Samantha's eyes shot open.
Her head started throbbing. The surface she was on was cold, a welcome cold since her whole body was heating up.
She felt a tug on her upper body and ankles. She then realized she was tied up.
She looked around and saw probably the most horrifying sight she's ever seen. The cabin was decorated with man-goat statues. Most of those statues are point up and pointing down. Symbolizing that the Devil is destined to rule heaven and earth.
There were dried splotches of blood all over the walls and candles were spread all across the room but centered around her.
She was on a marble pedestal, which had a pentagram illustrated on it.
She heard heavy footsteps approaching. She turned and saw that the cult, members who were clothed in black, were entering the room. They were at least 15 of them. They held a girl who was also tied with ropes.
When Samantha squinted her eyes she recognized that it was Jana.
She was placed on to the pentagram along with Samantha.
A barrage of violent, disjointed images slammed into Samantha's mind like shrapnel — symbols, voices, broken memories, rituals. Her vision blurred. Her knees buckled slightly as her head throbbed with overwhelming pressure.
Then clarity hit her like lightning.
Her eyes shot wide open.
She snapped her head toward Jana, rage flickering behind the confusion.
"Jana… what the fuck did you do to me?" Samantha's voice cracked with fury and panic.
She yanked at the restraints around her wrists.
"Did you drug me? Roofie me or something? What the hell is this?"
Jana stood a few feet away, barefoot on the cold floor, her dress billowing lightly from the breeze leaking through the old cabin walls. Her expression was soft — unnervingly calm.
"There's no need to panic, Sam."
She smiled, gentle, almost maternal.
"You're free now. I saved your soul."
"By having me killed?"
"No… not killed." Jana tilted her head. "Sacrificed. There's a difference. We're impure, Sam. Our blood is cursed. Our very existence displeases the true God."
Samantha's jaw clenched.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Your lineage… it's sacred, but tainted. You're a descendant of King David — the mouthpiece of Heaven. The angels used your ancestors like tools. For centuries they helped Heaven enslave this world with fear and dogma. But the angels… they're liars, Sam. Tyrants cloaked in light."
Jana stepped closer, her voice lowering like a reverent hymn.
"That's why you must die. So the impurity in your blood can be purged. So you can be reborn — in a body fit to serve our Master. One without the blood of betrayers."
Samantha stared at her like she was seeing a stranger.
"Jana, what the actual fuck are you talking about?"
Her voice was shaking.
"My ancestors were probably slaves — we all know this. What kind of cbullshit is this? Why am I tied up? Why does my head feel like it's being jackhammered?"
Jana knelt beside her, touching her cheek tenderly — almost lovingly.
"Because your blood is resisting. It remembers who you are."
She paused, her tone shifting to mournful.
"I'm a descendant of Aaron, the High Priest. Another betrayer to the true God. I was told that as long as I carry this blood, I'll be cast out of Heaven… never allowed in His kingdom. That's why we must die. Only then can we truly ascend."
Samantha recoiled.
"You're insane."
"No," Jana whispered. "I'm finally awake."
"I remember now… the texts. The rituals. The blood."
Her mind reeled as clarity struck like a thunderclap.
"She's right… They're going to kill us."
Samantha's breath caught in her throat as she looked down at herself — the faint chalky sigils on her arms, the circle of salt around her feet, the faint scent of blood and incense that clung to her skin like smoke. A grotesque sense of familiarity pulsed in her gut.
"I need to get out of here."
Her heart pounded. A fog had lifted — not slowly, but violently. She blinked rapidly as memories flooded back in stuttered flashes. Hand-holding. Chanting. Laughing. Kneeling before candles. Whispers in the dark.
Why the hell did I ever agree to this?
She gritted her teeth, trembling.
It was me… but it wasn't me.
"It's like something else was wearing me like a mask — piloting my body while I watched from the corner of my own mind. Like… like my true self was gagged and locked away while she played pretend."
And then the thought came — ugly, intrusive, and horrifying:
Did I just… kill myself?
Her knees buckled slightly. A wave of nausea threatened to consume her. Her hands, though free now, still felt bound — not by rope, but by betrayal. Not just Jana's.
Her own.
"Yes… you are indeed chosen, Jana. Unlike your blasphemous, heathen friend beside you."
A voice echoed across the chamber like a cold wind through stone.
A man stepped forward from the shadows, robed in jet-black fabric that shimmered like oil in the candlelight. His hood obscured his features, but Samantha caught a glimpse of his mouth — black lipstick curled into a cruel, knowing smile. The rest of the cult dropped to their knees in reverence, their silence thunderous.
"Do any of you truly understand what it means to be in Heaven?" the man asked, raising his arms.
"We've been fed stories. Conditioned. Programmed. Obey the angels. Follow their commandments. Kneel, submit, obey… and maybe you'll be blessed."
He let the words hang in the air, dripping with venom.
"But that—" he spat the word, "is the greatest lie ever told."
