The Devil coveted the Earth, not with fire and brimstone, but with the subtle, deep, twisting malice of a cancer. His plan had been perfect: a calculated escape from the infernal depths, his spirit destined to inhabit Michelle, a woman whose formidable mental powers were meant to be a vessel for his dominion. But fate, or perhaps a flicker of defiance from the cosmic order, intervened.

Michelle’s mind was too strong, too pure to be subsumed. The Devil's essence, repelled at the moment of possession, fractured and found a different home: the twin embryos nestled within her womb.

Thus were born Ultimo and Maestro, the sons of a woman and a demon, the inheritors of a broken shadow.

Their birth was a tragedy that became the founding curse of the village of Zanag. In the instant they drew their first breaths, a wave of cold, consuming power swept through the isolated community.

Every woman in the village, young and old, dropped dead without a sound. It was an instant, surgical annihilation, a judgment passed on the very feminine source of life. From that day on, no mother could survive in Zanag; the village was doomed to wither, sustained only by those born before the twins.

As they grew, Maestro became the quiet enigma, a vessel of fragile, unknowable neutrality. But Ultimo was the manifestation of the dark will, the Beast made flesh. He walked Zanag like a blight, his presence chilling the air, his eyes holding the indifferent cruelty of a predator. He was the perpetual reminder of the curse, the boy they hated but dared not touch.

The Quiet Morning of Wrath

The pre-dawn light was a pale, nervous wash over Zanag. Most of the village remained in the uneasy quiet of sleep, but Ultimo was already awake, standing motionless beneath the thatched overhang of a storage shack.

Mall, a gaunt, middle-aged man who had watched the curse devour his own wife, shuffled past, his eyes fixed on the dusty ground. He instinctively quickened his pace.

"Mall."

The single, sharp utterance froze the man mid-stride. Ultimo’s voice was low, resonating with a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air.

Mall slowly turned, his face a mask of practiced fear and resentment. "What do you want, son of the Devil?" he hissed, the familiar epithet spilling out before he could restrain it.

A flicker, a near-smile, crossed Ultimo's lips. "Such hostility. I was merely seeking reassurance. The Sages convene today, do they not?"

Mall swallowed hard. The whole village knew. After years of whispered anxiety, the council was finally meeting to determine the twin’s fate. "Yes," he rasped. "To decide how to finally lift the curse. To decide your fate."

"My fate?" Ultimo leaned against the rough wood, his gaze unblinking. "You all cling to the belief that my death will save your village. How pathetic." He paused, letting his contempt hang heavy in the air. "I warn you: the Sages are about to make a monumental mistake. A decision that will paint this village red. Tell them to take heed."

Ultimo straightened, his black garment blending with the shadows even as the sun began to rise. "They seek to expel the darkness. All they will succeed in doing is turning a contained shadow into an uncontrollable storm. When the time comes, do not look away, Mall. You will all have a front-row seat to the spectacle."

He turned and melted into the growing light, leaving Mall alone to tremble with a dread that was deeper than mere fear it was the profound terror of knowing a prophecy was about to be fulfilled.

The Council’s Grave Error

The Sages’ council chamber was typically a place of tranquil, reasoned debate, but this morning, the air was thick with desperation. Six old men, the spiritual and political backbone of Zanag sat around a scarred wooden table.

Sage Fekir, their de facto leader, a man whose face was etched with the sorrow of a lost wife and daughter, rapped his knuckle on the table. "The time for deliberation is over. The curse is a plague we cannot manage. For every day Ultimo remains, our village dies a little more. We must act."

Sage Thomas, a younger elder, leaned forward, his voice heavy with responsibility. "But banishment is a temporary fix, Fekir. The Devil's son grows stronger. His darkness is a physical thing now. If we simply cast him out, he will return with an army, or worse, he will learn to wield the power that killed our wives."

"He speaks of the legendary sword, Death," another Sage murmured, his voice shaking.

Fekir slammed his fist down, silencing the room. "We will not banish him! That mistake has been made before in the old stories. We will neutralize him."

A collective breath was drawn. Neutralization was the village’s polite term for assassination.

"We have discussed the options," Fekir continued, his eyes meeting Thomas's. "Our own guards are insufficient. Our local mercenaries are too weak. But there is one organization that operates outside the laws of the five realms, a group known for their ruthlessness and efficiency."

Thomas scoffed, running a hand over his tired face. "The Dargis. Fekir, you cannot be serious. They are butchers! They do not negotiate terms; they only demand a price. We will be bankrupt, and our souls compromised."

"What is the price of a soul against the survival of a whole people?"

Fekir countered, his voice rising in an impassioned plea.

"The Dargis are the only ones capable of taking on the son of the Devil. They are deadly, they are numerous, and they are not afraid of shadows. We must pay their price, no matter how steep. We must hire El Cardi and his Dargis mercenaries to hunt down Ultimo and rid Zanag of the plague he carries."

There was a heavy silence. Every Sage knew the decision was morally bankrupt, yet tragically necessary. The alternative was the slow, agonizing extinction of their community.

