The creature before them was labeled a Lesser Mirror Monster: the Volatile Fiend.
Its grotesque, fleshy skin writhed with an unsettling rhythm as its two bipolar faces alternated expressions. One face, contorted in an endless snarl, occupied ere top half of its body. The second, far more disturbing, was located on its stomach—twisted, horrified, and locked in an eternal scream.
The monster seemed to pulse with raw, unfathomable malice, its movements erratic and unpredictable. The ground around them was damp, soaking with methane that made the air thick and heavy, a combination of danger and decay. In the eerie gloom, the plants that dotted the landscape gave off a faint, ghostly glow, adding to the atmosphere of disquiet.
Belial stood at the ready, his crimson-hued blade gleaming dully in the dim light. He wasn't new to this kind of fight, and yet, something about the Volatile Fiend unsettled him. It was unpredictable, dangerous in ways that only creatures born from the abyss could be. Still, he felt oddly calm as his eyes shifted to his companion, Raven.
Raven's dark armor clattered as he adjusted his grip on his fist, his expression hidden behind a visor of pitch-black metal. Raven was the brute force, the relentless wall of defense and offense wrapped in iron, but it was Belial's mind that led the way, his cunning and intellect plotting the moves.
Belial's voice was calm, almost detached, as he spoke, "Raven, hit it from the left side when I give the signal."
Raven's armored fist twitched slightly, ready to unleash the power stored within. He was waiting for the moment, the moment Belial would predict with uncanny accuracy. It was as if the fight played out in his mind before it even happened.
The monster charged forward, the snapping sound of its jagged, grotesque limbs cracking through the methane-heavy air. Its faces contorted as if relishing the thought of a violent confrontation. Belial's gaze never wavered.
"Now!," Belial's voice cut through the chaos.
Raven acted almost instantly, his fist surging forward with a force that could crush a boulder. The sound of it landing was a dull thud, followed by the explosion of blood and gore as the monster was sent reeling backward. The Volatile Fiend's face on its stomach twisted in pain, but its top face snarled viciously, undeterred by the blow.
As Raven drew back, Belial moved in, his crimson blade singing through the air. It cleaved through the creature's flesh with surgical precision, leaving a dark streak of blood in its wake. The Volatile Fiend howled in fury, its stomach face letting out a shrill scream that echoed across the desolate landscape.
The creature lunged again, faster than before, its twisted faces locked in a frenzied rage. But Belial, who had fought countless virtual battles in this cursed realm, was no novice. He saw the attack coming before it materialized, his body already moving in a fluid, practiced dance of death. His blade met the monster's strike with a resounding clash, sparks flying as steel collided with the beast's grotesque form.
It was a brutal contest of strength and willpower. Raven swung again, his fist smashing into the Fiend's side, sending a ripple of shock through its bloated, fleshy body. But it was Belial who finally ended the fight. With a swift movement, he stepped in close, his blade thrusting into the creature's heart with deadly accuracy. The Volatile Fiend's face on its stomach twisted in one final agonizing scream before it collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
Belial stepped back, wiping his blade clean. His eyes, cold and exausted, flicked briefly toward Raven.
"Well done," he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of weary.
But Raven's attention was elsewhere. His visor tilted slightly as he looked over at Belial, as if questioning something unspoken.
Belial sighed, his gaze drifting to the light above the stairway.
He had known what to do. In a sense, it had been easy—predicting every move, knowing exactly how things would play out. But knowing the future didn't guarantee anything. He had played this game for centuries, had lived in these virtual now very real realms long enough to understand the complexities of survival.
The rules of the world were clear. But that didn't make survival any easier.
But it something about this whole ordeal didn't make any sense.
Belial stood still, his crimson blade hanging loosely at his side, his thoughts swirling like a storm within the confines of his mind. The world around him felt... wrong, in ways he couldn't quite explain. The battle had been brutal, yes, but it was more than that. This wasn't just another fight in the never-ending cycle of conflict that had plagued his existence for centuries. Something far more unsettling gnawed at him—a question that refused to be ignored.
How was this possible?
How had the game—the game—come to life like this? He had played it before, back in the days before the war had torn everything apart.
A mere game, a simulation, something to occupy the minds of those foolish enough to think it was more than it seemed. It was a game where the boundaries between life and death were blurred, where the rules were arbitrary, and where survival was never guaranteed. But it was just that—a game.
A game that could be beaten. A game with an end. Or so he had thought.
But now, as he stood in this twisted, unnatural world where the line between the real and the imagined had all but vanished, he found himself questioning everything he had ever believed.
The Black Gate had formed after the war, its origins shrouded in mystery. But he had played the game before the war. Back when things were simpler, when the boundaries between the realms were clearer. He had beaten it once, or so he had thought. Yet now, standing amidst the ruins of a world that seemed to have sprung from the very game he had once mastered, he realized that victory had been an illusion.
And with that realization came a haunting question.
How?
How had the creators of the game been able to make this happen? Had they always known what would come? Had they anticipated the war, the chaos, the destruction? Was this a plan set in motion long before he had ever even touched the game? Or was something—someone—else at play here? A force beyond comprehension, a god, perhaps, pulling the strings of fate like a marionette?
The idea of a god behind it all seemed too... simple. Too neat. But there were times—moments of immense power—that hinted at something beyond mortal comprehension.
Like Cole for example.
The game had always been strange, yes, but never like this. No. This was different. This felt real, in a way that could not be explained away by simple rules or mechanics.
Insanity
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. Xin, his companion, appeared from the rubble, his figure emerging from the debris of the last battle. In his hands, he clutched one of the glowing plants, its faint light flickering like a dying star.
"Xin," Belial called, his voice low but curious. "What happened to your hands?"
Xin's eyes, though hardened by the trials of their journey, held a flicker of something softer as he glanced down at his hands. They were cut, the skin torn and reddened from what appeared to be sharp objects embedded in the plant.
"They're tougher than they look," Xin said simply, his voice matter-of-fact.
Belial raised an eyebrow, a flicker of concern passing through his bloodied face, "What exactly happened?"
"The plants," Xin explained, holding up the glowing object, "they release oxygen... and something else. Carbon dioxide, maybe. It's hard to say, but it's why there are so many shards of diamond littered around here. The gas must create a reaction with the methane and the minerals, causing the crystals to form."
Belial listened carefully, his mind already racing with implications. These plants—this environment—had layers of complexity. They were more than mere obstacles; they were a part of the world's strange system, a piece of a puzzle that had yet to be solved.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Belial asked, his tone still sharp.
Xin gave a wry smile, though it was tinged with the exhaustion of their ordeal. "Didn't think it was worth mentioning until now. i noticed when "
Belial slightly smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. He was piecing together the patterns in the world, the strange little details that made up the larger picture.
"I'll get us out of this," Belial muttered, though the words held little certainty. He couldn't afford to believe in certainty. Not in a world like this.
"Of course you will," Xin replied, his tone holding a mix of admiration and sarcasm.
But it was Raven who spoke next, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the tension. "What now, then?"
Belial turned to face them, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Now, we continue. The fight never ends from this point on. But before that... I need to tell you something."
He hesitated, the words forming in his mind, ready to reveal the true nature of this harrowing world. But then—something stopped him. A glitch, a flicker in reality, as if the world itself refused to let him speak.
The others exchanged confused looks, waiting for him to continue.
Belial exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Never mind," he muttered, brushing it off and moving forward.