Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

[🎶 Exile Of The Gods – ELUVEITIE.]

Israfel Blüdthirste, a blood Prince of [Hel realm] lifted his golden eyes to the colonnades of black pillars that framed the Colosseum's arena.

This was to be his battleground for the night's spectacle—grandly grim, with not an ounce of humanity in the eyes of the gathered crowd. Luckily for him, there was no day in Hel. Night was long and constant.

The stadium held over a hundred thousand seated horned patrons, eager for the blood and death to begin already. As Rafel stood behind the heavy metal gates leading into the arena, he could see clearly the bloodthirst rising up the various levels of the Colosseum, like thick smoke from a burning corpse.

Thousands of demons awaited his entry. His name already rang out their lips into the dismal red sky above.

"Hail Israfel! Lord BlüdThïrste. Blood. Give us blood. Give us some fucking BLOOD!!!" They yelled.

Rafel beheld silently the wraiths, floating like sentient shadows up above the seated wave of other demon factions. There were the Hellbabies on the lowest tier of the stadium, screaming for blood with the Bonereavers whose angular heads were misshapen and bald.

The middle level of the Colosseum sat the Reapers, the Maulers, and Berserkers, all of them C-rank and above. Slitted crimson eyes stared out onto the sands as the twelve-feet devils knocked their knees together in impatience. The fingers tapping on their legs were contorted, with claws dripping in black poison that stung harder than the tail of one of Magda's pet scorpions.

Rafel raised his strange amber eyes still. Up to the topmost rung of the arena where the true patriarchs sat.

The Fallen.

This was his class—or at least he hoped it would be if he could graduate his status as Apollyon, level up into the Supernatural [S-rank] tier where the Hell Principalities were currently seated.

Rafel was yet a Hell Lord. And though being the only Apollyon to ever exist in Hel's sordid history, the distinguished Burning One, he could not mount the tier of The Fallen. That was where the bosses sat. Bosses like his Aunt, Lilith, and his two uncles, Asmodeus and Lucifer. And yes! The Lucifer.

It didn't hurt to have the legends of Hel as family. Not at all.

As seventh in the Infernal Bloodline, Rafel was birthed ninety nine percent Fallen. He had no idea where the other six before him went but clearly only he had survived been born in a pool of literal fire.

"The lad's special," Many did say when he was born. He was cradled like a gold dragon's egg until his skin, burned black from the lava pool healed into a lively pale pallor.

Pale is fucking tan in Hel, and so he was beautiful.

His wet nurses, a bunch of devoted cow Succubi, did marvel at his attractiveness. Even as a wee babe, Rafel was healthy. And though he was birthed in the blackest pits of the Abyss itself, he looked as one who was pulled from the loins of an archangel. Upon sight of his polished red hair, he was named Israfel.

Blüdthïrste came in some days later when he'd strangled the Hellcat provided him as a Familiar.

Blüdthïrste, being Hebrew for Bloodthirsty.

Rafel's birthright was 10, 000 souls to his name, a generous gift from Uncle Lucifer to his simple novice arcane rune. Even a full-grown B-rank Mauler wouldn't boast a myriad souls. However, this didn't mean Rafel was pampered.

Growing as a young Hell Royal, he didn't much give a fuck about family. His parents, he did not know. Nor did he care. In Hel, no one gave a shit about mortal proclivities like that. Living century after century guaranteed a Hellion was most likely going to fuck a member of his or her immediate family at some point.

Lord Morningstar had many of his daughters as Courtesans. You wouldn't know if they stood together in a room, because they looked exactly the same age—give or take a few hundred years. A perfect hellish couple. And so Rafel, as soon as he left sucking on the tits of his favorite Succubus, at six, was pushed for the first time into the Arena.

His first adversary had been a Hellhound, a Hellbaby not even Rank C. Still formidable for a six-year old though.

Every Hellion present that night remembered the little redhaired Apollyon severing the neck of the hound like a twig, breaking every single limb afterward, and then proceeding to suck out the poor dog's crimson aura into his. The crowd roared, "Little Lord Bloodthirsty!"

