"You ready for this?"
Dean's lips pulled back in a wild smile, his teeth glinting slightly in the light from the stadium's flood lamps.
"Oh," he cooed, his voice soft and deep. "You have no idea."
He looked to Lucius and saw his own keen excitement mirrored in both the Knight's eyes, the pale blue human ones dwarfed by the black voids that shifted among the flames beneath the frail skin.
"Take the third, fourth and sixth batches round to the left once we break in. Split them from the side and join me. Divide and conquer, baby."
Dean didn't miss the surprised pride his words sparked in Lucius's cold eyes.
"As you wish, my Lord Dean," he said with a slight bow, anticipation widening his grin. He whistled for his hellhound, who trotted obediently to his side. In one fluid motion, Lucius pulled himself onto the great dog's shaggy back, adjusting himself into a comfortable position behind the beast's broad shoulders. He pulled at its fur, directing it off to his waiting soldiers. With one last salute to Dean, he disappeared among the crowds of demons.
They had gathered in Laramie, Wyoming, in the War Memorial Stadium. Dean thought it had a strange symmetry to it. The war to end all wars that started in a memorial. He was never one for poetry, but even he appreciated the tragic irony of this meeting place.
It was just a few short miles away from the Devil's Gate, but to Dean, that was just another small bonus. They wouldn't be using a simple Gate. The energies imbibed in this stadium, on this land, were what he needed. The pain and grief of memories of those lost at war, the joy, excitement, and strength that had permeated every game held on this soft grass, were the reasons he had chosen this meeting place.
For the last four hours, his demons had gathered. Dean, Michelle, and Lucius had arrived first, clearing out any human guards, having a bit of fun with them while they waited for their army. It was now two hours after the sun had set, and night had taken hold with a darkness so complete the sky looked like one giant demon's eye. Thick clouds pressed down on the earth as though eager to join Dean's ranks. Lightning flickered through them at irregular intervals, seeming to search for an escape from its ethereal prison.
Every demon Dean had had created and recruited was now packed inside the stadium, standing quietly in their hundreds, waiting for his signal. The air between them was charged with bloodlust and the electric energy that precedes a fight.
Dean reached up and patted his hellhound's shoulder. His was, of course, the largest they could find. Her head was almost level with Dean's, her pointed ears swivelling above, alert to every twitch. She had been Crowley's, once. Now her loyalty was to Dean.
Dean had been pleased to discover that his aversion to hellhounds, and dogs in general, had been lost along with his humanity. The sight of hellhounds, the deep tremor of their growls, had once terrified him, so much so he'd had to fight not to freeze with fear. Years of training and fighting nightmares had proved invaluable on the rare occasion that hellhounds prowled nearby.
Now, though, the spectral-looking wolf-pitbull-demon mutants looked nothing short of magnificent. Their smoke-like fur swirling around them like an aura of poison mist was beautiful to behold. He now regarded their razor-sharp fangs and claws with the same affectionate respect he'd afforded his favourite knife when he was a hunter.
But it was their eyes, in Dean's opinion, that truly showed the majesty of the creature. Burning red ovals of malice that were far more indicative of the creature's fierce, vicious ability than their formidable claws and teeth. Even their size and savage snarls could not strike the same note of mortal peril as those blazing, evil eyes.
They were glorious.
Hence his hellhound's name, Gloria. Crowley's choice, but Dean had kept it. It was too fitting to change.
Gloria leant into his hand, enjoying the affection. Her tongue lolled happily out over her long fangs, waving in time with her every pant. Dean smiled.
He turned at the sound of heavy pawsteps and saw Michelle trot over on her own hellhound, this one coming up to Dean's shoulder. Another of Crowley's pack – turned out the former king of Hell was the Cesar Millan of demonic pitbulls. And one heck of a breeder – the smallest of his hounds, Rudy, was the size of an Irish Wolfhound on steroids.
Michelle dismounted gracefully, landing on the balls of her feet beside Dean. The hounds greeted each other with low growls and bared teeth. Hellhounds weren't as social as their canine appearance might suggest, yet they worked well as a unit nonetheless.
Dean's eyes tracked every movement Michelle made as she stepped forward, tracing her curves greedily. She was the first Knight he'd made and he'd pretty much only chosen her because she was hot. And thanks to the immortal nature of Knights, she always would be.
"Is it almost time?" she asked in her slightly rasping voice, a warm smile brightening her already lovely face. She bit her lower lip between rows of perfect white teeth, and Dean felt a rush of desire spike through him.
