He lowered his head and looked at his trembling hands, their nails sharp.
These hands had once woven countless contracts to tempt souls and kindled fires of sin that burned worlds to ashes, yet now they could not even protect the most fundamental source of his own power.
A long silence followed, broken only by the wailing wind of Hell.
2B and A2 waited patiently, like two machines running on preset programs. Neither urged him on, nor relaxed their vigilance.
At last, Mephisto slowly raised his hands, as though every movement weighed a thousand tons.
He did not look at 2B or A2. His hollow gaze stared at some nonexistent place ahead.
He closed his eyes and delved deep into the source of his soul.
There, a flame that burned eternally, its dark red and black hues intertwined, was tightly bound to the core of his existence.
The flame danced, giving off endless whispers of pain, roars of hatred, and wails of despair.
It was the source of his power and proof of his existence: the Hellfire Source.
Stripping it away was like forcibly tearing off a piece of his soul.
A suppressed, inhuman howl of extreme agony escaped Mephisto's throat.
A violent dark red glow surged around him, the natural reaction of Hellfire to his wildly fluctuating emotions.
Yet at this moment, that glow was filled with disorder and pain.
The muscles on his face twisted, exposing sharp teeth, while his body convulsed uncontrollably.
The process was clearly excruciating.
The aura of his power visibly withered at a rapid pace.
His once-vast dark magic, though wounded, now deflated like a punctured balloon and rapidly weakened.
The magical patterns on his ornate dark red formal attire also dimmed until they were devoid of light.
The entire Pain Spire, and even