Chapter 230: Monster Lord Krýllos

The chessboard of Eloriath had become treacherously crowded.

What began as a seemingly straightforward demonic invasion, a tide of darkness washing over a weakened kingdom, had fractured into a chaotic multi-sided war.

Ingranad’s legions, initially overwhelming, found themselves stretched thin. The corrupted heroes – Gideon, Rahel, Patrick, Madleen – still carved paths of destruction, their amplified powers sowing terror. But the resistance, though fragmented, was proving unexpectedly stubborn.

The Radiant Church, cornered and desperate, fought with the fury of dying faith, their summoned Archangels buying precious time with blinding, costly bursts of holy power. Their shrinking enclaves became islands of defiance in a sea of darkness.

The Phantom Assembly, opportunistic and insidious, consolidated its grip on the territories it had ’liberated’. Their shadowy operatives clashed fiercely with demonic patrols, showcasing surprising strength drawn from hidden reserves and forbidden arts. They fought not for Eloriath, but for the Assembly’s growing influence, bleeding demons and desperate locals alike to cement Lord Vortan’s clandestine empire.

And now, the neighbors had arrived, drawn by the scent of blood and collapsing borders.

Jorailian legions marched in the east, disciplined steel pushing back demonic incursions while simultaneously annexing ’destabilized’ Eloriath provinces under the guise of restoring order. King Rouben Yachvili watched his borders expand with satisfaction.

To the south, the Suntouched Confederacy’s swift cavalry and sun mages conducted surgical strikes, protecting their trade routes, securing strategic points, and occasionally ’liberating’ resources from the chaos. They weren’t claiming land, not yet, but they were asserting their power, adding another unpredictable element to the deadly equation.

The demons, once the undisputed predators, found themselves fighting on multiple fronts against disparate, yet increasingly problematic, foes.

Within the heart of the Demon Fortress, Ingranad brooded. Reports flowed in from his lieutenants. Victories, yes, always victories against the crumbling local militias. But the cost was rising. The Church’s holy fire, though weakened overall, could still sear Archdemon flesh when concentrated through ancient artifacts. The Assembly’s assassins and battle-mages employed frustratingly effective guerrilla tactics and potent, dark magic. The Jorailian legions were disciplined, their formations hard to break. The Confederacy’s sun mages were a nuisance, their light painful even to powerful demons.

’These mortals…’ Ingranad rumbled, the sound like shifting tectonic plates within his obsidian chest. Multiple burning eyes scanned reports materialized from shadow-stuff. ’They scurry. They bite. They ally with convenience against the inevitable tide.’

An Archdemon commander, Grozfang, a hulking beast of solidified rage and shadow, bowed low. “Lord Ingranad, the eastern front demands more brutes. The Jorailians push hard. Patrick reports heavy resistance.”

Another, Syl’keth, sinuous and whispering, materialized beside him. “The Assembly’s tendrils spread, my Lord. They bleed us in the western hills with ambushes and shadow magic. Rahel requests forces skilled in countering their… slippery ways.”

Ingranad slammed a clawed fist onto his throne of fused bone, cracking it. “Enough! We hold the advantage in raw power! Yet these insects chip away at us! We are stretched thin!”

He rose, towering over his subordinates, his aura flaring with dark energy. ’If the mortals insist on multiplying their fronts, then so shall we multiply our might.’

His mind turned to ancient history, to pacts forged in forgotten wars when the world was younger, when demons and other primal forces united against the burgeoning arrogance of humanity.

’The Deep Ones…’ he mused. ’They owe us. And they hate the surface dwellers.’

He made his decision.

“Grozfang. Syl’keth. Attend me,” Ingranad commanded. “The rest of you,” his gaze swept over other lurking Archdemon figures in the chamber, “maintain pressure. Give the mortals no respite. Gideon, Rahel, Patrick, Madleen – tell them to bleed the land dry!”

“We travel south,” Ingranad declared, turning towards the exit, his shadow seeming to deepen and stretch. “Beyond the sun-scorched lands. To the Endless Blue.”

Grozfang and Syl’keth exchanged glances, a flicker of surprise mixed with grim understanding in their demonic eyes. The sea… the domain of them.

’The Sea Monsters,’ Grozfang thought, a shiver running through his molten core despite himself. ’Ancient. Powerful. Unpredictable.’

’An alliance with the Abyss dwellers?’ Syl’keth hissed silently. ’Bold. Dangerous. But perhaps… necessary.’ The potential power influx was intoxicating.

Other demons in the fortress caught whispers of the plan. A ripple of excitement, tinged with primal fear, spread through the ranks. The Sea Monsters! Legends even among demons. Beings of crushing pressure and abyssal cold, wielders of tidal fury and secrets hidden beneath the waves. To have them as allies… victory would be assured!