"Almost," he promised, pulling her to him by the hips. "Just," he continued, kissing her lips gently. "Another." He kissed her again. "Minute."
She wrapped her arms around his neck as he pulled her closer still. He never got tired of kissing her.
When they broke apart, both slightly breathless, Michelle looked around at the hundreds of gathered demons waiting in the night.
"I can't believe it's finally time," she whispered.
Dean snorted. "You make it sound as though we've been waiting years."
She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Maybe I have."
He laughed. She had taken to demonhood almost as well as he had. Not exactly a Mozart, but she had proven her skill in a matter of days. She was his right-hand demon. Only Lucius rivalled her talent and imagination. Both had been valuable investments.
Dean stiffened, holding his breath.
"Do you feel it?" he whispered, his eyes darting around the stadium, the corner of his mouth twisting in a devilish grin.
"Feel what?"
The Blade was whispering to him from its sheath on his thigh. The lines were ready. The energies had formed.
Its soundless voice sent shivers of delight and anticipation up his spine and he felt his heart quicken.
"It's time," he breathed.
Glancing down at her with a manic glint in his green eyes, he grabbed a fistful of Gloria's fur and pulled himself up onto her broad back. Michelle copied him, swinging herself effortlessly onto her hellhound.
Dean kicked Gloria's sides and the spectral hound trotted forwards. Michelle and Lucius followed, each several yards from Dean, flanking him. Each mounted demon was followed by a battalion of foot soldiers, each uttering excited whoops and yells, all restraining themselves from running with difficulty.
There were still twenty or so yards of field left when Dean felt the subtle shudder ripple up from the First Blade. It was reacting to the surge of power the marching demons created, telling Dean it was ready.
Savouring every second, Dean let go of Gloria's thick fur with his right hand. He kicked her again and she broke into a fast, loping run. Behind him, the demons surged forward with exuberant war cries, led by the three galloping hellhounds. He reached back and gripped the familiar hilt, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl of delight as the power he always felt pounded into him like a waterfall. When he held the Blade, he and it were one. Their power joined and intensified, coalescing into a tangible heat inside his chest.
The Blade vibrated slightly a second before Dean and Gloria hit the touchdown line, and Dean knew that with the added energies of so many demons running in fevered bloodlust, the spell was complete.
He raised the Blade up before him, urging his army onwards. With a primal roar of "CHARGE!" he and Gloria leaped over the chalked line, right between the goalposts.
Soft, lush grass was replaced by black rock and embers. The cool air of the Wyoming night mutated into an atmosphere thick with fear and screams and heat. The empty chairs that Dean had been feet from crashing into were replaced by a vast fiery chasm.
The transition from Earth to Hell was so smooth, the nearest demons in the sweltering underworld heard Dean's bellowed command.
They were cut down before they could rise from their racks.
The Lord of Soul's army thundered into Hell like a rockslide clatters downhill. First there were two, five, no – twenty. Then, led by two more massive hellhounds, over two hundred demons burst into the Fourth Kingdom.
They swept through Hell like a high wind over long grass. They had surprise on their side and they exploited the confusion it caused. War sprang into existence in a heartbeat, and suddenly the inhabitants of the underworld were fighting for their very lives.
Hell is like Heaven in many ways. In Heaven, each soul generates its own paradise, and the angels, in theory, protect them.
In Hell, each soul is handed to a demon. This demon can see through the soul like a human sees through stained glass. Every fear, every scar, every speck of old pain and doubt then becomes the demon's weapon. Just as in Heaven, so it is in Hell. The soul creates its perfect torment. The demon sees it done, and like a gardener the demon plucks and prunes and plants new ideas of torture. Some souls fear physical mutilation. Some are horrified by hurting others. Some dread the fates their family or friends suffered in life without them. Some live in terror of their own worst nightmares and darkest thoughts becoming reality.
In Hell, reality is the demon's greatest tool.
Dean remembered Alistair's artful skill of inflicting torture as he rode through tens of hells a second, slaughtering every smoking black-eyed demon he found. He had been a master, feared even by other demons for his talent in manipulating perceptions and his unrivalled expertise at carving a soul without destroying it, freeing it from the humanity that shackled it.
Dean had learnt much from his time as Alistair's apprentice. He had put that tutelage to good use in the recent months and had even found new and faster ways to turn a soul to smoky blackness.
Those skills were surprisingly adaptable to open warfare.