And the name stuck.

Rafel currently had over a million souls to his arcane rune, which appeared as a pendant-like tattoo over his left breast. Against his heart that he had heard beat not once. It was not much compared to Uncle Asmodeus' half a billion. But it was a lot more than the strongest Grim Reaper could boast.

Being entered into Hel's high society by reason of birth came with its excessive, sinful privileges.

Rafel lost his virginity at ten in a tent by a red lake to six Succubi—not excluding his wet nurses. Rafel remembered their breasts as prodigious. He remained by the lake for many nights, committing to utter adulterous fuckery, and thinking no wonder the adult Princes made excuses to slip a Succubus into their bedchambers every other minute.

Fucking was great. But blood...blood was an unquenchable thirst of his.

Rafel lived for the moments at the Arena. In the bloodied center of violence. Chaos in the demonic scarlet eyes as thousands of devil factions watched him decimate an entire clan of Bonereavers or shatter to bits the hammer heads of Maulers. He felt the glory of death incomparable to any other hellish pleasure.

But the surface on the other hand? Earth was a different matter entirely.

Rafel BlüdThïrste had never visited. But he'd heard stories.

He admitted he couldn't care less about the other details of their bright world save that of the lasses whose skin were milky white, not cherished blue like that of the Succubi or deathly pale like his Aunt Lilith.

It was no secret to his revered family of Principalities where his inclinations lay, which was to ascend to the Kingdom of Eldoria; the land of the golden sun, enchanting witch magic, and green fertile lands. It was Lilith who felt most compassionate about his dreams.

And so when she'd offered a trade, saying,

"Dear Israfel, I know how much you delight in the realm of those feeble mortals. I did live up there for a while as you know. I can tell you there's nothing fascinating about them—their untainted blood maybe. But nothing else.

However, I see in your beautiful eyes you seek to journey there. Perhaps...to fuck their women, see if they break! So, how about a familial Quid pro quo? You help me take out a little problem in the Colosseum, and poof, I portal you to the surface."

Rafel didn't have the frame of mind to say no.

His Aunt was Lilith Firstborn, one of the greatest Principalities. A Fallen a hundred times his age. She held up a card to his face at her speech. It glowed purple with a dreary halo.

It was her gambit.

Lilith was one of the few who had the ability to grant him tenancy on Earth. To deal him one of her fancy deathly cards.

She had made her play. It was his move now.

As it turned out, her 'little problem' was the flame-breathing Beserker, Agaliath.

Agaliath was a B-rank Hell Lord. He was Lilith's favorite hitman—amongst many. And sure, his Aunt could easily grant him the card without fuss or favor, it just wasn't in the nature of any Hellion, great or small, to be generous.

Rafel had no idea what the fuck Agaliath had done to piss off the Queen of the Night. It could be anything from owing a meagre soul to not licking her clit right. Who knew why Principalities did what they did?

Once, Moloch the Destroyer had poured his deadly acid melt on an entire Reaper family just because the fourteen year old granddaughter refused him a one-night stand.

Unfortunately for Agaliath, Lilith had chosen Rafel to be her Champion.

Now, Agaliath was powerful in his own right. Ten feet of solid red muscle and eyes that could detect the weak point on any object. But Rafel was Hell's current Champion.

665 consecutive wins in 665 battles.

His kill streak was frightening.

To Rafel, the Berserker on the other end of the opposite gates was the only thing between him and the fantastical Empire of Eldoria—and their creamy chicks.

He blinked once behind the steel doors as the announcer for the games stepped out onto the arena. A smattering of entrails left by the loser in the previous fight dragged on the sands. But the announcer, a Familiar called Staplehead didn't seem to mind at all. He stepped right into the bloody mess, squishing the rush of intestines under his heavy black hooves.

Rafel noticed the Familiar had a long battle-axe for a head.

His cut was very trim too.

"Looking sharp, mate!" He joked to himself.

