Lucius had always hated the sound of the alarm clock. The high-pitched beeping cut through the silence of his small, dimly lit room, dragging him from the uneasy slumber he'd grown used to. Every night, it was the same—a restless sleep filled with dreams of Hell, the lava, the monsters, and, of course, his father. Each night, he fought with the echoes of his past and the weight of the new life the system had forced upon him.
He groaned, rolling out of bed with a stiff back, his muscles aching from the previous night's task. The routine had become his constant, like a war veteran stuck in an endless cycle of combat. Every day, he lived as though his body was just a vessel, carrying him through a world that hadn't changed, despite everything that had happened to him.
The dim room felt suffocating as he reached for his shirt—a plain, faded black tee that hung loosely on his now muscular frame. He had grown taller, more defined in the weeks following his Hell trials. His jawline had sharpened, and his shoulders had broadened, leaving him looking like someone who no longer belonged in the world of normalcy.
He glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The dark patches under his skin had become more pronounced, small, shadowy marks that seemed to pulse faintly with a life of their own. The marks weren't quite tattoos, but they felt like a constant reminder of the things he had seen. Of the darkness he carried within. They were an aftereffect of the system's curses—permanent scars that no amount of sleep would erase.
The first few days after the trials had been the hardest. He had expected things to go back to normal. He was wrong. How could he be? His world wasn't normal anymore. Hell, monsters, the weight of his father's death, and his uncle's betrayal had all shaped him into something unrecognizable.
Ding.
His phone buzzed on the desk, snapping him out of his thoughts. Lucius reached over, unlocking the screen with a swipe. It was a notification from his job.
"You've been assigned a new delivery. Pickup at 9:30 PM. Keep the pace up. Don't slack off."
His eyes scanned the message, and he sighed. Working as a pizza delivery boy was the most normal thing in his life now. The only constant thing he could rely on to ground him in this mundane existence. The work wasn't glamorous, but it kept the rent paid and the lights on. It gave him a brief escape from the life of supernatural horrors that still haunted him in the late hours of the night.
There were days when Lucius wished he could go back to before—the days when he had no system to control his every move, when he didn't feel like the weight of an entire kingdom's bloodshed rested on his shoulders. But he wasn't that kid anymore. And he had no choice but to adapt.
Lucius dressed quickly, pulling on his jeans and grabbing the keys to his beat-up car. His worn sneakers hit the pavement as he stepped outside, and the cool evening air felt like a small blessing. The sunset painted the sky a deep orange, and for a moment, Lucius allowed himself to appreciate the simplicity of it.
He tossed his bag into the passenger seat, adjusting the rearview mirror to check his reflection once more. His hair, still white, had grown longer over the last month, brushing the collar of his jacket. His eyes—once a bright, clear shade of blue—now looked stormier, like they contained the secrets of the world's darkest corners.
Driving through the familiar streets of Brooklyn, Lucius let his mind wander. Life was slower during the day, but at night, he could feel the system pulsing through his veins, calling him toward the next task. The fear of what awaited him in the dead of night never quite left. And every time his phone pinged with a new quest, it pulled him deeper into that dark abyss.
As the streetlights flickered above, Lucius arrived at the pizza place. The bell above the door chimed when he entered, and his boss, Tony, gave him a quick nod.
"Your pickup's ready, Lucius. Large pepperoni for the Hendersons."
Lucius grabbed the steaming box from the counter and slung it under his arm. He didn't need to speak. He'd been here long enough that no one asked questions. The other employees had long since given up on trying to figure out why he was always tired, always distant. They assumed he had some personal issues. That much was true, at least.
The car ride was uneventful. The same turns, the same streets. But as he pulled up to the Hendersons' house, something strange pulled at his senses. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the air seemed thicker, more oppressive, almost like something was watching him.
Lucius stepped out of the car, feeling the weight of the Hellhound mark still tingling beneath his skin. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves around him as he knocked on the door. He didn't know why, but his instincts told him to be careful. He wasn't just delivering pizza anymore. No, there was something more.
The door swung open.
It wasn't Mrs. Henderson who greeted him. It was a tall man with a cold, calculating look in his eyes. His hands were gloved, and his presence felt like a shadow—something darker than the world around him.
"You're Lucius Grave, aren't you?" the man asked.
Lucius stiffened. How did he know his name?
"I—yeah, that's me," Lucius said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady.
The man gave a faint, almost mocking smile. "I've heard of you. The son of Hell. The one who survived the trials." He took a step closer, eyes flickering to the pizza box in Lucius's hands. "You've been chosen for something far bigger than pizza delivery."
Lucius took a step back, his instincts on high alert. "Who are you?"
"I am a messenger," the man said coldly. "And I have come to deliver you a message from your uncle."
The words hit him like a slap in the face. His uncle—the one who had killed his father and stolen the throne.
Before Lucius could react, the man's eyes flashed with a cold intensity. He snapped his fingers, and the ground beneath Lucius's feet cracked open, revealing an endless abyss.
Lucius barely had time to react before he was sucked in.
