WARNING! This chapter has NOT been read over by TodaBruh.
Abaddon, Neutral Evil Infernal Realm.
"Uggggh… We got our asses kicked so hard…" groaned Szuriel, Horse(wo)man of War while sprawled on the meeting table with one hand over a large bruise on her right cheek, before raising her other hand into a fist with a grin. "Worth it, though. That was a damn good fight!"
Having said that, she collapsed back on the table with a second pained groan.
Apollyon, Horseman of Pestilence, let out a snort, one eye closed and bulging bright purple from what had been a vicious punch to the face.
"A fight involves the possibility of victory for both sides. We all got wrecked, and we all know it." he smiled in cruel amusement towards the fourth person at the table, showing off a few missing teeth. "Even you, Charon, did no better than us. I guess there are existences even Death can only bow to, hmm?"
Charon, Horseman of Death and eldest of the rulers of Abaddon, barely even reacted to the mocking words thrown his way, remaining as ever the picture of stoicism.
It fooled none of the other three present however, considering the way the man had limped his way into the room.
It was hard to present an aura of perfect stoicism when you could barely hobble your way forward.
"I admit, the way our new King supplexed you into your own domain's river was very impressive. It truly embodied the unconquerable nature of Death, right there!" snickered Trelmarixian, Horseman of Famine, before wincing while holding his bruised side, muttering painfully to himself about his shattered ribs.
"I hardly recall any of you doing better. If anything, you all failed as spectacularly… Or do I need to remind you of how you were made to taste the dirt, Trel?" Charon replied, his voice carrying as a deathly whisper sounding like the death rattle of a man… at least until he started coughing violently, grimacing as some of his broken ribs snapped back into place.
"Well, on the bright side, it's hardly like anybody in Abaddon did better than us." Apollyon pointed out dryly.
Szuriel let out a laugh at that. "I know! Challenging an entire Infernal Realm was crazy enough, doing it while proclaiming that not a drop of his blood would be spilt was utter madness, but actually succeeding?"
She shook her head, a faint redness on her cheeks that had nothing to do with bruises. "Damn that god-king is the real deal."
"Sister, please contain yourself until you're back to your bedchambers before jerking yourself off over how much he wrecked your ass." Trelmaxarian mocked her, being as deliberately crass as possible to needle her.
As expected, Szuriel stood up, a look of rage on her face. "Shut it, you useless- ow!"
She collapsed back in her chair, holding her side with a pain groan. "Fuck, there goes that rib…"
"Our sister's reaction aside, I trust you also all noticed the same thing about him?" said Charon, and the other three paused before nodding.
"He was holding back. Immensely so." said Szuriel, her tone between frustration and respect, even awe. "He was deliberately fighting us with nothing but sheer physical prowess, when we can all tell he had magic to spare. Moreover, if what we heard about that sword he created along with his lesser Aeons is anything to go by, then he's normally a swordsman… but again, he took us on with nothing but his fists. And won."
She shook her head, her cheeks darkening into a deeper blush. "I'm starting to see what mom sees in him…" she muttered.
"The last part aside, I agree with Szuriel." declared Apollyon, his expression turning serious. This was one of the leaders of Abaddon speaking here, not just as a warrior but as one of the most powerful beings in existence, and his judgment was not one to be underestimated. "The new God-King was putting on a show, not just to us all, but to all of reality. And there is no doubt it worked exactly as he had hoped. Abaddon as a whole had just been humbled like never before, and all of Reality saw it. There will be consequences from this." he said bluntly.
"While I'd normally agree that we would pay the price of such a spectacular defeat, will we, in this case?" mused Trelmarixian. "Our new king is focused on the Abyss. Moreover, he has claimed us as part of his domain. To try anything against us now will be to start something with him. I dare say that, at this point, few indeed would be foolish enough for that."
"Apart from the demons of the Abyss, of course." Szuriel said with dark amusement.
"Apart from those doomed fools, naturally." he agreed.
"Perhaps not overtly, but I can see many of the Lords of Hell trying something, even if only subtly." pointed Charon, to which the others grimaced but nodded.
"Azathoth knows those jump-up peacocks could use some humility, too." grumbled Trelmarixian darkly.
Szuriel paused at those words, a thoughtful frown appearing on her face.
Charon noticed as he glanced at her.
"Sister?"
The other two horsemen glanced at her, and she looked back at them with a thoughtful look.
"Hell. Now that we are talking about them, I couldn't help but notice…"
"What?" demanded Apollyon.
"There was no delegation of Aeons sent to them." She replied. "And while our new King made his views about the Abyss clear, and just showed his hand towards us in a very clear fashion… Hell itself got nothing but silence from the King of all Things. So what do you think is his plan towards Hell?"
All Four Horsemen fell silent. Their first instinct would be to mock Hell for being ignored by the King of the Eldritch, but they were all smart enough to know it wasn't a mistake or something so simple as a deliberate insult, but obviously part of an overall plan.
Their King sought to destroy the Abyss, and he had effectively made Abaddon kneel.
So what of Hell? Why the silence when it came to them?
Some might consider that as a sign of weakness, or hesitation or doubts about how to proceed, but that was obviously impossible. A God willing, much less able, to fight all of Abaddon was neither weak of will or incapable of making a plan on a grand scale.
So then… What, exactly, was going on with his silence towards Hell?
"From what we know, our king has come to two conclusions when it comes to the place of the Infernal Realms in Reality: Submission, or annihilation." Charon said slowly. "It is possible a third will be shown, but if we go with what we have seen so far… Hell will have to be either destroyed, or made to kneel. How would ignoring them work towards either option?"
They glanced at each other. To ignore an enemy to be destroyed made little sense, but neither did it if submission was the goal. So what was the King of All plotting now?
"There has to be something, something we're not seeing." frowned Szurial, tapping on the table with one armored finger.
"Well, if we can't think of it, neither will Hell, hopefully." said Apollyon, though he was obviously not happy about the large unknown before them.
For a time, all four of them remained silent, thinking deeply, before Charon spoke up.
"Let us put this matter off for now. We can revisit it later. Right now, there is a much more pressing matter to talk about: What do we do now?"
"Now that we've lost the fight against our new King, you mean?" asked Appollyon.
"Yes." Charon nodded. "We have been challenged, answered that challenge, and lost. By the terms we agreed, we are now to serve King Aeon, Lord of the Eldritch, with absolute loyalty forevermore. The terms are bidding, as we all agreed to them when we chose to fight. Abaddon itself, as a realm, has agreed to the terms. And we have lost, fair and square. So, what now?"
The four exchanged a look, before Szuriel got up. With seemingly none of the pain she was in before, she drew her sword, Lamentation of the Faithless, and put it down on the round table before her.
"A challenge has been made, a challenge has been won, fair and square by all that we know."
Szuriel's face was as hard as steel, yet her eyes burned with power. The blushing maiden from before was nowhere to be seen. Now, the greatest embodiment of War in Existence was talking, and at her will universes could instantly drown in orgies of fire and blood.
"Our new King, beloved of Azathoth herself, favored by Nyarlathotep, has proven his mettle in trial by combat against War itself. Moreover, he has all but sworn to start a war beyond any ever seen in all known Realms, by bringing an end to the Abyss, once and for all. I, Szuriel, Daughter of Nyarlathotep, Horseman of War, one of the four Rulers of Abbaddon, hereby acknowledge my defeat and swear my loyalty to King Aeon the Eternal, now and forevermore. May we ride into glorious War together for Eternity."
Her voice echoed with power, resonating across Abaddon and beyond. All who had sworn themselves to War and its ways could feel the oath echo in their souls, as gods and Daemons alike shuddered as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse willingly submitted to a higher power.
The roars of countless quintillions souls seemed to echo her words, the war cries of untold numbers of soldiers, warriors and more across all of history acknowledging the will of the Horsewoman of War. The booming sounds of cannons and explosions rang in the air, along with the screams of the dying and the laughter of the victorious. Flames seemed to dance in the eyes of Szuriel, as the fires of war capable of burning down civilizations flickered around her form.
She looked around at the other three almost challengingly, daring them to oppose her words… or refuse to follow suit.
Apollyon stood up next, looking at Szuriel for a long moment… before nodding, and letting his weapon, a diseased-looking yellow scythe, covered in boils, polyps, and fleshy tendrils fall on the table.
"Our new King, beloved of Azathoth herself, favored by Nyarlathotep, has proven his mettle in trial by combat against Pestilence itself. Moreover, he has endured all diseases and sickness I threw at him without harm. I, Apollyon, Son of Nyarlathotep, Horseman of Pestilence, one of the four Rulers of Abbaddon, hereby acknowledge my defeat and swear my loyalty to King Aeon the Eternal, now and forevermore. May we release unholy Pestilence upon Reality together for Eternity."
His voice echoed with power, resonating across Abaddon and beyond. All who had sworn themselves to Pestilence and its ways could feel the oath echo in their souls, as gods and Daemons alike shuddered as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse willingly submitted to a higher power.
The roars of countless quintillions souls seemed to echo his words, the unholy whispers of countless scientists, madmen and more across all of history acknowledging the will of the Horseman of Pestilence. The dying moans of countless diseased souls filled the air, along with the scent of sickness and the laughter of the mad. Putrid diseases capable of wiping out civilizations flickered around his form, almost forming a green-ish cloak of doom.
Szuriel let out an approving grin whose sight alone would send lesser men into gibbering terror, before both of them glanced at the two remaining seated Horsemen.
After a second, Trelmarixian grunted and stood up.
"Our new King, beloved of Azathoth herself, favored by Nyarlathotep, has proven his mettle in trial by combat against Famine itself. Moreover, he has endured all curses I threw at him without harm. I, Trelmarixian, Son of Nyarlathotep, Horseman of Famine, one of the four Rulers of Abbaddon, hereby acknowledge my defeat and swear my loyalty to King Aeon the Eternal, now and forevermore. May we release unholy Famine upon Reality together for Eternity."
His voice echoed with power, resonating across Abaddon and beyond. All who had sworn themselves to Famine and its ways could feel the oath echo in their souls, as gods and Daemons alike shuddered as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse willingly submitted to a higher power.
The roars of countless quintillions souls seemed to echo his words, the unholy whispers of countless scientists, madmen and more across all of history acknowledging the will of the Horseman of Famine. The dying moans of countless starving souls filled the air, along with the sound of insect wings and the laughter of the mad. Plant-eating insects capable of wiping out civilizations flickered around his form, almost forming a living cloak of horrors.
Then, finally, the three Horsemen turned towards the fourth and last, Charon himself.
For a long moment, the man did nothing, long enough that Szuriel's grin turned dark and menacing-
And then with a sigh echoing the last breath of countless souls, he slowly stood up.
Putting down not a scythe as many would think, but a seemingly simple quarterstaff upon the table, he looked at the other present with an unflinching look even as he echoed their words.
"Our new King, beloved of Azathoth herself, favored by Nyarlathotep, has proven his mettle in trial by combat against Death itself. Moreover, he has endured my coming without harm. I, Charon, Son of Nyarlathotep, Horseman of Death, one of the four Rulers of Abbaddon, hereby acknowledge my defeat and swear my loyalty to King Aeon the Eternal, now and forevermore. May we watch over Reality together as Death for Eternity."
His voice echoed with power, resonating across Abaddon and beyond. All who had sworn themselves to Death and its ways could feel the oath echo in their souls, as gods and Daemons alike shuddered as the Fourth and final Horsemen of the Apocalypse willingly submitted to a higher power… And with him, the last Ruler of Abaddon.
The roars of countless quintillions souls seemed to echo his words, the unholy whispers of countless men, women and children across all of history acknowledging the will of the Horseman of Death. The death rattles of countless dying lives filled the air, along with the chilling feeling of Death and the quiet of the grave. The last dying breaths of the last remaining member of civilizations and entire species could be heard around the room, while their bones flickered around his form, forming an unholy cloak of death.
The others looked at him curiously for the slight alterations of their oaths, but ultimately understood that they would not get answers out of their infamously tight-lipped sibling, and decided that they would take what they could get.
"So it is done, then. Abaddon has a new master." muttered Charon, before he looked up at them. "Let us take a break for now. There will be much we still must talk about, but this decision alone already will ensure that we should talk to our servants."
Nobody disagreed, and all four took their weapons back, before they began leaving the room.
Szuriel alone lingered behind in the citadel they were in, staring out at the vast, infernal landscape of the plains beyond the city stretching out before her.
Her right hand held her sword tightly, squeezing and caressing the handle of her blade as her mind went back to the greatest fight of her life.
Of the greatest defeat of her life.
Faced with a crushing, humiliating defeat, she would have expected to be enraged, but there was no rage in her heart over her failure.
Not when she could still feel the laughter on her lips as she charged forward, with all of Abaddon at her back… nor with the lingering awe she felt, as a god standing alone with nothing but his body to fight with brought them all low.