Finally, Thomas nodded, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"May the gods have mercy on us, Fekir. We have traded one danger for another."

The Sages, desperate and defeated, finalized their plan. The Dargis would be contacted immediately, a massive sum would be transferred, and the most dangerous contract in Zanag's history would be issued: a death warrant for the boy who carried the curse, a warrant that would set a deadly conflict in motion.

In the village, unnoticed, Ultimo had already begun his journey, his mind set on a weapon far more dangerous than any mercenary blade. The Sages had chosen their executioners; now Ultimo would find the tool to execute them.

The Call of the Sword

Ultimo had sunk into the Forest of Torments, the ground strewed with dead leaves cushioning the sound of his footsteps. He was not looking for flight, but destiny. Zanag was only a starting point, a cursed cradle that he was delighted to leave behind. The hatred and fear of the villagers were flickering candles that he could blow out with a breath, but he had a greater ambition.

"Idiots... They think I'm looking for freedom. I'm looking for power," he whispered to himself, his voice rough as gravel.

His mind was obsessed with a name, a relic. "Death". The legendary sword, capable of draining the life of a soul in an instant, the only tool he needed to fully release the potential of the Devil who slept in him. The Wise, in their madness, had locked her away from everything, in the depths of their secret archives.

Ultimo didn't need maps or guides. The demonic fragment in him, this dark and primitive essence, reacted to the power of the sword. It was a low vibration, a hoarse call in the cosmos, that pulled him to his source. The sword was not only a weapon; it was the key to his true identity.

He mocked the idea of exile. "That Zanag will rot in his own fear. I have given them a glimpse of my power; soon I will show them the extent of my anger. ”

The Trap Closes

As he progressed, the vibration became stronger. It did not come from a hidden vault, but from a moving source. Ultimo looked up, his nostrils trembling, sniffing the smell of danger and the sweat of men.

He came out of the canopy of the trees and found himself on a dusty track. In front of him, a small convoy: four of the Sages, their ceremonial attire replaced by travel dresses, framed a heavy wooden chest, sealed by chains.

They decided to move it. The sword was there.

The Sages, warned of Ultimo's probable arrival, had prepared. They had not waited for Dargis' mercenaries; they wanted to put their weapon out of reach immediately. But the meeting was too fast.

As soon as they saw him, the Wise Thomas, remembering Ultimo's warning, shouted: "It's him! The Son of the Devil! In position! ”

Ultimo smiles, a smile full of cold joy. "You did the work for me, old people. Thank me for sparing your back. ”

He rushed. Before he had travelled half the distance, one of the Sages, his hands outstretched, uttered a word of power, and a wall of flames instantly rose between Ultimo and the convoy. Fire was not a simple heat; it was saturated with protective magic, pulsating with the pure energy of the earth.

The Weight of the Warning

Meanwhile, in Zanag, Mall was unable to stay in place. Ultimo's sentence echoed in his head like a funeral bell: "They seek to expel the darkness. All they will succeed in doing is to transform a contained shadow into an uncontrollable storm. ”

The Wise men had made their decision. Ultimo was gone. The Dargis were on their way. The city had entered a period of terrifying suspension.

Mall sat on a bench, his back against the cold wall of his house. He had seen hatred in Ultimo's eyes, but he had also felt the weight of prophecy in his words. If the murder failed, or if the young man obtained the weapon, Zanag would not be saved. It would be consummised.

He thought back to Maestro, the other twin, the child who had never worn darkness so openly. Where was he? Maybe he was the only chance for the village. Mall sighed. No, it was too much hope. Zanag's fate was sealed by blood, and he feared that the monumental mistake of the Sages was already being paid for in the forest.

Water and Snake Poison

The wall of fire was only a delay. Ultimo hit the ground with his foot, and the shock wave cracked the earth. He didn't bother to get around the obstacle. It simply increased its own internal temperature, and the fire, seeing a larger heat source, retreated, dissipating in voltes of black smoke.

The Sages, learned men but not warriors, panicked. The Wise Fekir, his face covered in sweat, ordered: "Quick! The ritual of water! ”

As Ultimo charged, the ground under his feet transformed. The water escaped from the earth, rising into magical geysers that twisted and knotted to form icy whips. The Sages hoped that water, the opposite element of Ultimo's demonic fire, could slow his progression.

The young man was in the middle of the Forest of Torments, and the environment was responding to the magical call of the Sages. But it was faster than water. He dodged the whips, his body moving with brutal grace.

Another Sage, using an ancient spell, projected a volley of dark darts. These projectiles were not made of iron, but of dead tree sap saturated with marsh snake venom.

A projectile touched Ultimo's shoulder. He did not feel immediate pain, but a cold paralysis began to spread in his arm. The Sages, working together, managed to exhaust him, to make him vulnerable.

"A poison? " growled Ultimo, his arm heavy as stone. He was more than a man. The beast in him was beginning to wake up, irritated by the physical weakness that the poison imposed on him. "Is that all you have, old people? ”

The fight had just begun, but Ultimo was already cornered, his own power clashing with Zanag's ancestral magical tricks. The fight for the Dead sword promised to be long and bloody.

