Rise Of Hades' Hellborn: Trumpets Of The Damned

Hell's Gate, Heaven's Prison

Myles came to with a jolt, breath sharp, chest rising as if he’d been drowning. The sterile white walls surrounding him buzzed with overhead fluorescent lights, humming like an irritated wasp’s nest. He didn’t need to guess where he was—Paragon’s detainment unit. Again.

His eyes scanned the room until they landed on the one familiar face that didn’t reek of authority or suspicion.

Louise.

The older man sat cross-legged on a cot opposite him, arms folded, worry clouding his weathered face.

“How ya feeling, kid?” Louise asked, voice low and thick with concern.

Myles rubbed the back of his neck, wincing at the soreness from the high-voltage arrow. “Honestly? I think they’ll need to hit me with something stronger next time. I’m getting used to the aftereffects of this one.”

Louise chuckled, though the sound was hollow. “Tough bastard. But we can’t keep waking up in holding cells and calling it resilience.”

Myles nodded slowly, his expression tightening. “Is there any way we’re getting outta here?”

“I don’t know,” Louise admitted. “But I will find a way,” Myles said, eyes narrowing, voice resolute. “I’m not staying a prisoner in the same system I bled to protect.”

Before Louise could respond, the reinforced door hissed open.

Two Paragon officers stepped in—helmets on, visors reflecting cold light. Their stance was rigid, weapons holstered but ready.

“Myles,” one barked. “You’re coming with us.”

Myles smirked and leaned back on the cot like he was on vacation. “That seems to be your favorite phrase.”

He stood, hands raised mockingly. The officers didn’t respond with humor. They stepped aside and motioned for him to follow.

As he left, Louise called out, “Whatever they want, don’t let them define who you are.”

“I’ve already died once, Lou,” Myles replied, without turning back. “I decide who I am.”

***

At Kaelin’s Residence…

Far from Paragon’s sterile corridors, deep within a private estate built atop ancient ley lines and forgotten catacombs, Kaelin stood before a grand mirror. His silver eyes—inhuman and eerie—were fixed on the watch clasped around his wrist. More than a timepiece, it was a seal, a magical relic that pulsed with infernal energy.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He wasn’t always this. Once, he was Steven Spector, the infamous demon hunter who stalked hellspawn through alleyways and battlefields alike. The Paragon called him “Terminator.” Demons called him worse.

But death has a way of changing things.

In the void between life and judgment, he made a deal. A whisper in the dark. A hand extended from fire.

He became something new—Kaelin, Hades’ hand in the mortal realm. The cost? His soul. His humanity. His past.

His thoughts fractured like broken glass when Nixx materialized with a flash of black smoke. The being had no solid form, only the vague outline of a humanoid cloaked in shadow and shifting flame.

“My Lord,” Nixx intoned, kneeling. “We have powered up the Gate to Hell. Who do you wish to summon?”

Kaelin turned from the mirror, his long coat sweeping the floor like trailing smoke. “The one we discussed.”

“Understood.” Nixx vanished without another word, leaving a lingering scent of sulfur and scorched bone in the air.

***

Beneath the estate was an underground sanctum layered in obsidian bricks and etched with symbols older than language. The circular chamber pulsed with infernal energy. In the center was a massive, cracked stone archway—the Gate to Hell—surrounded by six bloodstone pylons and a basin filled with demon ichor.

Black fire danced around the runes as mortals—cloaked cultists, shivering from the strain—chanted in a forgotten tongue. Every word drained their life force, feeding the spell that kept the gate open for precious minutes at a time.

A distant howl echoed from the other side.

The veil between worlds trembled.

Kaelin descended the steps, his boots echoing against the chamber floor. He raised one hand, dark energy flaring around his palm.

“Stabilize the breach,” he ordered. “And mark the summoning circle. I want no mistakes.”

One of the cultists collapsed, blood streaming from their nose. The others chanted faster, trying to compensate.

Kaelin stepped onto the edge of the summoning ring. “Bring forth Baruth, the Skin-Taker.”

The gate flared—a cyclone of fire and screams—and something massive stirred in the abyss beyond.

***

Back at Paragon HQ…

Myles sat across a table from Director Sandlers, the man who ran internal security like a chessboard of necessary evils. Beside him stood Dr. Winfield, his ever-present tablet flickering with biometrics and energy scans.

“You’ve stabilized significantly,” Winfield said, eyes on the data. “Your physical capabilities are now five times that of a normal human.”

“I’m flattered,” Myles said, stretching. “Do I get a badge or just another cage?”

Sandler’s voice was cold and precise. “You are a threat because you’re an unknown. Paragon doesn’t like unknowns.”

“I saved your Alpha Team,” Myles replied sharply. “I killed Vhorak before he could gut your entire squad. Or are we skipping that part of the story?”

“We don’t forget heroics,” Winfield interjected. “We just don’t worship them blindly.”

Sandlers interlocked his fingers. “We know what you are now. Or at least, what you’re becoming.”

“And what’s that?” Myles asked.

“An Avatar of Hades,” Winfield said bluntly. “That explains the celestial and netherworld energy signatures. You’re not just hosting power… you’re evolving into it.”

Myles said nothing for a beat. Then, “What’s your next move? Dissect me?”

“We’re offering a choice,” Sandlers replied. “Help us. Become a sanctioned asset. Or we can ensure you’re permanently... monitored.”

“Nice way to say ‘leash,’” Myles muttered.

“Monitoring is safer than extinction,” he said coolly. “If you ever lose control, we’ll be forced to contain you—permanently.”

“And if I say yes?” Myles asked, voice low.

“Then we bring you in as a classified operative,” Winfield said. “Under our supervision. You hunt demons—with us. Legally. Strategically. With intel, tech, and backup.”

Skepticism lined Myles’ face, but something in him flickered. Maybe it was the idea of doing things differently. Or maybe… just maybe… it was the thought of control.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally. “But if you lie to me—about anything—I’ll find out.”

Sandler gave the faintest of nods. “Good. You’ll be briefed in the morning.”

***

Meanwhile, in the Hellgate Chamber…

The Gate shuddered violently as something vast pushed against it. Chains bound in spectral flame strained against the force from the other side.

A clawed hand broke through.

Sorran, the Black Flame, began to emerge—layer by layer, like muscle being peeled from reality itself. His form was grotesque, stitched from the flesh of a hundred screaming souls.

Kaelin watched with cold satisfaction.

“Soon,” he whispered. “Myles will realize just how many pieces are already moving.”

He turned and ascended the steps again, leaving the cultists to their torment.

The clock on his wrist ticked again—one beat closer to something catastrophic.