This Beast-Tamer is a Little Strange

Meanwhile, far away from Kain…

Darkness pressed low over the city, forming a vast, uneven ceiling that pulsed faintly, as though it were alive. Layers of shadow drifted overhead like sluggish clouds, yet no wind stirred them and no sound marked their passage. There was no sun, no moon, no stars—only a dull, pervasive glow seeping from the glowing orbs embedded into the streets below, stretching warped silhouettes across the black stone.

The city sprawled outward in uneven rings from its center, an enormous expanse of structures fused seamlessly into the black stone beneath them. Streets twisted in lazy spirals and sharp, unnatural angles, converging and diverging without any apparent logic. Some buildings resembled towers grown from bone and obsidian, their surfaces ridged and veined like exposed muscle. Others looked almost organic, their walls flexing subtly, as though the city itself were alive and mildly irritated by the creatures crawling across it.

Abyssals filled the streets.

They moved without urgency, without fear, without emotion beyond a low, constant devotion to the ‘Great Mother’ that saturated the air like incense.

Hulking beasts dragged themselves along stone roads, their bodies composed of all manner of material into shapes that seemed to be pulled from nightmares.

Slender figures with too many joints glided between structures, eyes glowing faintly red or gold as they watched the world with detached curiosity. Lesser abyssals clustered in groups, feeding from troughs carved directly into the ground, where viscous fluids pulsed and refilled on their own.

Threading through it all were the convoys.

Chains scraped against stone as long lines of captives were dragged into the city from every direction. Humans. Spiritual Creatures. Anything in between. Intelligent beings from other invaded worlds. Their clothes were torn, their bodies bruised, their eyes hollowed by terror and exhaustion. Some screamed. Some sobbed. Some had gone entirely quiet, shuffling forward with the empty obedience of broken minds.

Naturally, no one tried to help them. Nor would anyone have been able to.

After all, this was the capital of the Abyss.

The convoys did not disperse throughout the city. They were guided—inevitably, relentlessly—toward a particular district near the inner ring. As they moved closer, the structures around them changed. The buildings grew more expansive, elaborate, their surfaces etched with glowing sigils and channels that pulsed faintly with red, gold, and violet light. The air grew thicker, heavy with an oppressive pressure that pressed down on the captives’ chests and made breathing difficult.

This was a demigod’s domain.

The courtyard of a demigod was naturally different from the rest of the city.

Where the outer districts were dense and crowded, each demigod’s territory in the inner circle was expansive, almost ostentatious in their scale.

This particular demigod’s courtyard, was a vast open space surrounding a central structure resembling a Demon King’s castle in a fantasy story, its floor paved with polished black stone shot through with jagged veins of crimson light. Spires thrust upward at harsh angles, their tips glowing faintly as if still hot from recent destruction. Sections of the structure bore fresh scars—cracks in the stone, melted edges, areas where the material had clearly been rebuilt after being torn apart. Massive columns lined the perimeter, each carved with scenes of violence frozen in grotesque detail—battles, executions, cities torn apart and reduced to ruin.

Strangely, all figures in the scenes had their faces twisted into expressions of pure rage.

To Asmodeus—the abyssal demigod and former Infernal embodiment of Wrath—it was the most fitting expression a face could ever bear.

He liked it visible.

At the center of the courtyard, beneath the shadow of the building, Asmodeus, the living embodiment of Wrath himself, reclined.

His true form dwarfed even the largest abyssals nearby. Blackened muscle layered over a frame that seemed perpetually coiled, as though violence were not merely an action but his resting state. Jagged horns curved back from his skull, etched with faint red lines that pulsed whenever his emotions spiked—which, lately, was often. His skin bore the scars of countless battles, some still faintly glowing with energy that had never fully healed.

Violet eyes flecked with gold burned within his skull, sharp and furious even at rest.

Wrath was feeding.

The captives were dragged into the courtyard in small groups, forced to their knees before him. The lesser abyssals that handled this task moved with practiced efficiency. Chains were secured. Restraints tightened. A few captives were pushed forward—close enough that Wrath could reach them without rising.

He inhaled.

The air itself shuddered as his breath pulled something invisible from their bodies. Fear. Despair. Panic. The most delectable anger.

Raw, unfiltered emotion poured out of them in a wave that made several captives collapse instantly, their minds unable to withstand the sudden extraction. Wrath’s shoulders relaxed slightly as the energy flowed into him, his expression smoothing from a perpetual scowl into something approaching satisfaction.

This was a necessary process for his recovery. But even if it wasn’t, he’d still do it just for fun.

Once, long ago, he had been an infernal demon born of fire and fury. Like the other 7 Demon Lords of the Underworld, they all used emotions for fuel. For power. Even after the Underworld was overrun by the abyss and they submitted to the Great Mother, that did not change.

The battle at the fort had drained him more than he cared to admit.

Those two dragons. Especially that golden one. The suppression. The humiliation.

Crack

His claws dug into the stone beneath him, leaving deep grooves as the memory resurfaced. He exhaled sharply, the courtyard trembling in response. Several nearby abyssals stiffened, instinctively lowering themselves closer to the ground.

More captives were dragged forward.

Wrath fed again.

The emotions tasted wrong.

Too thin. Too scattered.

He scowled, his gaze sweeping over the line of prisoners with open contempt. Weak. Too many of them were already broken. Their fear was shallow, their despair exhausted.

Useless.

A gesture of his hand sent a ripple of force outward. Several captives were flung aside, their bodies impacting the columns with sickening cracks. Low-grade abyssals immediately descended on them, tearing into flesh and bone without ceremony.

Wrath leaned back, irritated.

He needed better fuel.

That was when the disturbance arrived.

Flip-Flop

Flip-Flop

A wet, slapping sound echoed across the courtyard, utterly out of place amid the usual scraping chains and muffled screams. Wrath’s head snapped toward the source, eyes narrowing.

An abyssal was approaching.

Mid-grade.

Gold eyes glinted from a squat, four-legged form that waddled across the stone floor. Its body resembled a massive toad, bloated and asymmetrical, its skin mottled and slick as if perpetually damp. Four unblinking eyes were set unevenly across its head, each tracking Wrath with unwavering focus.

The surrounding abyssals parted to let it pass.

Not out of respect.

Out of experience.

This was a quite famous being among their kind despite it only being mid-grade. And seeing its arrival, some of the smarter abyssals even began to stealthily leave Wrath’s courtyard.

Wrath straightened slowly, irritation radiating from him in tangible waves. His feeding had been interrupted, and he already knew why the messenger had come.

“Speak,” he growled, his voice rolling across the courtyard like distant thunder.

The toad stopped several meters away.

Then it opened its mouth.

Its jaw unhinged to create an opening of a perfect 180 degrees. The flesh stretched without tearing, the opening widening until the inside of its mouth was fully visible.

There was no tongue.

No throat.

Instead, a baby’s head stared out from within.

Its skin was pallid blue, stretched too tightly across a skull that seemed slightly too large. Its eyes were pitch black, glossy and empty, reflecting Wrath’s towering form without any hint of fear.

The baby opened its mouth.

And spoke in the deep, calm voice of a grown man.

“Wrath,” it said evenly, “you have been summoned by the Council.”

The courtyard went silent.

Wrath’s expression twisted—not in surprise, but in rage and humiliation.

And the stone beneath his feet began to crack.