Zarvok’s strategy was simple, born of pure survival: endure and observe. He took a staggering amount of punishment. Bolts of lightning seared his hide, and focused jets of water blasted him back, but each hit was a lesson. He allowed himself to be pushed to the brink, his body blistering from the heat of the lightning and his bones groaning under the constant pressure of the water.

His Imp cunning, honed by centuries of survival, kept him alive. He dodged, weaved, and absorbed, all the while studying the rhythm of their attacks, the conceptual architecture of their laws, and the subtle imperfections that defined their power.

Just as the mages believed they had him, a final, overwhelming push of lightning and water converging on his form, Zarvok’s timer was up. With a final, desperate surge of will, he plunged into a tear in reality that he ripped open, a portal to his forge. His body, bruised and battered, became the raw material, and the knowledge he had just gleaned was the fire.

When he returned, the mages recoiled. He was no longer the Imp demon they had been fighting. He had taken on his full astral form, a towering figure forged of matte-black obsidian with glowing, golden veins of plasma-like energy running across his body like a network of supercharged ley lines.

The Lightning Mage struck first, a furious bolt of raw energy intended to atomize him. It hit Zarvok’s chest and was instantly absorbed. Instead of being vaporized, Zarvok’s golden veins pulsed with a brilliant glow as the energy was channeled harmlessly throughout his form. He was now, a conceptual void where the lightning mage’s Law of Covalent Discharge could find no purchase. The mage’s eyes widened in horror and rage as he realized he was fueling his enemy.

Next, the Water Mage attacked, a ceaseless torrent of liquid light meant to erode him into nothingness. It washed over Zarvok’s form, but instead of wearing him down, the water simply solidified on contact, encasing his body in a sheath of unmoving, crystalline ice. The water mage’s power was rendered inert, his greatest strength frozen in place.

With the mages’ primary laws nullified, the battle shifted to Zarvok’s favor. He now moved with devastating efficiency of a force of nature. He no longer needed to dodge their attacks; he simply absorbed them. Their magic was a battery, and he was the living battery charger.

The mages, forced to fight a style not favorable to them, went on the defensive. The Lightning Mage could not strike and discharge; he was forced to create unstable, contained explosions around Zarvok, trying to find a weak point in his obsidian form. The Water Mage, unable to flow and erode, was forced to fight with rigid, physical constructs of ice, trying to break Zarvok through sheer force.

But Zarvok was unrelenting. With a moment of slip from the water mage, he closed in as he plunged his hand into the Water Mage’s body, the touch not of a physical object, but of a conceptual one. His form, now fully charged from their own attacks, instantly solidified the liquid mage’s body into a statue of frozen scultpure.

The Water Mage’s defeat was absolute. Trapped in a prison of their own making, the exquisite, frozen statue of liquid moonlight was a testament to Zarvok’s conceptual might. When the Lightning Mage, panicked by his partner’s fate, tried to interfere, Zarvok’s will alone was enough. A subtle shift in his focus, a conceptual flex, and the crystalline sculpture of the Water Mage’s astral form ruptured, sending shards of inert moonlight cascading to the ground.

The Water Mage was not yet gone. Their essence, their very soul, was a being of perpetual flow. It began to swirl and eddy, attempting to reform and re-establish its existence. But a demon of Zarvok’s caliber does not grant second chances. He opened his mouth, and with a simple, sucking gesture, he began to consume. The Water Mage’s soul, with no physical body to anchor its form or resist the pull, could do nothing but surrender. It was drawn in like a river to the sea, swallowed whole by the Imp Demon King.

With one enemy entirely consumed, Zarvok turned his attention to the last remaining foe. The Lightning Mage, witnessing the horrifying end of his ally, launched his most powerful attack, a blinding discharge of all his remaining energy, which manifested as a circular ball of lighting energy that disintegrated everything struck by it, it turned mountains into dust.

Zarvok, however, rushed into the discharged energy. He absorbed it, pushing his new form beyond its conceptual limits. Cracks appeared on his obsidian-like body, lines of brilliant light radiating from the fractures. His veins pulsed with a blinding light as he redirected the entire discharge back at the mage. The Lightning Mage screamed as his own power, now a weapon of his enemy, consumed him in a final, brilliant explosion, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of ozone.

With a triumphant grin, Zarvok made a gesture as the soul of the lightning mage was pulled to his hand, crackling with residual power. His massive, shadowy form wavered, shrinking back into his impish, exhausted self. His shoulders heaved, a mix of pure joy and profound fatigue radiating from his small frame. The immense power of his domain recedning.

The planet that had been the stage for his latest victory was now nothing but a field of floating debris, a testament to the raw magical energy unleashed. He didn’t spare it a glance. It was a means to an end, and that end was all that mattered. “I won,” he rasped, his voice raw but filled with elation. He threw his arms wide, a mad, guttural laugh echoing into the emptiness. He was closer to his goal now than he had ever been, the mage’s soul a key to the next lock.

His only hope now was that the other two gods held up their end of the bargain and secured their own victories. Their success was his success; their wins would bring him closer to his ultimate ascension. With that thought, he let himself drift toward a large chunk of what was once the planet’s core. He pricked his finger, a single drop of his black blood forming on the tip, and began to inscribe a reverse summoning spell, a quick and dirty way to pull himself back to his abyssal layer.

The complex lines of the spell circle quickly etched themselves onto the rock. At its center, a swirling vortex of dark energy appeared, expanding rapidly. Zarvok moved toward it, his small body a silhouette against the growing maelstrom, and allowed it to swallow him whole. The moment he was gone, the magical circle flared brightly before disintegrating into dust, leaving no trace of the powerful ritual or the impish demon who had just claimed victory.

Outside the swirling vortex of the abyss portal, Kaelen stood his ground, a lone sentinel entrusted with a critical task. He couldn’t see what was happening on the other side, nor did he care to. His orders were to hold this position, to be the final barrier against whatever spilled forth from the abyssal depths. The wait was agonizing, the silence between the roars of the abyss stretching his nerves taut.

Then, a flicker of movement within the portal caught his eye. The Imperial army, the same soldiers he was meant to be supporting, began to pour out. But they weren’t marching in formation; they were fleeing in terror, their faces a mask of fear, their weapons abandoned.

Behind them, the demon army surged forth, a tidal wave of claws and fangs. They fell upon the fleeing Imperial soldiers, a brutal slaughter in the open field. Kaelen’s training and discipline were all that held him together as he watched the carnage.

Rattan took a closer look at the demon and was welcomed with a new sight, the sight of the demon army was something else entirely. An irrational, gut-wrenching fear seized him. It wasn’t the demons he saw, but his own reflection in their malevolent eyes, his greatest enemy, the one person who could truly hold him accountable for every brutal act he had ever justified. The demons’ roars were the screams of his victims, their monstrous forms the physical manifestation of his own monstrous deeds.

Phantom made no move to help, his form as still as a statue as Rattan and his monstrous mount began to retreat in sheer terror. Rattan took another stumbling step back before turning to flee, his screams for Phantom to save him lost to the roars of the demon horde. But no help came.

As Rattan’s personal nightmare closed in, its clawed hand raised to strike, everything suddenly cleared. The illusion shattered. Rattan found himself on the ground, his arms raised in a futile attempt to defend himself. Tears streamed down his face, and his eyes were wide with shock as he finally saw the true demon before him, not the distorted reflection of his past deeds.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep