After Klaus escaped the Coliseum — a feat rendered laughably simple in Solvane's absence — he began his journey toward the fabled Sanctuary of Noctis. His spirits had already been dispatched, soaring ahead like shadows cast by purpose, searching for his scattered cohort. Perhaps, by now, they had already arrived.
But before he could reunite with them, Klaus had a far more pressing task.
The ritual.
To halt it midway was tantamount to courting destruction. A spirit born and not bound would turn against its maker, tearing the soul from within like rot spreading through ancient wood. Normally, he could rely on his other spirits to suppress the newborn until it was either subdued or destroyed. But now, with none beside him, the responsibility rested solely on his shoulders.
Fortunately, the Dark Knight had done no such thing. The being remained still — kneeling in solemn reverence, unmoving within the vast cosmos of Klaus's soul sea.
Klaus found himself momentarily speechless.
The spirit was honorable — so much so that Klaus felt a flicker of guilt for having, in a sense, tricked him.
His gaze drifted toward the runes floating before him, glowing softly in the air like celestial equations.
[Second Slot: Leviathan]
Enchantment: Flaming Sword – Burns and purifies all that is impure.
Enchantment: Catastrophe – Destruction in its purest form.
Enchantment: Nourishing Flames – When fully charged by using souls as fuel, can heal any wound.
Nourishing Flames…
Of course. Klaus had never intended to die in that bleak arena. Even if the Dark Knight had delivered a fatal blow, Klaus possessed methods of revival. But still… it felt wrong.
What a shitty feeling...
He exhaled sharply, dispelling the thought, and vanished — reappearing hundreds of meters away with barely a ripple in the air. Distance was his ally now. The Warmongers wouldn't be able to track him this deep into the wilds.
He leaned against a twisted old tree, but not before examining it carefully — even trees could be nightmare creatures here. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and, with practiced grace, descended into the infinite cosmos that was his soul sea.
Floating in that starlit void, Klaus approached the kneeling Knight, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips — not of amusement, but of admiration.
"You kept your word," he said softly.
The Knight did not respond. He remained still, eyes fixed upon the glowing white void below his spirit cores— a white hole, casting everything outward with an almost divine force.
Klaus placed a hand on his armored shoulder and nodded.
"Rise… You are my knight. And with that title comes power. Privileges. I will share what is mine… and what I offer will be of worth."
The Knight slowly stood, crimson eyes meeting Klaus's with solemn intensity. But the ritual was not yet complete. There remained one final step — the most sacred of all.
"Your name shall be… Hassan."
The moment Klaus uttered it, the transformation began.
A surge of essence tore through the Knight's being. He was no longer a construct of combat bound by obligation. He was now Hassan — a spirit with a name, a bond, and a purpose. No longer shackled, he now shared a living tether to his king. A bond far deeper than command: unity.
And with that bond came gifts.
Clarity bloomed in Hassan's mind. He understood now — the strange power Klaus had mentioned was not brute force but awareness. Connection. From now on, he could feel Klaus from afar — sense his wounds, his fatigue, his pain. He could speak, not with a tongue, but with thoughts as sharp as blades, as clear as thunder.
He looked at Klaus, gratitude glowing in his red eyes — but his king's face was not one of triumph.
It was… sorrowful.
Why? Had he already failed him? Had he done something wrong?
Before Hassan could speak, knowledge crashed into him like an avalanche.
Information poured into his mind, relentless and unstoppable. Klaus's memories, truths about the War Realm… the Dream Realm… the cataclysmic Doom War… the fall of gods and the death of daemons… and even the demise of the Nether himself.
A terrible realization began to unfurl within him like a poisoned flower.
Was everything a lie?
Was the world he knew merely a nightmare — a web spun by the Weaver?
Was he just another illusion?
Were Klaus and his servants the only beings still tethered to truth?
His thoughts bled into the soul sea, unhidden in his inexperience. Klaus almost laughed at one of them.
Servants, was the word Hassan had used to describe cohort?
Klaus shook his head gently, placing a hand once more on Hassan's armored shoulder.
"You are my knight now, Hassan. I will never abandon you. That… is all you need to know. I understand this is difficult — impossible, even — to fully accept. But it is the truth."
He paused, then added with a faint smile:
"I'll give you some time. Think it over."
With that, Klaus vanished from the soul sea, leaving Hassan adrift in thought, awash in revelations too heavy to carry — yet now his burden to bear.
Back in the real world, Klaus opened his eyes to the flutter of awakening runes.
Their light shimmered like starlight across the clearing, and his eyes widened and jaw dropped in desbilief.
Name: Hassan
Spirit: First Son Of Underworld
Spirit Description:
[Seven abominations were born from the resentment of a demon who dared defy the heavens, his obsession with forging life untouched by gods. From this blasphemous ambition emerged seven beings—creations that transcended their brethren in both might and majesty. They were not made to follow, but to command, each destined to lead the vanguard of the Underworld's legions when its ruler would at last declare war upon the gods themselves. Among them, Hassan stands as one of the exalted generals of that abyssal host.
