From the moment of that shattering comprehension, Blade was remade. The stubborn, defiant prince was extinguished, burned away in the cold fire of absolute truth. What emerged from the ashes of his will was something sharper, colder, and infinitely more dangerous: Rushifa's Knight.
His training ceased to be a struggle and became an act of devotion. He no longer sought to break the mountain; he learned to become its most lethal landslide. He absorbed the teachings of hell not as a prisoner, but as a zealot, his brilliance now focused entirely on one purpose: becoming the perfect instrument of his Father's will.
His ascension was meteoric and merciless. It culminated in a confrontation with Damion, Rushifa's firstborn, a being of seething chaos and petulant, ancient power. The battle was not a brawl, it was a brutal, clinical dissection. Blade, using every hell-forged technique with a chilling, emotionless precision, systematically dismantled his brother. He didn't fight with rage, but with the serene certainty of a natural law asserting itself. When Damion lay broken, not just in body but in legacy, Blade did not gloat. He simply took the sigil of command from his brother's dissolving grasp. The legions of Jigoku, who respected only the cruelest strength, bowed as one.
He did not stand alone. Flanking him were his own personal guard, his living weapons, the other two fragments of a dead world.
Birman was no longer a boy, but a force of condensed violence. The arenas had carved away all softness, leaving a tactical genius encased in scar tissue and cold fury. His missing tail was a badge of his lesson, a constant reminder that made his every movement brutally efficient, devoid of flourish. He commanded the shock troops with a silent, terrifying competence.
Burmilla's hatred had crystallized into a dark, gleaming intellect. Starvation had honed her mind to a razor's edge. She no longer piloted ships; she conducted symphonies of destruction from the command decks of Jigoku's void-cruisers. Her strategies were elegant, ruthless, and always, always ensured maximum suffering for the enemy and a subtle, nourishing drip of despair for herself. Her hope was gone, replaced by a craving for the tangible proof of her power: conquest.
Together, they were a trinity of ruin. They besieged worlds not with fanfare, but with silent, surgical terror, working in the galaxy's blind spots, careful not to alert the luminous sentinels of Tengoku. They were Rushifa's scalpel, cutting out pockets of resistance and hope before the great war could even begin.
Years bled by in the timeless hellscape. The children became teenagers forged in endless conflict, their Nekonian features sharpened by hardship and shadow.
Finally, on a dais overlooking the infinite, screaming legions, Rushifa bestowed his mark of ultimate favor. From the deepest fire-pits of Jigoku, where the screams of fallen gods were used as bellows, three sets of armor were brought forth. They were not mere metal; they were solidified nightmare, black and deep as a gravity well, edged in the faint, phosphorescent crimson of dying stars. They molded to their wearers like a second skin, Blade's was regal and severe, Birman's厚重 and impregnable, Burmilla's sleek and flowing like poisoned shadow. Donning it felt not like being armed, but like being claimed by the abyss itself.
"You have proven your worth, my children," Rushifa intoned, his voice the heartbeat of their dark universe. "But before the gates of Tengoku can be stormed, a key must be forged. You will retrieve for me the Triton."
He spoke of the legend: a weapon of primordial dominion, not of destruction, but of absolute subjugation. It could weave the will of its wielder into the very fabric of a soul, enslaving all beings in the universe to a single command. It was the crucial first step, the means to turn Tengoku's own celestial armies against it.
"It lies hidden," Rushifa continued, a flicker of cold amusement in his starless eyes, "on a small, pathetic planet of weak life and weaker spirit. A place called... Earth."
The name meant nothing to Blade. It was just a coordinate, an obstacle.
But for Birman and Burmilla, it was a lightning strike.
Earth. The word unlocked a sealed chamber in their ravaged hearts. The diplomatic program. The safe haven. Zylo.
Birman's stern, battle-hardened face remained impassive, but a low, humorless chuckle escaped him, a sound like stones grinding in a deep well. It was the sound of a long-delayed reckoning.
Burmilla's lips, usually set in a thin, bloodless line, curved into a smile. It was not a joyful expression. It was the smile of a spider feeling the first tremor in its web. All the years of curated hatred, all the resentment nurtured in the dark, now had a destination. They would finally meet their little brother. Not as rescuers, but as conquerors. Not to save him, but to show him what he had escaped, and what he would now serve.
They both turned their heads, almost in unison, to look at Blade. He stood immobile in his hellforged plate, the embodiment of their shared purpose, their dark prince. He met their gazes, and in his eyes, they saw no memory of a lost home, no flicker of kinship. They saw only the cold, reflected will of Rushifa, and the singular objective: the Triton.
With a simple, synchronized thought, they activated the portal mechanism in their armor. A wound of seething violet and black tore open in the fabric of Jigoku, revealing the swirling blues and greens of a deceptively peaceful orb hanging in the void.
Blade took the first step forward, into the light of a world that had no idea of the darkness about to fall upon it.
Birman and Burmilla followed, their hearts not lifting with hope, but settling into the cold, familiar groove of a mission. They were not coming home. They were arriving as the vanguard of the end.
For the glory of Rushifa.
And, silently, for the long-awaited taste of a very personal vengeance.10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNivib51f00
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