To feel an entire Infernal Realm fight by her side… to feel countless mortals and daemons alike roar as one as bloodlust burned in their veins… And to see the god, standing tall like an unassailable mountain, a challenging smirk on his lips, daring all to try and bring him low…
She was War incarnate. Conflict made manifest.
And she had never felt more alive than at that moment.
Abaddon, Neutral Evil Infernal Realm, hours before.
Abaddon was the Infernal Neutral Evil Realm. A realm of Death and War, of Pestilence and Famine.
Countless daemons called the place home. Countless cultists prayed to their unholy patrons.
To be one of the three great Infernal Realms, one needed the raw power to match the other two. Legions of warriors capable of conquering universes with ease. Rulers capable of bringing the ends of dimensions at will.
Even lesser Daemonic Lords and Ladies, servants of the Four, called the Daemon Harbingers, could easily bring about the death of worlds or entire galaxies. They were the servants of the Apocalypse, doom of countless civilizations and species. To know of them was to live in fear of their coming.
And here and now, they were fighting as one. Standing united like never before.
It did not help.
Quintillions of Daemons roared in delight as they charged the glowing star of the god who had challenged them. Armies greater than the population of entire superclusters of galaxies marched into battle as one, casting magic capable of ruining countless worlds with every second that passed.
It did not help.
The Daemon Harbingers of the Four charged into battle, weaving spells and unleashing attacks that strained the very fabric of Reality. Billions of Daemons and cultists died at every second from sheer collateral damage, all in the hope of striking a blow, even the slightest of wound, upon their one and only enemy.
It did not help.
Szuriel fought harder than ever before, bolstered both by the sheer scale of the battle taking place and the fact that Abaddon itself was fully empowering her. The realm has gone to war, and she was War incarnate, and as billions died by the second, as legions of warriors gathered and charged into the fires of battle without care for their lives as long as they kept feeding the bloody toll of War, she only kept growing stronger.
Every one of her swings of her sword brought blows capable of shattering universes. The land of Abaddon itself burned, boiled and was repeatedly ravaged by her deadly strikes, all aimed at the vital spots of her humanoid opponent. No movement was wasted. No unnecessary flourishes were to be seen. She was War, brutal, merciless, and utterly ruthless, and she did not let up, did not hesitate for a second, as she poured her very soul into the brutal conflict taking place.
It did not help.
Her blood sang as the screams of the dying filled her ears, as weapons each more vicious and devastating were unleashed against the God fighting them all. No longer was the battle taking place on neutral ground, right now it took place right above her own domain, the Cinder Furnace, a massive, seemingly near-endless in scale volcano surrounded by plains scattered with massive knife-like projections of obsidian, swathes of ash, smoke, and bone, its forges constantly churning out weapons of destruction and engines of annihilation. And right now, all of those weapons and engines of destruction had been awakened, rising with bloodthirsty roars into battle by the will of War incarnate. Blasts of energy capable of destroying planets instantly, weapons of mass destructions capable of shattering entire solar systems, bombs capable of putting supernovas to shame and more were thrown at the god fighting the all like candies on Halloween, without care for all the lives they took on their own side or the horrific destruction they wrought on War's own realm.
It did not help.
None of her legions of Daemons matterred. Not one of her mortal champions lasted more than an instant. None of her superweapons so much as slowed him down. War had come upon her own Domain, and they were losing.
Vaults older than entire galaxies were rapidly cracked open by her daemons, the weapons inside gathered and quickly used against the God fighting her. Magic older than most gods was called upon, unleashing storms of apocalyptic power upon Abaddon itself. Time and Space shattered, as armies from potential futures and the past answered the call of War herself, adding their strength to what she already had. Impossible armies, weapons and technologies were used without care, as the laws of Reality itself were repeatedly broken by the Will of the Horsewoman of War, all in the desperate hope of gaining any advantage in this bloody struggle.
It did not help.
Szuriel herself fought like a woman possessed, an ugly snarl of pure bloodlust and joy on her face. Her hair had turned into living strands of Fire hotter than the core of any stars. Boiling blood dripped from her eyes like the rivers of blood her daemons and cultists were shedding in this hopeless struggle. Space and Time shattered at every swing of her sword, the power of War growing ever greater within her soul as she struggled desperately towards victory against all odds. She repeatedly teleported across the battlefield, her every blow carrying the skills of one capable of laying low some of the greatest warriors of Heaven, and her body moved with an unholy grace only matched by her terrifying raw power.
And yet, it did not help.
For hours, they had fought. For hours, she had used every trick she had ever learned across billions of years of life. None of it mattered.
The god before had not slipped up once. He had not slowed down once. He had not panicked, showed a hint of fear or anything beyond a challenging smirk in all of this time.
Every strike at him was either dodged with an impossible grace, or outright parried with his bare hands, leaving not a single cut behind. A blade capable of making Archangels bleed did not shed a drop of divine ichor in this fight. The fire around her weapon, hotter than the core of a supernovae, hotter than anything short of a Big Bang, did not leave his skin even slightly singed.
She, on the other hand, could not say the same. Blood dripped from her mouth, where several of her teeth had been broken, had healed, and been shattered again by punches capable of making all of Abaddon shake. The mere shockwaves of each of those punches had seen mass deaths of her daemons on the scale of the populations of entire galaxies.
Of course, it did not stop her, or her daemons, from fighting on. They were War, after all. They lived and died for such glorious battles!
Szuriel tried everything she knew to bring the god low. She had tried to strike him with her sword. She had tried to punch and kick him. She had tried to wrestle with him. She had tried to hit him with her wings. She had even tried the simple tactic of throwing dirt in his eyes!
Her brothers and their legions were fighting just as hard as she was, and it hardly seemed to matter. None of it seemed to matter.
The god still stood there, grinning, looking as pristine as ever. He was standing above a mountain of Daemonic corpses, blood gushing down to create an entire sea at the ground level that was big enough that the maps of Abaddon would have to be redrawn. He was covered in blood from head to toe, almost bathing in the stuff, with organs and body parts hanging from him everywhere. His face was caked in blood, painting his skin a bright red, with only his perfectly white teeth and his dual-colored eyes shining through. For all of that, not even a hint of discomfort showed on his expression for all the blood and gore that now covered him from head to toe.
Szuriel could have sworn that, if anything, the god seemed stronger for all the blood covering him, more at ease drenched in the ichor of his dead enemies than without.
