm. Recently, too. And Yao’s magic clings to you still. You went there with her, didn’t you?”

Arthur’s veins iced over. Yao—the Ancient One’s true name. The places she had taken him were not ordinary planes of existence. A rapid process of elimination left only one terrifying possibility.

“Are you talking about…” His throat felt dry. “Hell?”

“There’s the intelligence I sensed.” The figure’s laugh was like distant thunder rolling across unseen mountains. “I am indeed what your kind so quaintly calls the Devil. The Hell Lord. Among other titles.” He gestured carelessly toward the burning wreckage. “Poor Tom had no idea, of course. I had to explain things to him… thoroughly. I was hoping I could avoid repeating the lesson with you.”

The confirmation struck Arthur like a death knell. Mephisto.

In his previous life, Mephisto’s character hadn’t appeared in the MCU before his death, leaving him with only comic knowledge to draw from. And if even half those stories were true…

Instinctively, Arthur began gathering what scraps of magic he had left, preparing to Apparate. Pride was for fools who died young. Against a foe of unknown yet clearly vast power, the only sane option was retreat.

“Not so fast.” Mephisto raised a single finger, and Arthur felt reality tighten around him like invisible chains. “Stay. We have matters to discuss.”

Arthur tested the binding. It wasn’t a block, exactly, but space itself felt… thickened, resistant. His space stone enhanced abilities might punch through it, but not without enormous effort. Effort he wasn’t sure he had left.

Better to stall. Recover. Wait for an opening.

“Don’t look so tense,” Mephisto said lightly, conjuring a chair from smoke and sitting with theatrical grace. “Do you really believe your battle is over? That your enemy is truly dead? Victory achieved?”

“Only his ashes remain,” Arthur answered cautiously, though dread gnawed at him.

“Physical death,” Mephisto scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Such a narrow perspective. Since you know who I am, surely you know what I can do?”

The implications slammed into Arthur like a physical blow. Resurrection. Soul manipulation. Mephisto could bring Voldemort back, potentially stronger than before.

“But you only deal in bargains,” Arthur said quickly, clinging to reason. “Resurrections come at a cost. A contract. Why waste that on someone like Tom Riddle, when there’s nothing of importance to gain?”

“Waste?” Mephisto’s laugh echoed strangely, as though it came from a dozen directions at once. “Oh no. Think of it as an investment. I don’t like my commands to be ignored. And what better punishment than resurrecting your enemy? Only this time, he’d fight with my backing.” His grin sharpened, cruel. “Imagine the rematch. I think it would be… entertaining.”

Before Arthur could speak, Mephisto extended his hand. Darkness pooled in his palm, congealing into something so foul Arthur’s magical senses screamed. It writhed like a caged animal—black, tortured, alive.

“Behold,” Mephisto said with theatrical flair, “the soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Now, let’s give him a second chance at killing you, shall we?”

Arthur tensed, magic gathering despite his exhaustion. If he had to fight a Mephisto-empowered Voldemort in his current state…

The shadow began to take form, features pulling together—

And then, it collapsed.

The body crumbled like ash, the fragment screaming as it tore itself apart. In moments, only wisps of smoke remained, scattered by the wind.

Mephisto’s eyes narrowed at his empty palm. For the first time, genuine surprise crossed his face. “That’s… unusual. In all my eons, I’ve never seen a resurrection fail like that.” His gaze cut toward Arthur. “You know why.”

Arthur allowed himself a tight smile. “That was just a fragment. Tom split his soul into seven pieces, thinking it made him immortal. You tried to resurrect one sliver of a man.”

“Fragments?” Mephisto’s expression shifted from surprise to disgust. “That pompous fool. He refused my original offer of true immortality because he thought he achieved it by butchering his own soul? What kind of amateur mutilates their own essence?”

His eyes narrowed, and with a casual flick of his hand, the air around them warped. For a moment the landscape itself seemed to tremble, and three more shards of shadowy essence were dragged into existence, thrashing like wild animals caught in chains. “Only these three pieces remain. Let’s try again with these, then.”

Arthur’s heart lurched. He felt each fragment for what it was—pieces of Voldemort’s soul, howling with rage and agony. But even as Mephisto forced them together, the result was the same. The fragments fought each other, twisting and tearing, until the construct collapsed into ash, leaving nothing but silence.

Mephisto stared at the void with open contempt. “Pathetic soul. I’d even prepared such a lovely contract for him.” His voice hardened, carrying the weight of centuries. “All wasted effort.”

Arthur exhaled slowly, relief hidden behind his calm mask. The soul within the diary was not here—the largest piece, the most intact. If that shard had been present, Mephisto’s attempt might not have failed so easily.

The Hell Lord’s eyes locked back on him, and the temperature plummeted. “Still… you cost me a powerful servant. Perhaps you’d like to take his place?”

“I decline,” Arthur said at once.

“Oh, that wasn’t a request.” Mephisto’s smile returned, sharper than before. “You have two options: serve me willingly and retain some freedom, or—”

The world shifted.

One moment Arthur stood on the barren island, the next he was… elsewhere. The transition was so smooth he didn’t even feel it happen—no sensation of movement, no magical displacement. Reality simply changed.

Above him stretched a sky of writhing crimson clouds, veined with black lightning that never struck the ground. Beneath him, the terrain seemed half-solid, half-concept, as though the idea of “ground” was only loosely applied.

Bone-white spires jutted upward from crimson sands, while rivers of molten metal flowed uphill, radiating a cold that burned his spirit rather than his skin. Bones—human, beast, and stranger things still—were embedded in the very landscape.

Hell.

The pressure hit immediately. Not physical, but spiritual—a crushing weight against his soul. He remembered it from his visit with the Ancient One, but without her protection, it was infinitely worse. His magic was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Welcome to my domain,” Mephisto said, appearing beside him without warning. “You’re not leaving without accepting my generous offer. Take your time deciding—though I should mention, mortals who stay too long tend to… unravel. Soul first, then mind, then whatever’s left. It’s quite fascinating to watch, actually.”

Arthur gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay standing. The oppressive atmosphere gnawed at his spirit with every passing second.

“Take all the time you like,” Mephisto continued, summoning another chair and lounging like a man hosting afternoon tea. “We have eternity to negotiate. I suspect you’ll find my terms… reasonable long before then.”

The Hell Lord’s smile was patient, predatory, and absolutely certain of victory.

Arthur realized with grim clarity that he had escaped one monster only to fall into the hands of something infinitely worse.

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