The Bound Demon

Four months had passed in uneasy peace. The chains that bound Zephriel, keeping his demonic form caged, had not stirred in all this time. His crimson eyes glowed softly as he remained chained, his horns always present—sharp and menacing. Every day was the same—Elyon leaving the dim confines of their prison to gather necessities, always returning to care for his demon. Zephriel, despite his chains, found solace in Elyon's presence, his soft voice, and gentle touch.

But today, the world would shatter.

Elyon had barely stepped outside when a piercing pain struck his chest. A sword, its blade shimmering with divine power, had pierced straight through his heart. His breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping his lips as his knees gave way beneath him. Blood bloomed across his chest, dark and spreading, a crimson flower in the cold light.

Inside, Zephriel felt it—his pain, his fear, his life slipping away. His senses exploded, and his restraints, which had held for so long, began to creak. His horns elongated, curling back in sharp arcs, his nails morphing into claws. A feral growl resonated from deep within his chest, a sound that shook the very stones of their prison.

"No... Elyon!"

His chains trembled, the ancient metal protesting as his demonic energy surged. His crimson aura expanded, the room darkening as shadows bent to his will. Zephriel's body arched, muscles straining against the bonds, and his rage became a tangible force, warping reality itself.

With a final, earth-shattering roar, the chains shattered. Metal fragments scattered like dying stars, and the cell walls rippled as if reality itself feared his wrath. Time faltered, the world holding its breath as if the universe dared not proceed without his command.

Outside, the scene was chaos. Gods, thousands of them, had descended. Their golden auras clashed with the blood-stained earth, their divine weapons aimed at the mansion. And at its center lay Elyon, his fragile body crumpled on the cold stone, blood pooling beneath him.

Zephriel moved through the space as if untouched by time. His steps were slow, deliberate, his expression an unreadable mask. His long white hair, like a silver moonlit waterfall, flowed behind him, trailing shadows and death. He reached Elyon and knelt beside him, his trembling hands brushing a strand of hair from his pale face.

His breathing was shallow, his lips a ghostly blue.

"Zeph...riel..." Elyon whispered, his voice a dying ember.

"Shh," Zephriel murmured, his voice softer than the wind. "I am here, my love."

He laid him gently on the ground, making sure his body rested comfortably. Then, he pulled a strip of black fabric from his robe, tying it over his eyes. His vision darkened, but his senses expanded, his otherworldly perception stretching across every plane of existence.

He rose to his feet, his form a silhouette against the divine light of the gods. His hands reached behind him, drawing forth twin blades. The metal sang as it left its sheath, a promise of death to all who bore witness.

The thousand gods watched, unease rippling through their ranks. The air grew thick with Zephriel's demonic energy, a crimson mist that swallowed the light. The fabric over his eyes was soaked with his tears, but his lips curved into a deadly smile.

"Who among you dared to touch him?" His voice was a whisper, yet it echoed across the realm. "Who among you believes they can withstand my wrath?"

Silence. Even the gods, those divine beings who held dominion over fate and life, were frozen in place. The sky cracked, the air splitting open with the weight of his power. Time itself seemed to recoil, each tick of the clock a struggle against his dominion.

And then, they broke. The divine armies, those who had struck Elyon, crumbled under his pressure. Their bodies collapsed, blood pouring from every orifice, their divine forms shattered like glass beneath a relentless hammer. Zephriel had not moved, yet his power tore through them, each heartbeat a death knell.

The mansion, once a prison, became a graveyard. His own family, those of royal blood who had plotted against him, fell to their knees, their bodies cracking under the weight of his fury. His demonic energy became a storm, a red hurricane that devoured all in its path.

When the dust settled, only Zephriel remained. His blades dripped with ichor, the ground beneath him cracked and charred. He stood amidst the remains of gods and demons alike, a lone figure in a sea of silence.

He turned back to Elyon, his expression softening. His hands, still bloodstained, reached down and gently cradled him. His power had bent the world, but it could not change his fate. Tears soaked into the blindfold, his pain a wound that no blade could match.

And as he held him, the heavens themselves trembled. The gods who had survived remained motionless, unwilling to draw his ire. For in that moment, the world understood—Zephriel was no longer a demon bound by chains. He was the chains, the knife, the reckoning.

And his story had only just begun.