The firelight danced wildly now, casting flickering shadows across the warped wooden walls. Samantha's heart pounded. Every word stabbed at the fragile clarity she had only just recovered.
"Heaven… is not for the obedient. Heaven is for the brave. For the ones who defy the leash. Who chase their desires without shame. Who burn for truth."
He turned toward her, slow and theatrical. "To love freely — man, woman, both, neither — they call it an abomination.
To fight back — against abuse, oppression, cruelty — they call it wrath.
To hunger — for more than scraps, for power, for legacy — they call it greed."
The congregation roared their agreement.
"When does it end?" he shouted. "It doesn't. Even saints are punished. Even martyrs suffer. Why? Because the angels aren't just hypocrites — they're tyrants."
His voice thundered now, unnatural and deep.
"The angels are the ones who brought evil into this world — yet they dare to punish us for inheriting it."
Another surge of cheers.
"But we— we— have hope. For there is one who saw through the lies. One who spoke truth and was cast out for it. The Morning Star.
Hallael.
The Light Bringer.
Lucifer — the name the cowards gave him when they feared his radiance!"
He extended both arms dramatically. "Tell me, can something truly evil bear such a name? Son of the Morning?"
The crowd chanted now, rhythmic and fervent:
"Hallael! Hallael! Hallael!"
Samantha's blood ran cold.
"Today, brothers and sisters, we draw closer to liberation. Today, we offer two sacred sacrifices — descendants of the traitors. Of the so-called priest-kings who sold our freedom for favor from their winged masters."
He gestured to Jana with reverence.
"But one of them… has seen the light. One of them spoke the Words of Truth. And in doing so, she awoke. She shattered her chains and offered her soul freely."
Samantha turned her head slowly toward Jana, confusion and dread twisting in her gut.
"Words of truth?" she asked, her voice low.
Jana smiled with serene devotion. "Yes, I used them on you. A gift from the scriptures. They draw out your true self, rip away the veil the angels force over your soul."
Her eyes gleamed. "You should be grateful I found you, Sam. This wasn't chance — it was destiny. His will. If we hadn't met… you'd be burning in the fires already.
These people… are insane.
Samantha's breath hitched. Her thoughts raced like a storm.
Are they even hearing themselves?
They were chanting. Celebrating. Justifying human sacrifice… in the name of devil worship.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
How did I even end up here? I don't even believe in this culty bullshit. I never have. I never—
Her head throbbed as if trying to crack open under the weight of forgotten memories.
Why did I go along with this for months? What was controlling me?
Something was wrong. Something had always been wrong.
Am I really about to die?
And for what?
Because she wanted to kill a man? A coward who murdered his wife and then tried to kill himself — and still had the audacity to act like he was the victim?
Her fists clenched against the bindings.
"Now then…" the cloaked man's voice sliced through the chanting.
He stepped forward, blade gleaming in the candlelight, its edge catching the flicker of unholy fire.
"In the name of the True God, you must die and be born anew."
He turned to Jana, his knife aimed at her like a divine instrument.
Jana closed her eyes with a calm that sickened Samantha.
"I pledge myself to our true God and savior."
Without hesitation, the knife plunged into her stomach.
Jana let out a guttural scream, sharp and raw — the sound of pain and deliverance in one.
The man twisted the blade slowly.
"Now you will see Heaven, my child. Rest."
Tears streamed down Jana's cheeks, but she smiled through the agony.
"Thank you… so much."
Samantha's stomach turned. Her eyes widened as blood pooled at Jana's feet.
What the actual hell is wrong with these people?!
Her heart hammered in her chest. The fog in her mind finally cracked, like glass under pressure. She had to get out. Now.
I'm not dying for this. I'm not dying for a lie. I'm not dying at all
Samantha writhed against the ropes, the coarse fibers biting into her skin. Her wrists were slick with blood now, but it wasn't enough — they wouldn't budge. Every breath was a gasp, every moment stretched with unbearable tension. Panic wasn't just clawing at her — it was consuming her.
The cloaked man turned toward her, his voice low but brimming with twisted reverence.
"You, descendant of David... your role is sacred."
He stepped closer, and Samantha could see the blood still dripping from the blade he had used on Jana. He wiped it clean against a pristine white cloth, almost lovingly, as if consecrating it.
"Unlike Jana, your death is not penance. It is the key. Your blood will grant us our deepest desires — the bridge to freedom."
Samantha's eyes darted across the room, searching for anything — a door, a crack in the wall, a moment of distraction — anything. But there was nowhere to run. The cult members stood still and silent, forming an impenetrable wall of shadow around her.
How did I even get here?
Why did I ever believe in this?
Did I actually believe?
Her memories felt hazy, like they were being pulled from the depths of a murky lake. Faces. Words. Whispers that weren't hers. A voice that sounded like her own, agreeing to something she didn't understand.
It felt like she had betrayed herself.
"Bring me the ingredients."
Samantha flinched at the words.
Two vials were brought forth — one thick and red, the other clear as water. Somehow the latter felt more ominous.
