Lora's trembling hands gripped the ancient amulet, its jagged edges biting into her skin as she whispered the forbidden incantation. The air crackled with a dark energy that seeped into her bones, filling the island of Pendoria with a chilling, unnatural silence. The wind died. The waves stilled. Even the storm above seemed to hold its breath.
Her voice trembled as she spoke the final words, the ones her ancestors had sworn to forget — a desperate attempt to save what remained of her people.
"Ezekiel... hear me. Return from the void."
The earth beneath her feet shivered violently, a deep, resonating tremor that splintered the ground. The altar before her cracked, bleeding dark veins of shadow that coiled and writhed like serpents. The air thickened, choking her lungs as if the world itself resisted what she had done.
And then, from the darkness of the altar, he emerged.
Ezekiel's body was twisted — a grotesque shell of the warrior he once was. His skin pulsed with veins of black fire, his eyes hollow, pits of smoldering ember. A grim, maddened grin split his bloodstained face. The Ashen Blade had unmade him, but something far worse had brought him back.
Diablos had made his claim.
Lora's heart froze in her chest as Ezekiel's gaze found hers. Recognition flickered for a heartbeat, a sliver of the man she had known, before it was devoured by the darkness.
"Ezekiel…" she whispered, her voice fragile.
His grin widened, jagged and unnatural, his teeth sharp and bared. There was no warmth, no humanity — only the insatiable hunger of a demon reborn.
The silence shattered as a Spartan guard charged forward, spear poised to strike. Ezekiel moved before the man could blink, his hand seizing the Spartan's head with a vice-like grip. The warrior's scream was cut short as Ezekiel twisted — a sharp, brutal snap that sent blood spraying across the altar. The lifeless body crumpled to the ground, neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
Chaos erupted.
The Spartans surged, their battle cries ringing out as they charged the abomination standing before them. Weapons glinted, shields raised — a final, desperate stand. But they faced not a man, not a warrior, but a nightmare clad in flesh.
Ezekiel tore through them with ruthless efficiency. His hands, once the tools of a hero, now tore apart flesh and bone like wet parchment. A Spartan's blade slashed across his shoulder, but the wound did not bleed — it smoldered with blackened embers that hissed and sealed shut.
Another Spartan swung a war hammer, aiming for Ezekiel's skull. With a snarl, Ezekiel caught the weapon mid-swing, wrenching it from the warrior's grip. His grip crushed the iron head, and before the Spartan could react, Ezekiel drove his fist through the man's chest, splintering ribs and tearing out his heart. The body fell, limp and hollow.
Lora's knees buckled as she watched the massacre unfold. The Spartans — her people, her family — fell like stalks of wheat before a scythe. She saw friends, brothers, sons — all unmade in moments. The island of Pendoria had become a slaughterhouse, the soil drinking deeply of its children's blood.
"Stop!" Lora screamed, her voice shredded by desperation. "Ezekiel, stop!"
But there was no stopping him. The demon's will clawed at his mind, a voice of shadows and mockery. Diablos whispered, promising power, promising vengeance, demanding blood.
Ezekiel's gaze found a young Spartan — a boy, barely old enough to hold a blade. His eyes wide with terror, legs frozen in place. Ezekiel's twisted grin widened. In a heartbeat, he was upon the boy, fingers closing around his throat. The child's eyes bulged, his mouth gaping for air that would never fill his lungs.
"Ezekiel! Please!" Lora screamed, stumbling forward. "This isn't you!"
Ezekiel's grip tightened, bones cracking beneath his fingers. The boy's life snuffed out, another soul cast to the storm.
Lora fell to her knees, the amulet slipping from her grasp. Her voice shattered into sobs, drowned by the screams of the dying. Her desperate prayer had become a curse.
Ezekiel's eyes met hers again — a glimmer of something beneath the madness, a flicker of memory. But it was crushed by Diablos, by the dark hunger that consumed him.
The last of the Spartans fell, their blood painting the stones of Pendoria in a grotesque tapestry. The storm swirled above, furious and weeping, as if the gods themselves mourned the fallen.
Lora's body trembled. The weight of her mistake pressed on her chest, a burden too heavy to bear. She had wanted to save her people — to protect them. Instead, she had delivered them to a monster of her own making.
Ezekiel stepped forward, his shadow looming over her. She looked up into his hollow, burning eyes — a twisted reflection of the hero she had once loved. Tears streamed down her face, the bitter taste of regret choking her.
"Ezekiel…" she whispered. "Please… forgive me."
Ezekiel's hand reached out, brushing her cheek with a chilling tenderness. The storm fell silent, the world holding its breath. For a heartbeat, there was a flicker of humanity in his gaze.
And then it was gone.
His fingers wrapped around her throat, cold and unyielding. Lora's eyes widened, fear drowning her final breath. Ezekiel's grip tightened — a final, merciless twist. Her body fell limp, a fragile, broken thing among the corpses of her kin.
The island of Pendoria lay silent, a graveyard of shattered souls.
Diablos's laughter echoed in Ezekiel's mind — triumphant, eternal, a devil's glee. The demon's herald had fulfilled his will. There was no redemption left. Only wrath. Only ruin.
And Ezekiel, standing amidst the slaughter, was nothing more than a weapon in the hands of a devil.
Will Ezekiel free him self find out on the next exciting chapter of Chronicles of Varek