The sky was filled with flying daemons, all trying to kill him. There were so many nobody could see the colors of the sky, as every inch of space was filled with more bodies. The ground, from the growing sea of blood to the impossibly tall mountain of corpses, was a rolling, rushing teeming mass of Daemons and mortals shrieking as they charged forward, trampling each other to death in their bloodlust and desire to reach the god who had challenged them.
Not that the corpses stayed still. Every new corpse was added to the armies of Charon, Horseman of Death, who now had the largest armies of the dead ever seen. Legions of undead daemons and former mortals moaned in unison as they rushed forward, crawling over each other as they tried to outright drown the God under their numbers. The hordes of the undead were so large that entire universes would be hard-pressed to contain them all… but such things meant nothing in a conceptually near-infinite realm.
Faced with their utter lack of any progress, Szuriel, Horsewoman of war, decided that it was time to get creative.
Also, she had never been more turned on that here and now, and the god fighting her looked incredible while covered in the blood of his enemies.
So, while riding the greatest high of her life, while fighting the greatest battle of her existence, Szuriel decided that kissing him was the obvious move to make to distract him in battle.
So she did. Lunging forward, she finally managed to catch the god of-guard when instead of striking him-
She kissed him right there on the lips.
Unfortunately for her, he turned out to be a fantastic kisser, and she was the one distracted by the stupid, sexy bloodied god towering over her.
The ensuing punch to the face he gave her sent her rocketing back towards the volcano that served as the center of her domain, the shockwave of the punch powerful enough to annihilate countless quintillions daemons instantly.
The worst part was that, as she fell towards the volcano, she saw a glimpse of his face, and he was smirking wider!
Smirking! At her!
Stupid, sexy bloodied god!
Then she hit the volcano so hard it ended up shattering her entire domain badly enough that the long dormant volcano re-awakened instantly.
With her right in the middle of it.
Being blown up in the ensuing biggest volcanic eruption in the multiverse's history, sent flying upwards like a glowing star while naked as the day she was born with only her sword having survived the blast, Szuriel promptly swore he would take responsibility for this if it was the last thing he did.
If he was going to blow her up, he could have at least the decency to blow up her mind with the biggest, most mind-blowing orgasm of her life instead!
Damn that stupid, sexy bloodied god!
The fight went on. Even with the Lady of War currently… indisposed, the other Horsemen of the Apocalypse and their Harbingers (those not already punched into paste) were far from willing to stop the fight.
Szuriel, as Horsewoman of War, had reacted to the ongoing fight by empowering everyone that fought in it, with herself most of all as the embodiment of War itself. Countless Daemons and mortals had gone almost berserk out of sheer bloodlust from the raw power of War made manifest spreading across the entirety of Abaddon, and with the other Horsemen working together, not one of them had stopped her from affecting their own legions.
But the other three Horsemen had their own capabilities, ones powerful enough to ensure even the likes of Queen Slann or King Asmadeus would hesitate to fight them, much less all at the same time.
If War was empowering others, then the other three focused most of all on doing the opposite. Pestilence unleashed unholy plagues, sickness and outright memetic conceptual hazards acting as viruses that would twist the very souls of anyone targeted. Viruses capable of wiping out all life across universes were sent at the god fighting them, ones that would cause horrific mutations, warping the mind, body and soul, and worse.
There were everything from zombie plagues, to plagues that would wither the soul, the very sanity of people, or even affect their karma, twisting those hit by them into becoming the exact opposite of what they used to be. Creatures of Orders would become chaotic, and vice versa. The greatest champions of Good would become the most cruel champions of Evil.
Some of those plagues struck at the very concept of Truths held by individuals, seeking to destroy the very foundation of their beings. Shattering their tightly held beliefs, withering their passions, crushing their hopes and Dreams. Pestilence acted like the Plague he was meant to be, a cancerous growth that would feed upon lives and see them changed into horrific mockeries of who they used to be.
Famine, meanwhile, struck at something closely aligned to Pestilence, but different all the same: the strengths of those he fought.
Famine inflicted thirst and hunger upon even those normally immune to it. But he could also strike in more creative ways. Make mortals and immortals go mad with desire, and the impossible wish to satiate it, only for any effort to satiate that desire to never be enough. If someone loved someone else? Famine could either remove that love… or make someone go mad by making them go crazy with the desire to satiate that love to an unhealthy extreme. He could twist people into torturing and feasting upon those they love. He could twist them by making them greedy beyond all comprehension, while also making them feel like no amount of wealth would ever be enough. He could twist people in positions of power by making them seek to be more in control, until they became maniacal tyrants obsessed with having perfect control over everything, while once again ensuring it would be enough.
He could also take the physical or magical strength of others. Feed upon their strength, until they were withered husks barely able to breathe without dying. He also focused his concept of Famine to move around, by reducing the amount of space between him and where he wanted to be, or tried to weaken the god's blow by reducing the power of them to nothing.
And then, finally, there was Death. Charon, oldest and arguably most powerful of the Four.
If Szuriel was fire and passion, then he was the coldness of Death. Simply by standing somewhere, he could release an aura of Death so strong that pantheons would die in moments. Curses that would see gods wither and turn to dust in seconds spread out of him like waves, and entire universes could go from alive to dead in an instant if he so wished.
At the difference of his brethren, there was no malice in his power. No hatred or cruelty. There was only raw, irresistible might. The cold certainty that Death comes for all. The Truth that Death comes for all things eventually. That heroes could live and die, civilizations could rise and fall, and species could be born and die out and he, Charon, Death incarnate, would forever remain.
Every universe could grow cold and dark, every reality could become empty of life, everything could end… But he would remain, the ever-present watcher, shadowing the steps of all living things until they inevitably fell before him.
With a thought, every dead daemon and mortal in this battle would rise anew under his will. With a wave of his hand, power enough to bring the death of pantheons was unleashed. With but a single tap of his staff on the ground, even the mightiest champion would fall.
Uncountable quintillions of undead surrounded him like a honor guard, and even that was but a fraction of the might he possessed as one of the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse. Space shattered before him, conceptually killed to nothing as he moved around as he wished. Time itself stopped having meaning, as even Time could die and become meaningless. The wounds he took, he could conceptually kill, returning to full health instantly. Even his own death was a concept he could kill, making himself immortal by killing the very possibility of him dying. Or of being defeated. Or sealed. Or any number of fates, it mattered not. If he conceptualized it, he could kill it, ensuring that all was as he willed it.
Until now, that was.