War is his cradle and his altar. The thunder of clashing steel, the fury of battle cries, the intoxicating scent of fear clinging to blood-soaked soil—this is where Hassan belongs. He was not birthed in times of peace, but sculpted in the relentless crucible of combat. Tempered by discipline, etched with the wrath of divine fire, he marches through tempests where others seek shelter, his purpose as honed as any blade.
They do not call him the Sword of the Underworld for what he says—his silence is as grim as death itself. They call him such for what he does. Legions fall beneath his stride, their glory erased beneath the weight of his wrath. He leaves no laurels to claim, only ruins and the red testimony of conquest engraved upon the land.]
Rank: Ascended
Class: Devil
Flames Of Divinity – Hassan's soul is aflame with the light of divinity.
Stalwart – Hassan is highly resistant to all forms of damage, as well as being fully immune to mind and soul attacks.
Master of War – Not merely a combatant, but an architect of war itself. Hassan commands battlefield and blade alike with peerless grace and ruthless precision.
Blessed of the Nether – As a cherished son of the Underworld's sovereign, Hassan is a vessel of untainted darkness—he is the chalice that holds the abyss itself.
Marble Shell – In the deep darkness of the underworld, a prideful demon forged seven suits of splendid armor for his favorite creations. The intricate shells were both a boon and a test since only those worthy of his regard could unlock the mantle's true potential and bear its weight.
Abilities:
Sanctuary of Darkness – At will, Hassan may summon forth a domain of True Darkness. Within this abyss, his strength doubles, his wounds knit together with unnatural speed, and his essence becomes more potent.
Gluttony – Hassan's darkness is not idle. It devours. The souls of the slain are consumed to feed his unending abyss, their power becoming part of his own. Even ownerless darkness is not safe.
Will of Darkness – From the obsidian depths of his soul, Hassan may shape the formless dark into any weapon his mind can conjure. These creations do not dull, do not break. They are instruments of decay, reaping life and sowing rot with every stroke.
Duke of the Underworld – As the anointed of the prideful demon, Hassan's mere presence radiates dread and reverence. Even fellow Creatures of the Darkness falter before him.
Hassan… was overpowered as hell.
Klaus couldn't stop grinning like an idiot.
He knew the knight had potential—being the favored of the Nether wasn't some footnote—but this? This was beyond expectations. His gamble had paid off, and then some. Power radiated from Hassan like a storm barely contained beneath black steel. His very presence made the air feel heavier, like the world itself recognized him now.
Klaus leaned against the tree, arms folded, letting the moment settle.
Yeah… goal accomplished.
A faint ripple passed through reality, and then Hassan stepped into the world of the living with barely a sound. He appeared behind Klaus, silent at first. Then his voice, low and uncertain, broke the quiet:
"My lord… This… how?"
Klaus didn't turn around right away. His eyes stared at something far away, at thoughts still forming, elusive as mist.
"I don't fully know how the spell works," he admitted, calm and composed. "I have a few theories… but nothing certain. Maybe the Weaver crafted nightmares using spirit essence."
He finally looked over his shoulder. "Do you know what that is, Hassan?"
A long pause. Hassan's crimson eyes narrowed slightly, mind racing. Then he spoke, slowly:
"Spirit Essence… it's a cool, flowing energy. Similar to Soul Essence—but not quite. This ambient energy seems to belong to the world… or maybe to something beyond it. An aspect of it."
Klaus gave a satisfied nod like old scholar, pushing off the tree with one foot.
"Exactly. It's not born from us. Not like the soul or the mind. Those fade after death—flesh, bone, blood, shadow, all of it. Even the mind dissolves over time. But the spirit? That doesn't die. It merges with the cosmos. It lingers."
He paced slowly, his voice growing quieter, more thoughtful.
"I wonder if that's what the Weaver tapped into. Or maybe... maybe it was something else—like the sea of collective subconscious. A place where the thoughts of the dead gather and melt together, where the memory of the world is stored. But if that's true, then it falls into the Heart God's domain, not the Weaver's…"
He trailed off, lost in his theories.
Hassan listened in reverent silence. Each word Klaus spoke felt like a revelation. So young, yet he peers at the world like an ancient scholar… Hassan had never met anyone like him. This wasn't blind loyalty—it was awe.
"I understand, my lord," he said softly. "And I believe it is time I make my vow."
He knelt without hesitation, drawing his sword of darkness and presenting it to Klaus with both hands. The air around him seemed to still.
"I will become your blade.
Whoever dares to oppose you shall taste my wrath.
Death and war are my craft, and to me, death is sweeter than honey.
I swear to protect you, to sacrifice for you, and to see your will made real—
even if it means giving up my own life."
Klaus looked down at him, lips twitching with amusement.
"You knights and your drama," he muttered with a chuckle, then extended a hand and pulled Hassan to his feet. "I accept your vow. But I'd rather you didn't die. It's the king's job to protect his subjects, not the other way around."
He turned east, his expression sharpening.
"Well then… no more waiting. It's time for war."
With a carefree laugh, he walked forward, coat rippling behind him like a banner. Hassan stood still for a moment, eyes wide with awe, then bowed his head and followed the footsteps of his lord.