The journey south was a swift, brutal passage. Ingranad and his two chosen Archdemons didn’t waste time engaging lesser foes. They moved like a storm front across the blighted Eloriath territories, crossed the contested borderlands, and then traversed the vast, sun-baked deserts controlled by the Suntouched Confederacy.

They avoided the Confederacy’s main settlements and patrols, their immense power allowing them to move largely undetected through magical means or simply by overwhelming the senses of any mortals unfortunate enough to cross their path too closely. The desert heat meant little to beings forged in infernal fire and abyssal shadow.

Finally, they reached the southern coast. The air grew thick with salt, the endless expanse of the azure ocean stretching before them, glittering under the harsh sun.

Without hesitation, Ingranad strode towards the churning waves. The water recoiled momentarily from his immense, unholy presence before surging forward again. Grozfang and Syl’keth followed closely.

As Ingranad stepped into the sea, the water didn’t just part; it seemed to boil away from him, carving a path into the depths. He descended, the pressure mounting instantly, enough to crush mountains, yet it had no effect on the Archdemon Lord. His companions followed, encased in shimmering fields of shadow and force.

Down they went, into the crushing darkness of the deep ocean trenches, a realm alien even to most surface-dwelling demons. Strange, bioluminescent creatures scattered before their terrifying presence. The pressure mounted exponentially.

Eventually, they reached a vast, cyclopean city built from black, non-Euclidean stone that seemed to absorb the faint light. Strange currents flowed through impossible arches, and colossal shapes moved in the abyssal darkness beyond the city’s edge. This was one of the hidden capitals of the Sea Monster race.

Ingranad didn’t announce his arrival with fanfare. His presence alone was enough. Figures emerged from the oppressive architecture – towering beings vaguely resembling crustaceans and cephalopods fused with humanoid torsos, wielding tridents crackling with captured lightning, their eyes cold, ancient, and intelligent. Merrow warriors, scaled and powerful, bearing cruel weapons forged from abyssal metals. Emissaries cloaked in shifting water, their forms indistinct, radiating immense cold.

The details of the negotiation remained shrouded in the crushing depths. Ingranad reminded them of ancient debts, of shared hatred for the surface world, of the current weakness of the human kingdoms. He spoke of the opportunity for vengeance, for reclaiming coastal lands, for feasting on sunlit shores.

And he offered the key. The price. Freedom for one of their greatest lost lords, sealed away centuries ago by human mages in a dungeon deep within the lands now claimed by the Suntouched Confederacy. A lord whose power, even diminished, could turn the tide.

The Sea Monsters, ancient and patient, considered. They remembered the old wars. They felt the weakening of the surface world’s magic, sensed the turmoil. And the promise of freeing Lord Krýllos… it was a lure too potent to ignore.

The pact was sealed in the abyssal depths, bound by oaths older than human kingdoms.

A few days later, the southern coast of the Suntouched Confederacy erupted in chaos.

From the turquoise waters, monstrous forms surged ashore. Giant krakens, tentacles like living battering rams, smashed coastal fortifications. Legions of Merrow warriors, breathing water as easily as air, stormed beaches, their abyssal steel clashing against the curved blades of the Confederacy’s desert fighters. Leviathans, vast serpentine beasts capable of swallowing ships whole, patrolled the shipping lanes, cutting off supplies.

The Confederacy, caught completely by surprise, scrambled to mount a defense. Their sun mages unleashed beams of scorching light, boiling seawater and incinerating lesser sea creatures, but the sheer scale and ferocity of the assault were overwhelming. Their swift cavalry were ill-suited for fighting heavily armored, amphibious shock troops on the beaches.

But the coastal assault was only part of the plan.

Further inland, within the Confederacy’s desert territory, specific locations came under simultaneous, targeted attack. Not by sea monsters, but by specialized demonic strike forces led by lesser Archdemons dispatched by Ingranad. These weren’t random raids; they struck at ancient, half-forgotten sites – crumbling ruins marked on old maps, places whispered to contain powerful, sealed entities. Dungeons.

One such site was the Sunken Prison of Azmar, located deep beneath a barren mesa, guarded by generations of Confederacy geomancers and ward-masters. It was said to hold a being of immense power, imprisoned during the Age of Myths by a coalition of human sun priests and earth mages.

The Confederacy guards fought bravely when the demons attacked, their earth magic strong, their sun spells searing. But they were facing an Archdemon strike force, creatures of nightmare wielding powers beyond their comprehension. The battle was short, brutal, and decisive. The guards were slaughtered, the outer wards shattered.

Then, Ingranad himself appeared.

He descended from the sky like a black meteor, slamming into the mesa, cracking the ancient stone. His power washed over the Sunken Prison, not destroying the seals outright, but corrupting them, twisting the ancient magic, feeding on the contained energy within.