Because for the first time, they fought someone who laughed at diseases. Shrugged off any attempt to weaken him. Endured the power of Death himself without so much as a blink.
For they were the horsemen of the Apocalypse… but they were fundamentally meant to act against beings that submitted to normal laws of Reality. Life and Death. Healthy or Unhealthy. Strong or weak.
But what about something that could not die? That existed beyond mere biological concepts? That lived beyond the shackles of Time and Space?
The Horsemen were the doom of mortal creatures, and all that they created, even their gods could fall before them, because even they were based on concepts mortals could understand.
But the King of the Eldritch was exactly that. The King of the Eldritch.
His body made no sense. His mind made no sense. His soul made no sense.
His existence was fundamentally impossible. And yet, he existed. And thus, it became a struggle of metaphysical concepts.
Of Truths.
Pestilence declared that things could be sick, made wrong.
The King of the Eldritch declared that he could not, and every plague that struck him failed to make him sick. Thus, Pestilence held no power over him.
Famine declared that things could be starved, made less than before.
The King of the Eldritch declared that he could not, and every curse that struck him failed to make him less than he was. Thus, Famine held no power over him.
Death declared that things could die, could end.
The King of the Eldritch declared that he could not end, and that Death itself could not take him. Thus, Death held no power over him.
War had already sought to overcome him, and failed. Thus, she held no power over him either, for he could not be conquered.
Those Truths clashed, over and over again. Beyond the physical blows, beyond the powerful magics, this battle was one of Truths.
Aeon, God-King of the Eldritch, had declared that he stood above the concepts that made up the metaphysical building blocks of Abaddon.
He had then challenged all of Abaddon to prove him wrong.
It went far beyond overcoming one of the three great Infernal Realms. It went far beyond merely ensuring the loyalty and obedience of the people of Abaddon.
This fight was a testament to the Eldritch nature of Aeon. Of his inhumanity. Of the fact that, for all the power the Infernal realms possessed, none of them held power over him.
Because he was not human. He was not mortal. He was not bound by mortal comprehension of Existence. And thus, he was not bound by the concepts that mortals feared.
If neither War, Pestilence, Famine nor Death itself held power over him, then how could any other within the three Infernal Realms? This was the Truth the Lord of the Eldritch sought to make clear to all Reality with this fight.
And he was winning.
The battle raged on.
Across the realms of the Harbingers, it raged on.
Zelishkar of the Bitter Flame, servant of War, the embodiment of those who die in the funeral pyres of any and all wars in existence, died in an explosion big enough to outshine a hundred galaxies when the God-King of the Eldritch smashed his knee on his back hard enough to make his very soul explode.
Vorasha the Ophidian, servant of Famine, Daemon of Decay, Fear and Venom, lover of the Horseman of Famine, died when the God-King punched her in the face with enough power that her death scream echoed across a billion years in both the past and future of the material universe.
Aesdurath The Pale Dowager, servant of Death, Daemon of Magic and the Undead, died when the God-King of the Eldritch tore her undead skull off her shoulders only to use it as a football, kicking it into the Domain of Charon with enough power that the river Styx, for the first time in history, was forcibly moved from its riverbed as an area bigger than some galaxies simply cease to exist.
More and more Daemon Harbingers rode into battle, all eager to shed the blood of the one who had challenged them all. Blade, poison, sickness, magic, guns, everything and anything the denizens of Abaddon could think of using, they threw at him, all in the hopes of finding something, anything that would let them win.
Hundreds of Harbingers called Abaddon their home. All of them, in one way or another, held some measure of obedience to one of the Four Horsemen.
And now, all of them fought and died as one. Their power made them a match to countless lesser gods or even entire pantheons, but here and now it meant nothing. Only the Four Horsemen could truly hope to survive the blows of the God fighting them, and that at a cost, while the god himself held back tremendously.
None of them backed down, however. All of them knew that to show weakness now was the same as dying later. Abaddon would not tolerate cowardice or disloyalty, not here, not now.
If they didn't die at the hands of the God-king, they would die at the hands of the vengeful Horsemen, who would never forgive such a show of weakness.
So they kept fighting. Daemonic realms burned and were ravaged as mountains of corpses were created, seas of blood formed in mere instants, and all of it was rendered into dust moments later as the conflict kept on raging.
Power, weapons, armies gathered over eons of time were spent without hesitation, without care, for even the slightest hope of gaining an opening in the impossible defense of the God-King. The power of Stars were harnessed, then weaponized against him. Black holes were created by the quintillions with a wave of Charon's hands, before detonating in explosions that tore holes into the Void directly. Famine and Pestilence struck at Reality itself, feeding upon Space and Time themselves for strength in order to keep fighting. War returned to the fight, empowering every weapon, every spell, every act of defiance against the divine foe that had so boldly challenged them.
It was not enough.
Death was suplexed into the River Styx within his own Domain. Famine was seized by the ankles and used as a tool to smash Pestilence into submission, as both Horsemen were beaten into a bloody pulp. Every bones of War's body were shattered, then shattered again and again each time she forcibly healed herself.
And still, the battle raged on.
To challenge one of the three great Infernal Realms means to challenge all of its inhabitants. Since the material universes of the local multiverse was conceptually infinite, the number of those inhabitants was, to put it simply, staggeringly high.
No matter how many quintillions of daemons the God-King slew, it mattered not. There would always be more. To say nothing of Charon's power over the dead, ensuring every dead Daemon or mortal was brought back as an undead soldier, ready to fight once more.
And so, the Horsemen called more soldiers into battle.
And so, more soldiers died in battle.
It was a never ending cycle of life, death, undeath and ultimately, annihilation.
The daemons charged the God-King, died, were brought back as undead, repeated their previous actions, died again, and were either brought back again or utterly annihilated.
The entire population of a galaxy's worth of souls was spent, then ten, then a thousand, then a million, then more.
Then more.
Then more.
The will of Abaddon could not be denied. The wills of the Horsemen could not be denied.
Daemons were born from the conflict by the billions. The trillions. The quintillions.
It was not enough.
The Horsemen stood and fought, over and over again. No matter how many times they were felled, no matter how many times they were beaten down, the Realm itself was empowering them in this all-out battle.
They simply would not be allowed to fall.
And it was hardly like they didn't have the power to spare. As an entire Realm went to war, their power grew by the second. All the death, the terror, the pain, the rage… all of it granted them more power.
Pestilence twisted Reality itself with diseases. Famine withered Reality with his mere presence. War empowered all with a physics-defying strength and bloodlust that could only be sated by victory. Death refused defeat to all who fell, bringing the fallen back to undead life over and over again.
