Chapter 132

King Baalrek attacks instantly.

He raises a hand, and a word older than the System tears the air. The sound splits the wetlands into trembling layers. A jagged arc of black flame erupts from Jacob’s arm—not as a Skill but as will‑wrought spell—and carves straight across Asmodeus’s scaled chest.

Asmodeus reels, snarling. He swipes a claw and hurls a wave of divine force. King Baalrek doesn’t dodge. He clenches his fist and utters another word. The wave folds in on itself and detonates into harmless sparks.

They clash in the air.

King Baalrek traces three burning lines with his fingers. The lines twist into a sigil that pulses and expands outward. The sigil clamps down on Asmodeus’s limbs, a primordial binding that freezes his body mid‑flight. Asmodeus tears against it, scales cracking, golden light pushing through the gaps, until the sigil shatters.

“You cage me with scraps of the old tongue?” Asmodeus growls. “You should know better.”

“I know you’re slow,” King Baalrek says. His wings snap wide, beating once, bending the air into a storm of black ash. He chants under his breath, each syllable pressing a different weight into the world. The ash hardens into spears—hundreds at once—and they drive down on Asmodeus from every side, together with the trident he now hurls.

Asmodeus roars and burns the field clean with a dome of violet fire. The spears vanish, and he parries the trident, snatching it out of the air and destroying it.

King Baalrek floats untouched, crown glowing, skull‑mark burning. He raises both arms and speaks another command. The slag cools instantly. The ground cracks as if frozen solid. Steam explodes upward.

“You’ve weakened,” King Baalrek says. “Your intrusion can’t sustain itself.”

Asmodeus bares his teeth, scaled body leaking light through its wounds. “And you cling to a mortal frame. How long before it snaps?”

“Long enough to put you on your knees,” King Baalrek replies.

Their auras collide. The air rips open between them. The wetlands tremble as divine intrusion and primordial sorcery grind, neither yielding.

He vanishes from where he stands and reappears in front of Asmodeus, the air behind him shredding from the force. A guttural word—older than tongues—falls from his lips. Black flame coils into a three‑meter trident in his grip, each prong woven from raw, binding law. He thrusts for Asmodeus’s chest.

Asmodeus blocks with his forearm. The trident shears through scales, black blood spilling across the ground. King Baalrek rips the weapon free and slashes for Asmodeus’s throat, but the god pulls back and counters with a blast of divine force. The wetlands erupt in a wall of destruction, stone fracturing in waves.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

King Baalrek endures, steps forward through the ruin, crown burning brighter. His wings spread, snapping wind across the field. He spits a chain of words that tear open the sky. Ash and fire answer, condensing into binding glyphs that clamp around Asmodeus’s ankles.

Asmodeus snarls and tears the bindings apart, swinging a claw down. King Baalrek catches the strike on the trident’s haft. The ground craters beneath them, stone grinding to powder.

“Come on,” King Baalrek rumbles. “Fight like you mean it.”

Asmodeus lifts his arms. A rain of black blades forms above and knifes down from every angle. King Baalrek slams the trident into the earth and chants. A wall of flame rises in a circle around him, each line inscribed with primordial runes. The blades strike and vanish into sparks. He launches out of the circle, trident first, and drives it into Asmodeus’s shoulder. The head lodges deep, splitting scale from bone.

Asmodeus roars and backhands King Baalrek away. King Baalrek skids, plants, answers with another chain of words. The sky splits. A spear of ash descends and pins Asmodeus’s arm for a heartbeat before it shatters.

“You are weaker than before,” Asmodeus growls, pressing his palm to the wound.

“And you are slower than you think,” King Baalrek replies.

Asmodeus spreads his hands. A dome of divine force descends on the wetlands, crushing stone flat. King Baalrek raises both arms, crown blazing, and roars a single word. The dome fractures—then splits in two with a crack of burning law. He launches straight through the breach.

They collide. Trident locks against claw. Flame and void pulse outward in every clash. Each step carves the land deeper, the wetlands collapsing into trenches and fissures.

King Baalrek chants again, glyphs wrapping Asmodeus’s torso—marks of ruin, ash, silence. They flare and burn into scale. Asmodeus tears them apart with a roar, spitting a beam of annihilation. King Baalrek vanishes from the beam’s path and drops from above, driving the trident like a stake into Asmodeus’s chest.

Asmodeus seizes the shaft with both hands and bellows. Divine heat surges down the weapon. King Baalrek releases before it detonates, steps inside the explosion, and slams his forehead into Asmodeus’s. The crown cracks sparks across the scales. Asmodeus staggers.

King Baalrek doesn’t pause. He speaks again, faster, words stacking. Glyphs of binding explode across Asmodeus’s shoulders, knees, ribs. Chains of fire wrap them, locking him in place. King Baalrek drives the trident through the chest wound, layers bindings with another spell, and shouts a final word.

The wetlands shake. The bindings rupture inward. Black fire detonates out of Asmodeus’s body. The god crashes down, pinned to the stone by raw force. His scales crack, the golden light in his eyes dimming.

“You should not stand here,” Asmodeus growls through blood. “You are only a shard.”

“I am enough,” King Baalrek says. He drives the trident down again, straight through the god’s brow. The last coil of divine power snaps.

The body slumps. The abyssal light fades.

King Baalrek stands over the fallen form, crown dimming, tattoos thinning on Jacob’s face. His wings fold as his size recedes. He exhales once, steady.

“Stay gone,” King Baalrek says.

Silence falls over the wetlands.