The Price of Paralysis

The attack of the Sages was not a brute force confrontation, but a calculated, draining exercise in attrition. Ultimo, slowed by the snake venom on his shoulder, was a beast caught in a magical net. The remaining Sages Fekir, Thomas, and the others formed a desperate circle, their hands raised, chanting in unison.

They weren't aiming to kill him outright; they were aiming to trap him, to deliver him alive to the Dargis mercenaries.

"Focus your will!" Sage Fekir’s voice cracked with strain. "The lightning! Now!"

Ultimo felt a dreadful pressure building. It was the air itself growing heavy, electric. From the combined focus of the Sages, a blinding, multi-pronged bolt of light erupted. It was not fire, but pure electrical force, an ancestral spell known as the Jumbo Éclair that required the combined energy of powerful magic users.

The lightning struck Ultimo squarely in the chest.

The impact was not only agonizing; it was systematic. Every muscle fiber seized, every nerve ending screamed, and for the first time since his birth, Ultimo’s dark will was overridden by pure, debilitating pain. He crashed to the ground, his arms and legs trembling violently, pinned by the residual current that coursed through his body. He couldn't move. He couldn't even snarl.

"It works! The paralysis is holding!" Thomas cried, his voice trembling with relief.

Fekir, looking down at the twitching form of the Devil's son, felt a mixture of fear and triumph.

"Bind him! We must secure him before the paralysis wears off. The mercenaries will not be pleased if he has broken free."

The Sages cautiously approached the paralyzed boy, their faces etched with the horror of the curse they were finally ending. But as one of them reached out a trembling hand to touch the binding rope, a ripple of change passed through Ultimo’s body.

The True Ascent

The pain was a barrier, and the paralysis was a cage. But within that cage, the Devil’s essence, the Beast, was not defeated it was insulted. It was furious at the weakness of its human host.

This body is a vessel for dominion, not a victim of mortal sparks!

In a sudden, terrifying shift, Ultimo’s pupils dilated until his eyes were twin pools of pitch blackness ringed by an angry, pulsing red. His heart, which had been racing, began to beat with a slow, powerful, metallic thud, forcing the paralyzing magic away. The Beast had taken the wheel.

A deep, guttural sound, more a tectonic rumble than a human scream, tore from his throat. His body swelled instantly; his muscles coiled, straining the leather and fabric of his clothes. His skin, already pale, took on a gray, chalky hue, and the power that erupted from him was no longer merely heat or darkness, but a terrifying, annihilating energy.

The Sages stumbled back in terror. The thing rising from the ground was no longer Ultimo. It was the Devil’s true son, pure in its destructive intent.

One of the Sages, Sage4, frozen by the sight, could only whisper a prayer. It was his last word.

With a speed that defied the laws of physics, the Beast-Ultimo was on him. A single, heavy blow, driven by the unnatural strength of the demon, connected with the Sage’s chest. The air was knocked from the man's lungs, and his ribs shattered inward, piercing his heart and lungs. He died instantly, a mere footnote in the

Beast’s awakening.

Ultimo stood over the corpse, breathing heavily, the remnants of the lightning having no effect on him now. The Beast was fully emerged. The Sages had succeeded in one thing: they had woken a monster far more dangerous than the angry boy they had tried to exile.

The Twin’s Call

Hundreds of miles away, in the bustling, sun-drenched city of Mbomo, Maestro was walking through a crowded market square, his mind focused on a quiet life. He worked as a humble clerk, seeking anonymity from the twin stain on his soul.

Then, the world tilted.

It wasn't a sound or a vision. It was a surge of absolute, raw power a spike of darkness so immense and sudden it felt like a cosmic punch. It was the signature energy of the Devil, a chaotic, unbridled torrent, unmistakable to the other half of the fragmented soul.

Maestro stumbled, gripping a market stall to steady himself. The noise of the city; the shouting, the laughter, the bartering faded into a distant buzz. All he could feel was Ultimo. The power his brother had just unleashed, the sheer volume of destructive force, was more than Maestro had ever sensed before. It wasn't the slow burn of hatred; it was the explosion of the Beast.

He has found the path.

Maestro knew that power. It was the harbinger of true chaos, the beginning of the end of all things the Devil hated. If Ultimo was wielding that level of energy, he was no longer merely seeking revenge on Zanag; he was on the verge of claiming the legendary weapon and fulfilling the original prophecy.

He looked down at his own hands, which suddenly felt weak and useless. He was the balance, the neutral half of the curse. He was meant to be the counterweight. But how could any light stand against this sudden, terrifying shadow?

There was no time for contemplation. His quiet life in Mbomo, his attempt at normalcy, was over. The very foundation of their curse had cracked, and the darkness was pouring out.

Maestro took one last look at the unfamiliar buildings and the bustling, ignorant crowd. He turned his back on the city. He had to return to Zanag. Not to save the village that had cursed him, but to stop his brother from becoming the complete manifestation of the Devil.

The confrontation that had been destined since their cursed birth was now imminent. Maestro, the fragile half, was going to meet Ultimo, the conquering shadow.