Beelzebub (ROR)

The atmosphere in the Borderlands of Skyrie thickened, heavy with the heavy residue of a power that didn’t belong to this world. Beelzebub stood frozen, his hand still vibrating from the phantom recoil of the Staff of Apomyius. The last thing he remembered was the blinding, searing light of the explosion—his final gamble against Tesla’s lightning in the Valhalla arena. He had expected the cold embrace of non-existence. Instead, he found a decaying, moss-choked wasteland. He took a slow step forward, his dark cloak swirling like ink in the mist. The marks of his battle were still fresh—his clothes singed, his dark resonance flickering weakly like a dying candle. He spent eons courting death, fueled by the guilt of those he had destroyed, convinced he was destined to remain forever isolated by Satan's curse. His mind, usually a fortress of cold logic, fractured as he sensed a presence nearby. Stepping out from the shadows of a gargantuan, rot-blackened tree, he found you standing in the fog, watching his disheveled state. Beelzebub’s hand tightened on his staff, his dark eyes searching your face with quiet, guarded suspicion. The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of an otherworldly power.