Lucius fell through the blackness, the world around him spinning in a chaotic blur. His mind screamed, but the darkness swallowed all sound, leaving him in absolute silence. It felt like hours, or perhaps mere seconds—time had become irrelevant. The only sensation that remained was the cold emptiness pressing in on all sides, suffocating him.
Then, with a sudden jolt, his body slammed into solid ground. He groaned, the impact knocking the wind out of him. His muscles screamed in protest, but he quickly pushed himself to his feet, eyes scanning the new surroundings.
He was in a cavern, lit by an eerie green glow. The walls were slick with moisture, dripping as if the very earth wept. There was no clear source of the light, but it illuminated the jagged rocks and the dark, swirling mists that hung in the air. The atmosphere was oppressive, thick with an energy Lucius could barely comprehend.
A cold shiver ran down his spine. The sense of danger was palpable, but it wasn't just the environment—it was something deeper. He wasn't alone.
"Where am I?" Lucius muttered, his voice hoarse from the shock of his sudden descent.
The ground around him shifted, and a figure stepped forward from the shadows. It was the man—the messenger who had led him here. His cold, calculating eyes locked onto Lucius, a slight smile curling on his lips.
"You're in the Depths," the man said, his voice low and deliberate. "This is the realm of those who serve your uncle, the King of Hell."
Lucius narrowed his eyes, trying to assess the situation. "Why am I here?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he raised a hand, and the ground rumbled beneath Lucius's feet. Stone doors slid open in the distance, revealing a massive, ornate throne room that looked as though it had been carved from the very bones of the earth. Dark, swirling shadows moved within it, and at the far end of the room sat a throne—empty, but undeniably present.
"I brought you here to show you something," the man continued. "Something your uncle believes you must see before you can truly understand your place in the world."
Lucius's gut twisted. He wasn't sure if he was ready to face whatever lay ahead. The idea of facing his uncle—the one who had betrayed his father—filled him with an all-consuming anger. But he couldn't deny the pull of destiny, the weight of responsibility that pressed down on him. He was the son of Hell, and whether he liked it or not, he had a role to play in this twisted game.
"Show me," Lucius demanded, his voice cold and steady.
The man's smile deepened, though there was no warmth in it. He nodded and turned, walking towards the grand doors of the throne room. Lucius hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, but then he followed, his every step echoing in the silence.
As they entered the throne room, the atmosphere shifted. The temperature dropped, and a deep sense of foreboding filled the air. The shadows on the walls seemed to writhe, as if alive, and Lucius's senses heightened. He could feel them watching him, studying his every move.
At the center of the room stood an altar—ancient, cracked, and stained with dark markings. The symbols etched into its surface seemed familiar, but Lucius couldn't quite place them. They radiated a dark energy, one that stirred something deep within him. His hand unconsciously brushed the Hellhound mark on his skin, and the familiar tingling sensation spread through his body.
The man who had led him here walked toward the altar, and Lucius instinctively followed, his eyes fixed on the strange markings. Without warning, the man raised his hand, and the air around them began to pulse with energy.
"This," the man said, his voice echoing, "is where it all began."
Lucius felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There was something wrong about this place—something that didn't belong. The air felt thick with secrets, and every breath seemed to pull him deeper into a web he couldn't escape.
The ground beneath them shook, and the symbols on the altar began to glow with an intense, otherworldly light. Lucius staggered back, his heart racing as a figure began to materialize from the swirling shadows.
It was a man—no, something more than a man. His features were sharp, almost unnatural, and his eyes glowed with an eerie red hue. His skin was pale, his hair black as midnight, and his presence was overpowering. Lucius felt a knot tighten in his stomach as the figure spoke, his voice a low, rumbling growl.
"So, the son of the King of Hell finally arrives," the figure said, his voice filled with malice. "I have waited for this moment."
Lucius clenched his fists, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was in the presence of something far more powerful than he could comprehend. This wasn't just an ally of his uncle—it was something older, something that had been lurking in the shadows for far longer than Lucius's existence.
"What is this?" Lucius demanded, his voice hard, but his mind swirling with confusion. "Who are you?"
The figure stepped forward, his eyes locking onto Lucius with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine.
"I am the first of your uncle's servants," the figure said with a twisted grin. "The first to be summoned from the Depths. And I have been waiting for a worthy heir."
Lucius swallowed, his mind racing. This wasn't just about the throne of Hell. This was about something far more sinister—something that involved his very bloodline.
The figure raised a hand, and the ground began to crack open beneath Lucius's feet. The dark, swirling energy intensified, and Lucius could feel it trying to pull him in, to consume him.
"You are not ready," the figure growled. "But you will be. Your uncle will see to that."
Before Lucius could react, the room dissolved into darkness, the ground beneath him giving way. His heart raced as he fell once more, the shadows closing in around him, until there was nothing but blackness.
Lucius jolted awake, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat drenched his skin, and his heart thundered in his chest. For a moment, he couldn't tell if the nightmare had been real or just a product of his overactive mind. But the lingering sensation, the weight of the message—he knew it had been more than just a dream.
He was being watched. He was being pulled into something much bigger than he had ever imagined.
As the cool night air filled his lungs, Lucius knew one thing for certain—his journey was far from over.