It was a sight that would drive mortals mad. An experience that would see even the most nobles of souls break under the weight of it all.
But in the Kingdom of the Mad and the Damned, who ever cared about sanity to begin with?
The battle raged on. And on. And on.
Until, as suddenly as it all began, it no longer did.
23:59:59
A day. 24 hours of constant fighting.
An eternity for some. A blink of an eye to others.
24:00:00
And, ultimately, the exact amount of time that the God-King Aeon stood unharmed over all the wickedness of Abaddon.
In an instant, every denizens of Abaddon froze.
They could feel that the time had passed.
Abaddon had gambled and lost.
Countless Daemons, mortals, and more stared up at the God-King, standing blood-soaked, gore-covered, but utterly unharmed, over a mountain of corpses bigger than a supergiant star.
For what felt like an Eternity, the previously chaotic realm remained frozen at the sheer impossibility of what just happened.
Then the god spoke but one word.
"KNEEL."
And Abaddon knelt.
While all of Reality shook as one of the three great Infernal Realms swore fealty to their new Ruler.
A second later, the god smiled, and willed everything to return to what it was before the fight, the dead returning to life as well…
But some of the greatest scars in the landscape of the Infernal Realm remained, standing as deliberate, eternal testaments to the apocalyptic battle that took place on a day that nobody in Abaddon would ever forget.
Hell, Layer of Nessus, Palace of Asmodeus.
It was by no means rare for the nobility of Hell to gather. After all, they were in the realm of Lawful Evil. In order for there to be Law, there must be a gathering of individuals. Civilization.
However, what was rare was the tense air in the palace. Times were changing. A king of the Eldritch had risen. A powerful King.
An ambitious King.
A king… that had completely ignored them.
One simply did not ignore Hell. It just wasn't done.
Until now, that was.
When the new God-King created his legions, Hell naturally took notice. When envoys were sent across the Greater Realms of Existence, Hell naturally waited for the coming of their own envoys.
Only none came.
The Heavenly Realms were contacted. Axis was contacted. The Maelstrom was contacted.
Singular gods or specific factions were contacted.
Abaddon was contacted.
But not Hell.
Hell, with its nine layers, with its vast legions, with its influence echoing across the infinite multiverse… was seemingly ignored.
Countless Devils seethed at the insult. They raged at the blow to their pride.
Many even swore vengeance, in some ways or forms.
The most cunning of Hell, however, felt more than anger.
They were, uncharacteristically, confused.
To ignore Hell was a sign of a lack of judgment on the part of a god who, if anything, had shown himself terrifyingly capable and competent so far.
So, why? Why ignore them?
Many Devils proudly, foolishly, claimed that the God-King of the Eldritch feared Hell.
A single look at the events that had happened in Abaddon showed those fools the stupidity of that statement.
A god who took on all of Abaddon, and won, was no coward. Nor was he weak.
So then… why?
Debates raged in the halls of the palace of Asmodeus, as Devils argued back and forth over the best action to take in the face of the current situation.
Had it been anyone else, Hell would have easily sworn vengeance, and potentially war, as a whole. Against the Lord of the Eldritch, however? At a time where the Eldritch Pantheon, already the greatest power in the omniverse, was set to become far more powerful than ever before?
A more… measured approach was deemed wiser.
It took a lot of arguing, several duels to the death, a staggering amount of backstabbing, several poisoning, and at least three dozens different Lords of Hell swearing war on each other for the next hundred years, but ultimately the Archdevil Mephistopheles was sent with a small honor guard to the personal realm of the new God-King, in order to establish diplomatic relations… and find out, if possible, why Hell was seemingly ignored, along with the potential long-terms plans of the new God-King about the fate of the Hells during his reign.
And now, after waiting for the return of the envoy (anyone saying it was anxiously so would spend a hundred millions years in the fields of punishment) they could all tell that the diplomatic approach did not yield result.
Mostly by the way that Mephistopheles was empty-handed. Had any agreements been made, any at all, he would have had scrolls of some kind in hands representing those agreements. The lack of anything sent a clear message about the success of his mission.
Or rather, the lack thereof.
Whispers broke out across the halls of the palace, as Devils naturally began insulting the Archdevil for his perceived failure and incompetence. How loudly those whispers were said depended on how powerful the devils in question were.
Needless to say, the other Archdevils of Hell were loudly cackling at the sight of Mephistopheles kneeling before Asmadeus without anything to offer him.
The smarter Devils, however, noticed two things: First, that despite the jeers thrown his way, Mephistopheles seemed unbothered by them.
And secondly, Asmodeus' face did not show disapproval. It was, if anything, as utterly unchanging as it had been since this whole affair began.
"Mephistopheles." spoke Asmodeus, and immediately the halls fell silent, for none wanted to displease the King of Hell… especially when bad news was without a doubt coming. "You return to Hell empty-handed."
Mephistopheles bowed his head deeper, but when he spoke, his voice did not betray fear of judgment.
That wasn't to say, however, that it did not carry a measure of nervousness.
"My King, I offer you a thousand apologies." Mephistopheles replied quickly, keeping his head deeply bowed. "However…" the Archdevil trailed off. Some might consider this a sign of showmanship, or nervousness.
The truth was far closer to the second option.
"However, the King of the Eldritch proved himself to be far more ruthless and cunning than anticipated."
Those words sent a chill across the room. So far, the King of the Eldritch has shown both immense power and capabilities in diplomacy and war. So then, what new trick had he brought out this time against Hell?
"Explain." rumbled Asmodeus darkly.
Mephistopheles did as ordered.
And the eyes of the Lords (and those rare few Ladies) of Hell widened the more he spoke of how the short meeting between him and the King of the Eldritch went.
The Hunter's Dream, some time ago.
When the envoys of Devils first arrived within the personal realm of the new King of the Eldritch, the first thing they felt was the magic in the air.
There was enough of it to surpass the full might of entire pantheons' worth of Gods of Magic, casually floating in the air, rushing through the ground, and in general flooding the place immensely.
Some of the greatest, most mystical locations in all the Hells would be hard-pressed to match a fraction of the raw magic so casually on display across the realm.
The second thing they felt was the peaceful aura of the place. It lacked the inherent Holiness of Heaven, but there was no denying that this was a place of peace, of serenity like few others across Creation.
That alone might have made the Devils sneer at it, for peace and serenity was not in the nature of Hell. The screams of the damned was a much better alternative, in their views.
