Chapter 38 – The Crescent’s Doom
The capsule lay still on the ice.
Its smooth surface glistened beneath the dim aurora, a haunting reflection of the sky’s fractured beauty.
All was still—but only for a moment.
The storm had begun to creep back, crawling across the sky like a living thing.
Clouds churned above, matte-black and trembling with thunder.
From the edge of the platform, Levi turned his wrist.
From palm to knuckles.
A single motion.
And the world answered.
The pressure that followed cracked the ice for miles.
A sound like bones breaking beneath the skin.
Spiderweb fractures spread in all directions as the capsule let out a tortured creak, its ancient seams groaning under the weight of Leviathan’s will.
But it did not open.
Levi’s gaze narrowed.
“…Satan,” he said quietly. “I’m not enough for this.”
A breath of silence.
Then—
A new force.
Red.
A presence like heat. Like weight. Like judgment itself.
The aura didn’t replace Levi’s power.
It layered over it—sinking into the cracks, into the spellwork, into the very mass of the weapon’s tomb.
Levi’s eyes twitched.
And for a split second—he smiled.
The first smile of something he hadn’t felt in millennia.
Recognition.
Not of power.
But of deception.
He said nothing. He let it pass.
It would be fun to watch how long the others remained blind.
The capsule shuddered.
Then screamed.
And finally—burst.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
An eruption of steam and smoke exploded into the air, swallowing the platform, darkening the sky.
The wind howled. Ice cracked again. Thunder rolled.
And then—silence.
The smoke cleared.
And in its place—
A sword.
Floated in the air. Alone.
It wasn’t forged.
It was born.
A greatsword—taller than most men, its width carved for titans.
Gold and silver intertwined across its surface like veins of divine metal, a blade shaped for execution, not grace.
Its light cut through the night, brighter than fire, colder than ice.
Even the demons stood still.
Then—
Belzeebub stepped forward.
And screamed.
Not a shout.
Not a battle cry.
But a scream so raw, so bottomless, it shook the very blood in one’s veins.
A call to the damned.
And they answered.
A massive gate tore open beneath his feet, its form not carved or summoned—but ripped into existence.
Green and gaping, it churned with hunger.
Ash stepped forward, arms lifted.
One command.
Then another.
Thousands of corrupted souls surged upward.
Not bodies. Not spirits.
But clouds of emotions.
Faces. Memories.
Each one distorted into the final moment of their life.
Mouths open in screams, in cries, in disbelief.
The agony eternal.
The sins of three demons poured through them.
Envy.
Gluttony.
Lust.
They oozed like color in water, bleeding through the clouds, turning them rust-red and rotten with power.
The souls streamed like liquid light, curving upward in a silent spiral and funnelling into the blade.
One after another.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
And the sword—
Changed.
Its glow twisted.
From divine white to silver.
From silver to crimson.
From crimson to a color no language could name—only feel.
A bloody, endless red.
A red that swallowed everything.
Then—
The release.
The blade let out a flash of blinding energy—an unholy roar of unleashed power—and fired a beam skyward.
It wasn’t a bolt.
It was truth.
A spear of unrelenting force that split the clouds, the sky, the heavens.
And it hit the moon.
Clean.
Instant.
Precise.
From earth, it looked like a perfect scoop taken from a sphere of light—leaving behind only the slimmest crescent.
But the power didn’t stop.
The beam continued—racing into the black.
Somewhere far beyond what eyes could follow, something else exploded.
And then another.
And another.
Each one quieter than the last, like the cosmos itself was falling silent.
The sword still hovered.
But it no longer shone as bright.
Its light had gone elsewhere.
To where it wasn’t meant to be.
The demons said nothing.
End of Chapter.
