The portal flickered ominously above the Infernal Wastes, a rip in the fabric of reality that churned with swirling dark energy. From it came a figure clad in blackened armor, his silhouette a dark blot against the fiery backdrop of Hell’s desolation. The air grew colder as he emerged, and the very ground seemed to recoil beneath his boots.


    Two demons stood near the swirling portal, their grotesque features twisted into a mixture of awe and dread. As the air around them grew heavy with a suffocating power, a shiver ran through their spined forms. One of them caught sight of the figure emerging through the haze and gasped, their voice trembling with recognition.


    “It’s him…” the first demon whispered, their words barely audible over the hum of the portal.


    The second demon turned to look, their glowing eyes widening in terror as the figure’s aura became unmistakable. Without hesitation, both creatures dropped to their knees, their once-defiant postures reduced to servile submission. The air seemed to hum with their collective fear, the unspoken truth binding them to obedience.


    Their heads bowed low, claws digging into the ground as if to brace themselves against the weight of the presence before them. They didn’t dare raise their gaze again, knowing full well the consequences of even a single misstep in the shadow of such overwhelming power.


    He was Isharoth, General of the Dread Legion — a name known only in hushed tones by the demons, spoken with a mix of awe and terror. The moment he stepped onto the ashen earth, the wretched beings around him froze, instinctively bowing their heads in submission. Not a soul dared to look up. They could feel his power—absolute, crushing—and knew better than to challenge him.


    Isharoth’s presence was a palpable force, one that commanded obedience without uttering a single word. His helmet, adorned with the jagged horn of a great beast, concealed any expression, but his aura spoke volumes. The demons who cowered in the distance understood that they were in the presence of one who was not merely a servant of Valthrion, but his right hand—his will incarnate.


    His obsidian-black cloak fluttered like a living shadow, merging with the darkness around him, as he marched across the desolate land of Hell. The ground beneath cracked and splintered with every step he took, as if Hell itself recoiled in fear.


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    Isharoth made his way toward the gates of the fortress, the towering spires of the Ruler’s seat stretching high into the blood-red sky, their peaks lost in the ever-rolling clouds of smoke and ash. Demons who stood guard before the gates did not even raise their weapons as he approached. They bent their heads, parting ways for him as he passed. No words were exchanged. The mere act of his arrival was enough.


    Without hesitation, Isharoth raised a hand. The enormous gates of the fortress groaned in protest, but obeyed, swinging open to reveal the blackened interior.


    The coldness of the air inside the fortress was stifling. Thick shadows clung to the walls, and the faint wailing of tormented souls echoed through the narrow halls. Isharoth walked without fear, without pause, heading directly toward the heart of the fortress.


    Within the inner chamber, a throne of blackened bone awaited, the very seat of the King himself. But there, atop it, was only darkness—no form, no figure. The air hummed with a heavy, ancient presence, and the shadows seemed to bend and writhe as if in anticipation.


    Isharoth knelt before the throne, drawing a scroll from his cloak—a scroll sealed with the emblem of Valthrion. The symbols on the scroll glowed faintly, their power ancient and incomprehensible to the uninitiated.


    The moment the scroll was unfurled, the room plunged into even deeper shadow. The runes on the scroll flared to life, as if they had a mind of their own, and for a moment, the temperature in the room dropped sharply. A pulse of dark energy spread outward, rippling through the fortress, unsettling even the walls.


    But then… silence. Not a sound, not a whisper.


    Isharoth’s head remained bowed, his voice low and controlled.


    “I have come to fulfill your will,” he said, his words cutting through the silence like a blade. “The Veil grows weak. I bring news of the Solvains. Nyroth and the little brat stir, their power grows.”


    For a moment, there was only silence in response. The shadows within the room shifted, as though the very darkness was listening, awaiting the signal. A subtle, unnerving shift of power that only Isharoth could feel. He remained kneeling, his posture unyielding.


    Then, with chilling clarity, Isharoth rose. His command was absolute.


    “Prepare the Legions. The time has come to set him free.”


    His voice carried with it the weight of Valthrion’s decree. The words reverberated through the fortress, though no voice was heard. Isharoth had given the command, and the will of the Demon King had been delivered without utterance. The room itself seemed to bend in response.


    There was no need for Valthrion’s voice to be heard directly. Isharoth was the conduit, the vessel for the King’s desires.


    He walked out of the throne room, the scroll still in hand, its runes glowing ominously. Demons rushed to attend to his will, each aware of the task that had just been set into motion. The fortress itself seemed to breathe with anticipation.


    “My brothers… we’ve waited long enough. It’s time for you to return,” wishpering to himself with a menacing grim to his face.


    As Isharoth moved through the chamber, his presence cast an impenetrable shadow over the denizens of Hell. They knew—without a doubt—that Valthrion’s return was inevitable. And with Isharoth at the helm, it was only a matter of time before the realm of the living would be shattered.