Far more relaxing and proper, really.
The third thing they felt was what ensured they all kept their mouths firmly shut.
And that was power.
Not the free floating magical energy of the realm, but the pure, focused power of the God of this realm.
It was everywhere, in everything, from the breeze across their skins to the flowers along the path they were walking upon.
Power, immense, seemingly never-ending, staggering in its sheer enormity. To hear the reports of the Lord of the Eldritch was one thing, but to stand in his place of Power was a very different experience.
The divine might watching over them did not feel threatening. It did not seek to crush them under its will, like the power of King Asmodeus.
It simply was.
In the same way a mountain suddenly looking at an ant would feel terrifying for that ant, even if the mountain held no ill-intentions towards it.
The envoy of Devils nonetheless did not slow down. They showed no signs of discomfort, or any hint of fear.
Weakness meant death in Hell. They all had experienced far worse than just being badly outclassed in power in the past.
Thus, the Devils walked, Mephistopheles at the head of the group.
They saw the massive white moon in the night sky, surrounded by brilliant stars.
They saw the grass and trees, almost glowing green from the magic within them.
They saw the Lunar Tears flowers shine their pale light, a soothing aura emanating from them.
They saw the mansion at the end of the path, surprisingly small by their standards for someone with such power.
And in front of it, calmly sitting alone at a table drinking tea, they saw the Lord of the Eldritch, the upper face of his face hidden in shadows by his hood except for the twin cosmic eyes peering at them, one glowing with more heat contained within than the hottest Hellfires, and the other holding the cold of the Void within, a darkness that pulled at the very foundation of their metaphysical existences, threatening to pull it all apart in a blink of an eye if the god wished it.
A small, welcoming smile spread on his lips, holding the slightest hint of mocking amusement to it at the sight of them making their way to him.
Mephistopheles took note of everything, including the lack of anybody else present. A deliberate move, obviously, though the reason for it was yet to be determined.
Finally they came to a stop, bowing deeply.
"Hail, King Aeon, First of His Name, Ruler of the Eldritch Pantheon, Master of the Eldritch Kingdom, Sovereign of Creation. In the Name of the nine layers of Hell, of their legions, and of our King, Lord Asmodeus, forever may his name be praised, I greet you."
The King's smile grew ever so slightly.
"And Hail to you, Lord Mephistopheles, Master of Caina, the eighth layer of Hell, Right Hand of Asmodeus, The Crimson Son, The Merchants of Souls, the Seneschal of Hell. In the name of your King, I greet you."
Mephistopheles raised his head, satisfied the appropriate greetings had been given. Oh, certainly, had this been a more public venue, they would have spent a great deal more time exchanging titles, but since the God-King had brought nobody else to this meeting, this was… acceptable.
"As commanded to me by King Asmodeus, Praised be his Name, as well as the Courts of Hell, I, Mephistopheles, come to you to establish formal, cordial, mutually beneficial relations between yourself as God and King, and Hell as a whole."
"So I see." The god-king said, his eyes looking at him calmly. "Let it be known that I acknowledge the will of Hell, its Courts, and its King. However…" things began to go into unexpected directions when a cold smile spread across the God-King's lips. "I would like it to be known that Hell, currently, has nothing I wish to bargain for, despite its countless resources. Indeed… one might even say that Hell's resources will be brought to serve my purposes, in one way or another, through nothing more than the passage of time."
Mephistopheles and the Devils at his back froze, stunned by the insanely bold declaration they had just heard.
To imply, in any way, shape or form that Hell, much less as a whole, would ever serve another… through nothing but the passage of Time, at that, was…
Insane. Completely and utterly insane.
He couldn't even muster any anger, so utterly stunned he was at the words so thoughtlessly spoken.
Mephistopheles, for once, found himself hesitating, unsure how to reply, before slowly replying back.
"It is not in the nature of Hell to give anything freely." he put it diplomatically, which he felt was an achievement in the face of the sheer absurdity of the previous statement.
The cold smile on the God-king's lips grew slightly, a dark gleam entering his eyes.
"I never said anything about Hell giving anything freely. Only that, in time, Hell will serve my purposes… and do so of its own will. One way or another."
Mephistopheles hesitated, knowing he was firmly put on the backfoot, but incapable of understanding the logic of the god before him.
"If his Majesty could please elaborate on his meaning?" he finally said cautiously.
The God-King took a sip of his tea, then put the teacup down.
Mephistopheles finally noticed that tea wasn't the only thing within the cup.
There was also blood.
And not the standard human blood, either.
The God-king folded his hands together, then smiled at him.
It was a smile so cold it could give King Asmodeus a challenge in its sheer intimidation.
"Tell me, Mephistopheles. What do you think is going to happen once the Abyss no longer exists?"
Mephistopheles held back the urge to blink at the calmly stated words. Yes, everybody knew of the Lord of the Eldritch's will to deal with the Abyss once and for all, but it was still surprising to hear it said so casually.
"... I presume a great many changes would follow." he replied cautiously, knowing it was a vague answer at best, but not knowing enough about the God-King before him to know what he would want to hear.
The cold smile grew slightly. "Changes, yes. That's certainly one word for it. Well then, let me tell you of those… changes."
The cosmic eyes stared at him with cold malevolence and cruel anticipation.
"The Abyss will be conquered. And when it is done, and it is when, not if, Abaddon will receive the lion share of the former Infernal Realm for itself. Including all the souls, past, present and future headed for it. Once that happens… Well, tell me, surely you can do some basic math, yes? A single Infernal Realm, faced with one with the power of two. And Abaddon is now mine to rule, which means the Heavenly Realms will be free to focus their attention entirely upon Hell."
The smile aimed his way was as cold and hungry as the Void.
"Will Hell be inevitably conquered by Abaddon's numberless legions? Or will it fall to the Heavenly Legions eager to reduce two sources of Evil to merely one, already shackled by the Eldritch Pantheon? Oh, what a question! What do you think, Lord Mephistopheles? Conquest by Abaddon, or Heaven?"
Mephistopheles stared at the God-King before him frozen in place, feeling the weight of an invisible blade slowly pressing on the back of his neck.
The Lord of the Eldritch chuckled, a sound so full of triumphant cruelty it would have easily found its place in Hell.
"Oh, but of course, let's talk about the alternatives, shall we? Perhaps, seeing the doom of statistics headed their way, Hell will instead take drastic decisions! Perhaps it will decide to start waging total war against the Abyss, before I and the coalition I created can do so? In order to conquer as much territory as possible before the inevitable occurs!"