Demons were not easy entities to kill, and although Dean had the unbeatable First Blade, his soldiers did not. Instead, they ran into every hell, to every level, led by their mounted lieutenants. Both Lucius and Michelle had angelblades the ever-generous Dean had given them, and they would even now be surrounding the most powerful and ancient demons left in Hell. Dean had instructed them to find every demon with white eyes and bring them to him.
Lucius and his battalion peeled off to the left, attacking the unofficial demon training grounds. Michelle took her company right with an exhilarated yell, storming the areas in which rogue demons were 'disciplined'.
Dean himself led his garrison through the main field of torture. It was known as the Factory, and it was where Dean had spent forty years on and around the indescribable soul-racks. Those memories had been saturated in shame and fear as a human, but now Dean saw only lessons and strategies and weak points.
For instance, the Factory was not guarded, which made it easy for Dean and his army to slide into it from the cold Earth above. It was where every soul was turned, and so there were already hundreds of young, impressionable demons and demons-to-be that would be eager to join his ranks, witnessing the might of his advance through their midst.
Squads of demons hand-picked by Dean rushed to take control of the racks as he swept through the Factory like darkness itself, on to what Crowley had dubbed the 'administration' of Hell.
This was where the oldest demons lurked, when they weren't amusing themselves tearing souls and lesser demons apart. It was where Crowley had taken his crown and, for a few short years, had ruled Hell. The chaos and screaming of the Factory was replaced with the comparatively eerie quiet of a grand, luxurious foyer with a long, wide reception desk dominating the farthest section. Gloria loped between the ornate marble columns, her claws clacking against the hard stone floor. At Dean's unspoken command, she slid to a halt, stopping right in front of the receptionist.
Dean leant forward over Gloria's shoulder as she growled, his smile mirroring the hound's vicious grimace. His demons poured around the grand desk like a river around a rock, infiltrating every level of administration and seizing all demons they found. Another perk of manufacturing your own army, Dean reflected, was that they didn't know enough to fear the demons of Hell. The only demon they feared was him.
Which was exactly the way he liked it.
He fixed the receptionist with a black-eyed glare and spoke with a voice in harmony with Gloria's unbroken snarl.
"Call the boss, kid. Tell him Dean Winchester's buying him lunch in the Factory."
The receptionist swallowed involuntarily, clearly deciding if his loyalty to his employer was worth the wrath of this stranger with a swirling black soul.
Wisely, he chose to press the intercom.
"All employees report to the Factory, all employees to the Factory at once."
The demon looked up at Dean with a very uncertain smile.
"What's your name?" Dean asked, his tone suddenly casual and friendly.
"Judas, sir," the receptionist replied, relaxing slightly at the non-lethal turn the encounter had taken.
Dean winked. "Thanks, Judas." He reached forward over the mahogany counter and drew the First Blade through the air in a perfectly horizontal line through Judas's head. He was dead before he could cry out, flashing a deep orange as his existence was terminated.
Straightening on Gloria's back, he jerked his hand, tugging her fur to the left. With the soft scraping of claws on stone, she trotted obediently back to the Factory.
The attack had been quick and efficient, exactly how Dean had planned. Hell's demons were packed between the soul-racks, enclosed in a ring of Dean's soldiers. The rest of his hellhounds had arrived and they prowled the edges of the great cavern, snarling and snapping their warnings to those bold enough to fight back.
Dean rode calmly into their midst. He dismounted and leaped lightly onto a nearby soul-rack. The soul in question, newly arrived and still shining with a brilliant white-blue light, was screaming hysterically, writhing in its bonds. Dean looked down at it and saw the hell it was experiencing. Solitude was its torment. It believed it was alone in this afterlife, tide down and unable to move by some unknown force that had abandoned it for eternity. Its whimpering sobs were pathetic. Without breaking eye contact with the blind and deaf soul, he sank smoothly to his knees and brought the First Blade down into the exact centre of the being. It jerked and twitched, a great screech ripping through the Factory, echoing in the silent chasm as the gathered demons hushed at the noise. None of them had ever heard a soul make a sound like that.
Dean twisted the Blade ninety degrees to the right and the soul's shriek was cut short as it was drawn into the old bone. It was pulled in like a star into a black hole, as though a thousand tiny hooks had been secured into the bright entity and it was dragged slowly into the First Blade. The Mark of Cain burned dully under Dean's black sleeve. Once the last speck of its energy had entered the Blade, Dean felt the silent concussion, the soundless boom of power ricocheting up his arm to his chest. The force of it used to knock him flat on his back, but now he absorbed the strength with only a slight shiver. He felt the ever-present heat in his chest intensify as the soul settled inside him. By the time he stood up, Blade still in hand, his blood sang through him like a wild river of molten lava.
