The enforcers stood like statues, cold hands gripping iron chains that bound Asari. His face remained unreadable, eyes half-lidded, posture slouched as if this entire affair bored him. But the moment they stepped into the Grand Tribunal Hall, everything changed.
The air.
It turned heavy, like wet wool suffocating every breath.
The land.
It pulsed underfoot, not with life—but with something wrong, something alien. The white marbled floor darkened to a sickly hue, as if blood had seeped from its depths for centuries and decided, finally, to surface.
The enforcers hesitated.
Then, it began.
Without warning, a loud, throbbing sound—like a heartbeat twisted with screams—echoed through the hall. The ceiling above cracked. Shadows bled from its fractures and slithered down the walls, coating ancient murals in tar.
One by one, the chandeliers overhead shattered, plunging the room into darkness, until only one source of light remained: Asari.
His chains glowed a faint red. Then black. Then… nothing.
The illusion struck.
The Tribunal Hall dissolved.
The enforcers were no longer in the Academy.
They stood on what looked like flesh. The ground beneath them moved—pulsated—as if alive. Grotesque hands clawed from the floor, eyeless faces twisted in agony as they reached upward. The sky? There was no sky—only writhing tendrils made of charred bone, dancing like flames.
Screams filled their ears.
Not just one.
Thousands.
Agonized. Pleading. Laughing.
A choir of the damned.
A river ran beside them—not of water, but of writhing corpses, melted together in eternal torment, their mouths wide open, but instead of sound, black smoke poured out.
One enforcer fell to his knees, vomiting.
Another clawed at his own skin, shrieking, "GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!" as if something unseen crawled beneath his flesh.
Asari stood at the center of this nightmare.
Untouched.
Unchanged.
He stared at the enforcers with glowing crimson eyes—eyes that saw through their souls, digging into guilt they didn't know they carried.
From behind Asari, a throne rose.
Not made of gold or stone.
It was made of suffering—twisted spines, stitched tongues, weeping eyeballs. Sitting upon it was a silhouette.
Not his master.
Not a god.
But something so powerful, so evil, it couldn't be named.
The illusion whispered.
"This is what you've tried to shackle."
The enforcers sobbed.
One by one, they collapsed. Shaking. Bleeding from ears and eyes, overcome with the madness of what they saw.
"MAKE IT STOP!" one screamed, crawling blindly toward what he thought was the exit, only to fall into the mouth of a laughing, giant head that emerged from the ground.
Asari didn't move.
He didn't have to.
The illusion was born of his soul—the soul sealed by Dante, his master. The very essence of hatred, of despair so profound even Hell itself once recoiled. It was the swordsmanship born from sacrifice.
Devil Cry
Not a move.
A statement.
A scream echoing into eternity.
And then—
Silence.
The Tribunal Hall returned. No blood. No screams. Just shattered chandeliers and a floor slightly cracked.
The enforcers lay scattered, passed out or sobbing in corners, clutching at robes soaked in sweat and shame.
Aicha, who had been called as a witness, had seen nothing but darkness during the illusion. Her heart raced as she looked at Asari. He remained still, eyes closed now, breathing slowly.
The Headmaster stood frozen.
The Supervisors didn't speak.
Everyone felt it.
He wasn't human.
Not anymore.
He wasn't a devil either.
He was something worse.
And the illusion? It wasn't cast by magic.
It was a reflection.
A window.
Into Asari's soul.
No one moved to touch him again.
No one dared.
Asari opened his eyes one last time and looked up.
"I warned you."
He turned.
And walked out.
Unshackled. Unbothered.
And behind him, the enforcers wept.
Not from pain.
From the knowing.
They had gazed into the abyss—and it had smiled back.