The God-King shrugged, a casual act that had no right being as menacing as he made it look.
"Of course, the matter of Abaddon receiving both the souls of Neutral Evil and Chaotic Evil individuals remains, which means the only thing you'll have gained, at high cost in lives and resources, will be time… But surely, that time will be enough to come up with some sort of plan! Right…?"
He trailed off, that same cold, hungry smile returning.
"And what other option is there? Well, if you're desperate enough… You could always ally with the Abyss!"
Mephistopheles barely resisted the urge to recoil in disgust at the very notion, even as the smile of the God-king grew unnaturally large and cruel.
"Imagine that for a moment! The armies of the Abyss and Hell, finally united! Riding into war together! For the first time in Existence, peace between both factions would actually be achieved! Congratulations!"
The God-King clapped mockingly, sadistic glee dancing in his eyes.
"Ah, but wait! It's still all of my coalition against your newfound alliance, and you are still outnumbered! And I can enforce the act of sending the souls of all the Damned straight into Abaddon instead! Meaning that you're now just doomed together! What a beautiful ending it would be, King Asmodeus and Queen Slann standing back to back against hordes of Gods, Heavenly Archons and more seeking their deaths! Paintings and songs will be created across all of Time with such an ending!"
His expression turned falsely sympathetic.
"A pity it will be about a glorious Last Stand doomed from the start, though, isn't it?" he said softly with false kindness… and an entire sea of underlying cruel delight.
"You… You would go to war against both the Abyss and Hell at the same time?" Mephistopheles said, trying to call what surely has to be a bluff, because nobody would be insane enough to-
"Of course."
… There was no hesitation, that was the worst part. No doubt. Not even a blink at the words spoken.
The God-King before him answered his question matter-of-fact. He did not boast. He did not speak arrogantly.
He simply said a fact.
Uncaring of the incomprehensible death and destruction that fact would bring, the Lord of the Eldritch looked at him in the eyes, calm, unflinching, and terrifyingly serious.
And only then and there did Mephistopheles begin to understand the kind of man, and god, that stood before him.
It was the kind of man willing to see Reality burn to see it remade in his image.
A part of him wanted to laugh as he looked utter madness made manifest in the eyes.
The rest only felt the fathom blade at his neck press deeper still on his soul, as he finally understood the threat this god represented for Hell… And how utterly doomed they were, considering the power this god already possessed.
"Of course… You could always choose the last option." the God-king said with a deceptively mild voice. "You can choose to submit, as Abaddon submitted."
The smile he sent at the frozen envoy of Devils could almost be called warm.
Almost.
"I look forward to finding out the choice of King Asmodeus and the Courts of Hell. Even I can only wonder whether you will die on your feet… or choose to live on your knees before my throne."
Hell, Layer of Nessus, Palace of Asmodeus.
For a long, long moment after Mephistopheles was done speaking, only silence echoed across the palace of Asmodeus.
The Lords and Ladies of Hell were too stunned to actually say anything. Nobody even knew what to say before the insanity of what they had just heard.
And then, perhaps fittingly, Pandemonium descended upon the palace of the King of Hell.
Every Lord and Ladies of Hell began shouting, screaming and shrieking as one, slinging insults, opinions, and threats faster than bullets. The once mighty bastion of Order of Hell turned into utter chaos in the face of what could only be described as pure insanity… but insanity that they had to deal with, all the same.
They raged against the words of the King of the Eldritch. They screamed, frothing at the mouths as they cursed the heavens above and the Eldritch God who dwelled in the higher dimensions.
And yet, in the middle of this utter chaos, only two figures stood unmoving. Mephistopheles, who knew better than to move without being bid to by his King…
And Asmodeus, who said and did nothing for a long moment, simply staring at the frothing Devils Lords and Ladies before him.
Then he chuckled once.
A sound of unimaginable cruelty by mortal standards. A sound containing more malice than legions of trillions of Devils could possess, even combined.
And yet, all the same, a sound unquestionably carrying a note of approval deep within it.
A.N: Alright! Here is the next chapter in which we continue the events of Love Azathoth!
The first of what will probably be 2-3 chapters dedicated to various p.o.vs of people reacting to everything going down as a result of Aeon's Ascension.
This chapter was mostly focused on what exactly happened in Abaddon, and what Aeon's plan for Hell is.
For Abaddon, Aeon basically spent an entire day kicking asses and taking names, then fixed mostly everything, leaving just enough scars across Abaddon's landscape so that nobody will ever doubt the consequences of defying him.
As you can imagine, there are now a lot of gigantic canyons and craters most likely named "War's Fall." and the likes from where Aeon punched/supplexed the Horsemen and their Harbingers into the dirt.
The daemons wouldn't even use those names mockingly, because they'd all remember being obliterated and slaughtered en masse by a sandbagging Aeon, so yeah, Abaddon definitely learnt to fear and respect him.
Finally, while Aeon winning the "bet" and forcing the daemons to kneel effectively bound Abaddon to serve him, the Horsemen willingly swearing loyalty was their way of showing respect towards Aeon. The difference, essentially, between malicious compliance and willing obedience.
As for Hell, Aeon quite literally set up a Devilish scenario where Hell has a choice… between near equally bad choices.
The coalition he built up might be aimed at the Abyss, but by default it can work just as well against Hell. Moreover, once the Abyss is dealt with, with Abaddon now a protectorate of the Eldritch Kingdom, it means the Heavenly Realms can focus everything they have on Hell.
A three vs one scenario would be bad enough… But with Abaddon gaining the souls and territories of the Abyss on top of that? Yeah, the political situation for Hell post-war would be horrendous, and only get worse over time.
So they have been trapped in a no-win scenario where they are facing a choice: Go to war against the Abyss in full, without Aeon having to pay anything for it… Or, side with the Abyss, their conceptual opposite (Chaos vs Law), and get killed by the Coalition along with the Abyss.
Or, finally, they can bend the knee before Azathoth and Aeon, swearing fealty to the Eldritch Pantheon and become another protectorate like Abaddon.
Needless to say, Hell is going to be a very chaotic place for a while as the Archdevils of Hell decide on what path to take, and new political groups are formed over which of those outcomes is the better path to take.
As for Asmodeus? Oh, he's equally enraged and respectful of the masterful noose that has been weaved around the neck of Hell, ready to hang them in one way or another.
Still, with all that being said, I hope you all enjoyed this update! Next time, we continue to look at the shockwaves of what is happening, spreading across the rest of Reality…