Finding the breastplate of his shadow armor, Brimstone, Rafel stroked the onyx metal, reveling at the feel of cold iron. "I was born for this. I was born for metal. I was born for blood!" He pumped into the air thick with soot.

Some demons must've staked a poor sod to a pyre nearby.

The Colosseum smelled like burning flesh.

"From the left side of our charge," Staplehead began his announcement. "We have a Titan!" The gates began to grate open. "A Beserker. We have AGALIATH!!!"

The roars from the crowd were sorry at best.

Above, Agaliath's power rank shimmered into the air as a large screen glowed amber in the open area.

[PROWESS: B-rank Beserker.]

[ARCANE RUNE: 6 000 souls.]

[SYSTEM: Scarlet Flame Breath. Mammoth's Death Paw. Ability to see weak points.]

[WEAPON OF CHOICE: Spiked Club.]

[KILL STREAK: 143/143]

[PATRON DEITY: Jaeger.]

[RANK: Nil.]

The demon, Staplehead, announced again as Agaliath pranced the arena. "This adversary needs no introduction. He is a true contender. He is our current Champion. Our Apollyon. With six hundred, and sixty five consecutive wins, let the horns blare for Hell Lord ISRAFEL BLÜDTHÏRSTE!!!"

Rafel watched in mild amusement as the entire stadium rocked to their feet, stomping webbed feet and hooves to his entry. As he stepped out from under the raised gates, the dull red sun glinted off his armor. Up above, his battle status shimmered gallantly for all to see.

[PROWESS: Rank A Hell Prince.]

[ARCANE RUNE: 1 090 000 souls.]

[SYSTEM: Shadow Wielder. Gray Serpent Symbiote. Runic Summoning System. Ability to shape shift into Black Death Behemoth.]

[WEAPON OF CHOICE: Longswords, curved blades.]

[KILL STREAK: 665/665]

[PATRON DEITY: Atropos.]

[RANK: Hel's Apollyon.]

Beyond, across the blood-soaked sands, Agaliath roamed his end, trying his best not to look up at the red glinting light of his adversary's prowess. He wondered how such a mortal-looking fellow much smaller than he, could weave such a distinguished power system.

The games announcer, Staplehead moved to say something else but someone in the flood of spectators angrily tossed him what appeared to be a skull—what passed for a drinking goblet among the hellions.

"Fucking let them fight already, you axe-headed cunt!" A yell boomed out. "You're giving me blue balls here, prick!"

Beside the yelling demon, a red-skinned Succubus with one horn broken and her big tits out remarked amicably as she stared forward at Rafel in his shadow battle armor. "Hellhounds fuck better than these lot out here. But Lord BlüdThïrste now? I hear he's demented. I don't care if he's fucking retarded. Crazy sex is the best sex.

Bet he has the cock of a Centaur devil!"

Rafel was spared the lewd commentary as a particular figure rose on the highest levels. It was his Aunt, Lilith. And beside her, at her right, were both uncles, Asmodeus and Lucifer. The noisome din quieted at her rise.

Tonight, Lilith was wearing purple skin. She could change her skin color to whichever she wanted, sensual red or erotic caramel or ghastly translucent—depending on her mood. It made the Wailing Widows insane. Her midnight gown streamed behind her as one of her nine hundred slaves bent prostrate at her feet.

Lilith climbed up his back like it was the most normal thing to do. And even when her heels dug into the man's back, drawing blood out his commoner's cloak, all he did was bite his lip.

With a single resounding clap, she began the fight.

"DIE! YOU FUCKING PRINCELY CUNT!"

With a great bellow, Agaliath fell on Rafel, charging like a hell-bull. The single horn protruding out the center of his forehead sliced through the air in a double aerial attack with his club.

Rafel easily sidestepped both blows. Not even bothering to parry the hits, he plunged both his swords into the sands of the arena, watching them stick and stand straight. Now behind a shocked Agaliath, he said, "Let's make this quick now shall we? I have an engagement tonight I can't miss."

"You slippery fucker!" Agaliath turned in rage. But he was two seconds late in lashing out.