Runes carved into the bedrock screamed, glowing sickly green before shattering. Wards designed to contain immense power buckled and failed under the focused demonic assault. The very earth groaned in protest.

With a final, guttural roar, Ingranad channeled a blast of pure chaotic energy into the heart of the prison complex.

BOOM!

The mesa shuddered violently. A wave of pressure, cold and immense, erupted from below ground, extinguishing demonic flames and freezing the desert air. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ancient prison structure.

Slowly, agonizingly, a section of the prison’s central vault fractured, then crumbled inwards, revealing a gaping maw of absolute darkness within.

Silence descended for a moment, heavy and pregnant.

Then, a low groan echoed from the depths. A sound filled with centuries of pressure, rage, and confinement.

Something began to emerge from the darkness.

Slowly at first, then with gathering momentum. It wasn’t a shambling beast or a formless horror. It was… humanoid.

Tall, impossibly so, easily matching Ingranad’s imposing height. Its form was sculpted from muscle that seemed denser than stone, covered in iridescent scales that shifted color from deep abyssal blue to shimmering sea green. Webbing subtly connected its long, powerful fingers and toes. Gills flared rhythmically along its neck, pulsing faintly even in the dry desert air. Its face was sharp, regal, yet undeniably alien, with high cheekbones, a lipless mouth hinting at rows of predatory teeth, and eyes like captured fragments of the deepest ocean trench – cold, ancient, and utterly devoid of warmth. Long, flowing hair, the color of dark seaweed, cascaded down its back.

This was a being that had reached the Transformation Stage, a level of power among monsters where they could shed their purely bestial forms and assume a humanoid shape, signifying immense individual might and control.

This was Lord Krýllos, the Abyssal Lord, freed at last.

He stood blinking in the unfamiliar sunlight, his body radiating an aura of immense, chilling power. Even weakened by millennia of imprisonment, stripped of the oceanic pressure that was his natural element, the raw energy rolling off him was staggering. It pressed down on the surrounding demons, making even the Archdemons Grozfang and Syl’keth instinctively wary. His power felt… different from demonic energy. Colder. Heavier. Like the crushing weight of the deepest sea.

Ingranad felt it too. This Krýllos, even drained, was easily his equal in raw potential. A true Arch-level entity.

Krýllos stretched, bones cracking like underwater landslides. He looked down at his own scaled hands, then around at the shattered prison, the desert landscape, the assembled demons, and finally, at Ingranad.

His trench-deep eyes narrowed. Disorientation faded, replaced by dawning comprehension, then by a surge of incandescent rage.

“Free…” he whispered, his voice like the grinding of glaciers, echoing with the pressure of the abyss. “After… so long…”

He clenched his fists, the air around them chilling rapidly, frost forming on the hot desert sand.

“HUMANS!” The roar erupted from him, a tidal wave of sound and fury that shook the very air. “They dared! They sealed me! With their petty sun tricks and earth bindings! Despicable cowards!”

Ingranad stepped forward, unfazed by the display of power. “Lord Krýllos. Welcome back to the surface world.”

Krýllos’s cold gaze snapped towards the Archdemon Lord. “Demon. You freed me? Why?”

“A pact,” Ingranad stated simply. “Forged with your kin in the deeps. Your freedom, in exchange for your aid.”

He gestured broadly, encompassing the land beyond the mesa. “The humans are weak. Divided. Their kingdoms crumble. We are purging this world of their infestation. Your people attack their southern shores even now. The time for vengeance is at hand.”

Krýllos stared at Ingranad, processing the words. His kin… made a deal? Freedom… Vengeance…

The rage in his eyes shifted, coalescing into a cold, calculating fury. The humans who sealed him were long dead, dust and forgotten memories. But their descendants remained. This entire race… they deserved to drown in terror. They deserved to feel the crushing weight of the abyss they had locked him away in.

“Vengeance…” Krýllos repeated, the word tasting sweet on his ancient tongue. “Yes…”

He looked back at Ingranad, a predatory smile finally touching his lipless mouth. “The pact stands, demon. I owe you my freedom. And I owe the humans… annihilation.”

He took a step forward, the ground chilling beneath his tread. “Where do we begin?”

Ingranad matched his chilling smile, revealing rows of serrated teeth. “We begin,” he declared, pointing north, towards the heartlands of the collapsing kingdoms, “by drowning this continent in a tide of darkness and despair the likes of which it has never known.”

The Archdemon Lord of Ruin and Corruption. The Abyssal Lord of the Deep. Two beings of immense, terrifying power, united by ancient pacts and shared hatred.

A new, devastating alliance had been forged. The war for Eloriath, already a chaotic nightmare, was about to escalate into an apocalyptic struggle against horrors drawn from both the fiery pits of hell and the crushing, lightless depths of the sea. The beleaguered human kingdoms had no idea what was coming.