The morning after the gods vanished, the world was already burning with rumors.

The Ten Demon Kings gathered through the blackflame communication sigils—  

their voices overlapping in panic, rage, and disbelief.

> “So it’s true… the Twelve Ancient Gods have descended?”  

> “Impossible. They were sealed before the first Demon War!”  

> “Sealed by *who*, exactly? The gods themselves!”  

> “If they’re back, this isn’t just politics—this is *apocalypse!*”

Dalph Bakian sat in the shadowed throne hall of the Bakian fortress, face grim.  

“Enough shouting. Send word to the humans. I want to know if this is their doing.”

Within hours, messengers of shadow and flame crossed dimensions.  

The Ten Kings’ ultimatum reached the **Holy Capital of Molercaesia**,  

now shining under the halos of the newly descended gods.

The humans didn’t even bother hiding their arrogance.  

From the heart of the ancient city, the High Council’s reply came like thunder:

> “The age of demons ends here.  

>  The Twelve have returned, and humanity stands with the gods once more.  

>  If you seek peace—surrender.  

>  If you resist—be erased.”

The psychic message echoed through the Demon Realm.  

Every noble, every soldier, every demon who heard it felt their blood chill.

The Ten Demon Kings convened again—this time in person, inside the massive council chamber of the Abyssal Court.  

Even the most battle-hardened among them looked uneasy.  

On the obsidian table lay a single ancient book—  

**《Records of the Twelve Wars》**,  

a chronicle of the age when those same gods had nearly wiped demonkind from existence.

Freya Monar flipped the tome open, her voice quiet.  

“These twelve… they’re not myths. They’re the ones who burned the First Realm.  

Every generation feared their return. And now—”

Rhazel slammed the table.  

“Then we fight! We’re demons, aren’t we?!”  

Dalph Bakian shook his head.  

“You don’t understand, fool. Those twelve aren’t just strong—they *define* the laws of existence.  

They don’t destroy you because they’re angry.  

They destroy you because *that’s their nature.*”

The tension grew unbearable—  

until one of the council’s strategists, a horned elder from the Shardmoon Legion,  

slowly raised his hand.

“If the heavens have reclaimed their ancient weapons…” he rasped,  

“then perhaps we must reclaim *ours*.”  

The chamber went silent.  

“…You mean them,” Dalph said, voice low.  

The elder nodded.  

“The ancient ones from the infernal depths. The **Hellborn Clans**.”

Murmurs rippled through the kings.  

Each of them knew the name—  

and the terror that came with it.

The Hellborn were not gods.  

They were what the gods *feared.*

But summoning them came at a cost—  

for once unleashed, they obeyed no one.  

Not even their summoners.

“No,” said Dalph firmly.  

“We summon them, and we lose everything.  

They’ll turn the world into a feeding ground.”  

“Then what choice do we have?!” snapped another king.  

“If we don’t, the Twelve will burn us to ash anyway!”

The room descended into chaos.  

Arguments. Shouting. Fear disguised as pride.

Meanwhile, one chair was empty.

No one noticed that Jexy Bakian—  

the groom, the heir, the walking disaster—  

wasn’t there anymore.

Far from the Demon Realm, on the edges of the human territories,  

a storm of blue fire descended from the clouds.

Cities that had stood for centuries vanished in seconds.  

Walls melted like wax.  

Rivers boiled, forests turned to glass.

In the eye of the storm, a lone figure walked through the flames, coat whipping in the wind.

“Congratulations,” Jexy muttered, kicking aside a burning spear.  

“You wanted war. Well… you just hired the wrong guy to start it.”

He raised his hand, and the air twisted.  

Runes flared beneath his feet—**Teleport.**

He vanished.

A heartbeat later, another city screamed.

Explosions bloomed across the continent like fireworks.  

Every few minutes, a new settlement fell—  

and every time, the culprit had already disappeared before the smoke cleared.

The humans tried everything—  

scouting spells, detection wards, holy barriers—  

but nothing worked.

“He’s moving too fast!”  

“We can’t even *see* him!”  

“Is this some kind of god’s trick?!”

By nightfall, half of humanity’s western territories were engulfed in fire.  

Entire regions burned under blue-black storm clouds.  

Even the light of the gods couldn’t pierce the smoke.

In Molercaesia, the human generals gathered before the divine emissaries.  

“The demons have sent their strongest!”  

“He attacks and vanishes like lightning—our barriers can’t stop him!”  

The god Lumial merely smiled, voice calm and cold.  

> “Let him burn.  

>  Let the fire spread.  

>  Every flame he kindles will draw our light closer.  

>  And when he stands before us again—  

>  the heavens will answer in full.”  

Back in the burning dusk, Jexy appeared atop the ruins of yet another fortress,  

his coat torn, his eyes glowing with fury.  

He looked over the blazing horizon, breathing hard,  

and muttered to himself—

“Bastards think they can blow up my wedding, burn my castle,  

and *I’m* supposed to sit still?  

Fine. Let’s see who runs out of cities first.”

He snapped his fingers.  

Another teleport rune lit up beneath his boots.  

And once again—he was gone.