Rafel grabbed hold of his giant Beserker head, pulling him down to his level and cracking his head in a ghastly sound that made the spectators roar in disbelief. Agaliath's trunk limbs dropped. His spiked club met with dirt. His head turned a frightening 360, red eyes lifeless. He crashed to the arena on his knees, before Rafel.

"Bloodthirst! BlüdThïrste! Bloodthirst!" The crowd chanted.

Gripping hold of his jaw, Rafel ripped the Beserker's head clean off his neck. With his bare hands. Fresh cold demon blood doused him like a fountain.

In the midst of a roaring hellion fanclub, madly fucking each other in bloodlust, he raised his amber eyes up above levels of ensuing orgies to the Principality who had demanded the kill. What was it she'd said again?

Right.

"Quid pro quo!" Israfel mouthed to his Aunt.

Up above, his infernal system lit with a reddish slurping sound, upgrading his arcane rune to a million and ninety six thousand souls, Agaliath's levy added to his. His new kill streak, 666.

Later that night, in a hollow cavernous room far away from the Colosseum, on the high perch of Lucifer's dark castle, Rafel stood in the pale luminance of the room with his two uncles and aunt. Lilith had the glowing purple card in her hand again, and flipped it into the air with a cold smile.

"Well, a deal's a deal, Dear Israfel," she said.

The card burned brightly in the air, spinning with an iridescent purple shine that brightened the entire room for a few seconds, before dulling mildly. In the place of the flipped card stood a large door.

A portal.

It ebbed with energy as Lilith's purple runes danced around it.

My way to Eldoria, Rafel mused.

"Before you go, Israfel—" Lord Morningstar said, turning everyone's attention to handsome raven-haired Lucifer. "A gift for you. She is one of my favorites and trust me when I tell you, I will miss this one."

At first, Rafel almost thought his Uncle spoke about an object until when out from the shadows fringing the room stepped an exquisite blue creature. Her skin glowed with her mana. Her horns were proud on her head and curved into a black circle above her midnight flood of hair, very much like a crown.

"A Succubus." Lord Asmodeus put in, as if it wasn't already very much evident.

The body of Rafel's new slave was shaped for pleasure. Curves every fucking where.

Lord Lucifer touched a hand to her full, warm ass. "Treat her well. And don't say your uncle never did anything for you." He winked smartly.

Lilith laughed heartily into the room. "Please, Lucifer. You have many more beautiful concubines where this one came from."

Outside the dark Castle which Hell's royalty stood, pet wyverns floated up in the distant gray skies, plucking at the dozens of bodies which kept falling in through the storm clouds. Mincemeat for the torture birds.

Rafel looked to the portal, his shadow armor exchanged for a simpler nightshade cape.

"I have arranged for an estate for you." It was Lilith speaking. "Though you may be entering into the mortal realm, I do not intend for you to suffer as one. The Eldorian Empire is quite wealthy, so you'll be fine. Locate the place they call Emberfall.

You are its new Earl."

Lilith stopped speaking for a while, a deeper light entering her violet eyes as she regarded her nephew. Rafel was staring at the portal with wide eyes.

"Are you sure about this, dearest?" She asked.

At her tone, Rafel turned to her. He saw the sin cloaked behind mere affection in her eyes. He remembered just last night, when Lilith had grabbed his cock, squeezing like a vise with her hands and choking herself on him. She'd jerked him off, milking all he could onto her face and smiling wantonly as she rubbed his cock head all over her face.

—just before the gambit.

"I'll be fine," he said back with a mischievous grin. Then he turned to the blue-skinned Succubus, his new slave. "What is your name?"

Her voice was like someone poured honey down her throat when she replied.

"Aya Naamah, Your Grace."

"Nice name."

Grabbing her hand, Israfel BlüdThïrste for the first time took a step out of Hel.

The cold waters of an earthly lake immediately swallowed their forms as he walked through the purple shining door. A lake in the mortal realm, of the fantastical kingdom of Eldoria.