It felt glorious.
The Lord of Souls turned his head to the creatures of black smoke and flame gathered beneath him. Most gazed at him with confusion and wary fear. The few with milky white eyes either felt no such apprehension at the Winchester's arrival, or were wise enough to mask their trepidation. Those who recognised his body glared in open hatred.
Dean peered into every pair of inhuman eyes turned towards him, daring any of them to move. He paced slowly up and down the long, empty rack, commanding the attention of all. He did not smile. He allowed his fury and blinding will pour out of his green eyes into every twisted soul before him, paralyzing them with his very presence. When the tension became palpable, he began.
"My name is Dean Winchester," he called into the waiting silence. "You know who I was. I broke the first seal. I started the apocalypse.
"My brother and I stopped it.
"I have killed more demons than any other hunter alive." He stopped in the middle of the rack and barked, "I am your nightmares."
He scanned the crowd, letting his words sink in before resuming his measured pacing.
"But you already knew all that. I'm famous." He flashed the crowd a winning smile, winking. "I'm here to tell you what you don't know."
He pulled his right sleeve up, exposing the softly glowing Mark of Cain and held the First Blade aloft in his fist, high enough for all to see its jagged profile.
"This," he announced, "is the First Blade. The weapon Cain used to murder his brother, Abel. The first murder. Cain used it to kill the Knights of Hell he'd created. I killed the last Knight. Abaddon."
A murmur ran through the crowd like a ripple. Some demons inched forward, struggling to contain their obvious anger at the murderer of their gallant leader.
The hellhounds' gut-wrenching growls halted any attacks.
Dean smiled. Time for the second shock. Another perk of being a demon in your original meat suit was that few demons, if any, could see your true form even through their black eyes. The smoky, blackened soul fit so snuggly into the suit that it was like trying to see past your own reflection in a mirror. It was the perfect mask.
That coupled with Dean's old Hell-taught skill of manipulating realities meant that only his demons knew he wasn't human.
"Oh, and ..." He allowed his eyes to fall to blackness, showing every gathered demon what he was. "I'm a demon."
The uneasy silence crackled with surprised exclamations, roars of indignant fury, and even a few whoops.
Dean raised the Blade once more with a glare every bit as sharp as the old jawbone. When silence returned, he continued.
"But not just any demon. Oh no. I'm a whole new breed. There's only one other thing like me in this whole God forsaken universe, and that's Cain." He paused to lock eyes with the crowd, stalking along the rack.
"But see, I got something Cain never had.
"I was a hunter.
"See, Cain, he learned how to be a demon long after he became one. Hell, he only became one to save his brother. Me, on the other hand ... I've spent my life knowing how to be a demon. I came this close" – he held up a finger and thumb almost touching – "to becoming one down here a few years ago. I've hunted demons. Killed dozens of 'em. Azazel, Abaddon, Ruby ... My point is, I know how you mooks think. Death and destruction. Messing with people."
When he reached the end of the rack, he leaped lightly onto the next one. Ambling along the blood-stained surface, his thick boots crunching slightly on the waiting shackles and squelching almost inaudibly as he strode confidently through the captive souls. He stopped at each one and knelt. Without breaking the rhythm of his speech, he stabbed them one by one with the First Blade, absorbing every speck.
"And that's all well and good. I mean, don't get me wrong." He held a hand up to the crowd as though begging their indulgence. "You guys caused me and my brother a lot of trouble. But see, that's what makes me special. That's what makes me ten times worse than ol' daddy Cain."
He stopped again and faced the crowd, his feet apart and the Blade clutched in his fist by his side.
"I wasn't just a hunter. I'm not just some demon.
"I am a Winchester."
He let the words hang in the air, pressing down on all the gathered demons. His piercing black eyes struck each one they passed over, causing some of the more cowardly demons to wince away from his gaze.
"I am a Winchester," he repeated, his voice strong and steady. "I've stopped the end of the world more times than I care to count. From Lucifer. From Leviathans. You name it."
He resumed his solitary stroll along the racks, his lips quirking in a cocky smile.
"I've met two gods, a prophet of the Lord, more angels and demons than I wanna remember. I have held the Word of God. All three of them, actually. And I know what's written on them. I know how to kill pretty much every evil thing there is. I've ganked the mother of all monsters and I shot the Devil himself right in the face." He mimed shooting an imaginary forehead with his fingers. "It didn't work in the end, but hey, it's the thought and the point blank range that matters, right?" He laughed merrily at his own wit.
"But I know what you're thinking. What's so special about the Winchesters? I mean, beside all the skill and the great taste in music and the impeccable abs. Well, for one, we never give up. My dad was down here for a century or so. He never turned. My brother was in the Pit with Lucifer and Michael for over a year. I got him out. Death himself said Sam'd probably die from the memories alone, but he didn't.
"We don't give up. And we don't die. In fact, I'm immortal now so you all better get used to this handsome face.
"But the most important Winchester trait you need to know right now," he continued, placing a foot carefully on a cringing soul's arm as he crouched beside it, "is the knowledge we were born into." He plunged the Blade into the heart of the soul and twisted it, absorbing another burning ball of energy.
"You see, my brother and I were more than just apocalypse-ending hunters. See that's just our mom's side of the family. Our dad's, well. That's another story. The Men of Letters. Sam and I are legacies, 'beholders to all that which man does not understand'," he quoted. "So apart from knowing the Word of God, the secrets of Heaven, everything Crowley told me – quite the snitch that guy, really – and everything old Alistair taught me, we have full and exclusive access to the Men of Letters' archives. We know ... everything.
"I know everything.
"The spell I used to get here, for example. That's about, oh, three centuries old? I forget. And you saw how powerful. I brought over four hundred demons – including two brand new Knights of Hell and yours truly, plus a few hellhounds, from one realm into another. Crossing kingdoms like you'd cross a threshold. And do I look tired to you?" he challenged, spreading his arms wide so they could all get a good look at his physique.
Some of the demons huddled between the racks were getting more and more restless. It was an affront, Dean knew, to attack Hell. According to Crowley there were secret rules of etiquette about the place. Have all the fun and entrails you want, spend all your time boxing with the fam', but if an outsider comes into your turf, you don't stand for that. That said, Dean wasn't exactly the outsider they had thought he was. He was a demon, after all. And not just that, but a demon with the Mark and Blade of Cain himself.
"I have never felt more alive." He lowered his arms slowly, shifting his weight as he walked on.
"So to recap: I was a hunter. I am a demon of Cain. The Son of Cain, some call me. Lord of Souls also works. I'm a Winchester, and I know everything you and your granddaddy demons can do.
"I also know how to shut the Gates of Hell. Permanently." He glanced sideways at the crowd as fearful murmuring sparked among them. He smiled and looked back to the rack below him. "But don't worry. Who'd want Hell sealed off for eternity?" He grimaced, shuddering visibly at the thought. "Nasty idea, that. No, I don't want to close the Gates of Hell," he drawled on. "I want to expand Hell's dominion."
Fearful mutters were replaced by the soundless flicker of hundreds of ears pricking up.
Dean's lips curled upward briefly. He had them now.
"Hell gets a bad rep. I mean, yeah, it's full of pain and fear and even for you demons still working on the merit badges, it's almost as bad as it is for these guys." He nudged a whimpering soul with the toe of his boot before gently sinking the Blade into its centre and twisting. "I know there's this ages old tradition and hierarchy to the place, but c'mon! Shouldn't Hell be a paradise for every demon?" he roared. He waited for cheering but was met only with an expectant silence. He shrugged and continued.
"But see, the reason that can't be is 'cause Hell is too goddamn small, don'tcha think? I mean, when was the last time this place got renovated! D'you even know how big Heaven is?" Silence. "Neither do I, but I'm guessing it's a hell of a lot bigger than Hell.
"So, that brings me to the reason for my little visit today. Or tonight, I don't really get the whole Earth-Hell time difference thing." He shook his head and got back to his point. "I think it's time Hell was upsized."
Still no cheering. Jeez, tough crowd.
"As you may have noticed, I didn't exactly come alone." He gestured grandly to the rows of demons standing sentinel over the crowd. "Where, you may ask, did I find these fine recruits? Well, anywhere I wanted! I made 'em. Every single one.
"And we've come here today to share our dream with you. A dream of a universe owned by demons. Heaven – demons'. Hell – demons'. Earth – demons'. Purgatory – well the vamps need to go somewhere when they snuff it.
"I say the angels have had long enough 'guarding' all those souls behind the Pearly Gates. Living off all that stolen power while our kind lives off scraps! A deal here, a mad choice there, it's nothing – nothing! – compared to what they've got up in Heaven. I've been there. Even as a human I could sense the power of all those souls. Millions of dead people over millennia. Not mentioning the Veil, which is crammed with every Tom, Dick and Harry who's died over the past two years. Can you imagine how many souls that is? Billions? Trillions?
"And we can take it."
Many of the demons exchanged glances, some of them accompanied by widening, malicious grins.
"Heaven is on lockdown. The angels can't even get in or out except for one tiny portal. Most of them are wingless now anyway. I say they've had their turn on the puffy clouds. I say it's time demonkind got a chance to spread out a little. I say it's time that Heaven became Hell!"
Now, finally, they cheered. Most of the demons raised their guttural inhuman voices in cries of agreement, roaring their approval.
Dean leant his head back slightly and closed his eyes, enjoying the sweet sound of dominance.
"But of course, if we're to take on such a task, we're gonna need one hell of an army." His white teeth flashed as he shot them all a dazzling smile. "That's where you come in. I know how to take Heaven. But I'm gonna need a force as loyal as my Knights."
Michelle and Lucius inclined their heads at this, both wearing matching small, prideful smiles.
He had stopped his pacing once again, strategically positioned on the most secluded soul-rack. Every demon of Hell was packed in before him, all attention focused raptly on his face. He suppressed a gleeful smirk. He had them now. He could feel it building in his chest, so strong now it hurt like broken ribs and overused lungs. The Blade was vibrating so much his hand was shaking.
"They say that true loyalty is won," he said, casually gripping the Blade's hilt with his other hand. "I disagree. I think it's far easier" – he brought the Blade slowly up to his chest, the point facing directly up – "to manufacture. Which means ..."
He closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he focused the energies pounding through him onto the Blade. Its power helped him control the thrumming souls he'd absorbed, the Mark of Cain glowing like a hot coal on his forearm.
The point of the First Blade lowered to face the crowd of demons.
They flinched away from the legendary weapon, but held their ground. Dean heard their quickened breathing and knew they hadn't scarpered. He smiled.
He had them now.
Dean Winchester, the Lord of Souls, opened his jet black eyes and unleashed his power.
Lightning as bright and white as the purest of souls thundered out from the tip of the First Blade, leaping like a great gleaming creature into the crowd of demons. Scores of them died before they had a chance to scream. They were reduced to an ash so fine it was invisible within seconds. The dazzling tentacles were so painfully bright they seemed to suck all light from Hell.
Dean moved the Blade, his arms straining against the sheer force of the lightning of souls that was as bright and pure as his eyes were black. Streaks of brilliant, dazzling white leaping from demon to demon reflected in his still, emotionless black eyes. His smile grew as he heard their terrified shrieks. A symphony of fear accompanied by the sprinkling harmony of the hellhounds' frightened yelps.
His aim was careful and true. He didn't hit a single soldier of his, and he didn't miss a single demon of Hell. The lightning shocked through every one, leaving only dust behind. They were utterly defenceless. Even the most ancient and powerful of demons were reduced to cinders. They sizzled and popped out of existence as the fierce energy cackled through them faster than the eye could follow. It spiked out in shimmering tendrils from the silhouette of the Lord of Souls standing silently on the rack.
When the last demon of Hell had exploded in a comical puff of dark black particles, Dean lowered the Blade. The lightning stuttered out of existence and light return to the underworld at last.
The chaos had lasted less than a minute but the result was devastating. Every single demon that had resided in Hell was gone. The only living creatures left were those controlled by the Lord of Souls.
The army stood frozen in shock, staring at the aftermath of the devastating display of power they had just witnessed. They exchanged incredulous looks, but did not dare break the complete silence the crackling lightning had left. Michelle and Lucius glanced at each other, their faces alight, not with fear, but with admiration and a fierce, exultant pride in their leader's unparalleled power.
"... I don't need you," he said evenly to the silent Factory.
He looked around at his astounded followers. He smiled benevolently down upon them.
"I told you, didn't I, that we would have our paradise? Well, that paradise is a members-only deal. You are my army. My subjects. And together, we will create a new Hell all our own."
Slowly, just a few at first, the demons began to chant. Then, with growing momentum, Hell was filled with the pounding rhythm of hundreds of voices raised in unison:
"Lord of Souls! Lord of Souls! Lord of Souls!"
All that remained of the demons of Hell was a slight dusting of blackest ash and the sharp, metallic scent of salt.