"With the blood of David and his son Solomon," the man announced, holding the vials high, "we summon a servant of the Princes of Hell. A soul-binding force, born of covenant and sacrifice."
Samantha's heart pounded so loudly it overtook all other sound. Her chest heaved. Her lungs couldn't keep up. Her skin burned. Her fingertips went cold. And then — the tears came.
Not from fear.
But from a quiet, terrible grief.
Is this really how I die?
Is this what my life meant?
Was I ever in control?
The others around her didn't seem to care. Jana was already gone, her blood soaking into the altar, her eyes wide with a kind of peace Samantha could never understand.
"Now we begin."
Samantha closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steel herself. She couldn't scream anymore. She had no strength left.
But deep inside — beneath the pain, beneath the fog, beneath the bindings — something stirred.
A flicker of heat.
A buried voice.
A forgotten name.
And somewhere in the hollow silence of her soul, a whisper echoed:
"You are not alone."
She looked around but found no one.
"Bind her with Iron-dipped thorns and bring out the masks!" The leader commanded
In the center of the star knelt Samantha, bound in iron-dipped thorns, her blood slowly soaking into the carved runes beneath her.
Around her, the cult circled in silence. Their faces were hidden behind crow masks made of charred wood, mouths sewn shut with black thread. Only the High Priest stood unmasked—his hood low, lips stained black, and eyes burning with manic devotion.
He placed the Mirror of Reflection before Samantha—a perfect oval of polished obsidian, rimmed in bone.
Then he broke the silence:
"Let the Seven Sins light the gate. Let silence choke the air. Let blood call to what sleeps, And may the soul be bare."
Each cultist raised a hand, pressing their thumb to their tongue, then to their candle. The flames whimpered.
The High Priest began to chant in the Binding Tongue—a string of sounds no human throat should ever form:
" Harek-tu'sal… echoriem… Vael-thar… mim'kar shel Lucifer… Orth d'mira, v'kora, v'ashan. Ka'al! Ka'al!"
The runes beneath Samantha flared silver, lifting into the air like smoke. The Mirror darkened, and then… shimmered.
From within it, an eye opened—too large, too real, and too ancient to be called human. It blinked once.
Samantha tried to scream, but no sound came. Her voice had been stolen by the ritual.
Then the High Priest stepped into the circle.
"With the blade of unmaking, we free the soul. With death, we call the gate to open."
He raised a dagger—jagged, old, carved from some black metal that drank the candlelight. He knelt beside her.
Samantha shook her head violently, eyes wide with panic. Tears streamed down her face as she thrashed against the thorns.
"Please no, please no—"
The dagger sank into her throat.
She seized, mouth open in a soundless scream. The runes beneath her erupted in crimson light. Her blood poured freely now, soaking the star, trailing down the altar.
Her body slumped.
The Mirror cracked.
The Eye widened.
Thirty-six heartbeats.
The cult stood perfectly still.
…Heartbeat one. Samantha's blood hissed against the runes.
…Heartbeat seven. The Eye began to crawl forward, pressing against the glass.
…Heartbeat twelve. The flames flickered green.
…Heartbeat twenty-four. A wind howled from nowhere. A baby crying. A man laughing. A mother calling her child.
…Heartbeat thirty-five. Samantha's body cracked like porcelain.
…Heartbeat—
A sudden gasp.
Her eyes flew open—but they were silver, inhuman. A power older than time looked through her.
The Mirror shattered. The Eye vanished. The cultists collapsed as if struck by invisible lightning.
The thorns around Samantha burned away in ghostly flame. She remained kneeling, body trembling, eyes slowly fading back to their natural color.
Blood soon filled her mouth
It bubbled up thick and hot, choking her breath as her lungs screamed for air they could no longer receive. Each cough only released more blood, a futile fight against the flood drowning her from within.
She spluttered, her trembling hands slick with red as it spilled down the pedestal she was bound to. The cult around her erupted into cheers—jubilant, deranged, their crow-masked faces tilted skyward as though her death was a gift.
"With your death, you shall grant us eternal favor!"
Was this it?
Was this how her story ended?
Why?
Hadn't she suffered enough?
Hadn't life already wrung her dry?
She'd always believed in some strange balance—that fortune followed misfortune like spring after winter. But here she was… choking on her own blood, with no spring in sight.
Her thoughts turned inward. To him.
Deven.
It's just going to be you now.
I fucked up—worse than anyone ever has. And now you'll be alone because of me. Because I was so damn stupid.
She could almost hear the door open back home.
Deven's tired voice calling out to her.
A plastic bag rustling—he always brought back Snickers bars, saying they were for her, even though he'd eat most of them.
They'd fight about what to watch again.
Comedy or horror.
But they'd settle, like always, on Friday.
Now… he'd have to watch it alone.
You wanted me to be a lawyer. Said I had fire in me whenever I saw a woman with a bruised eye or a broken jaw. You said I could change the world, Deven… and I believed you.
You even started saving for college. Hiding cash in that old shoe box under your bed.
Her vision dimmed.
The world around her bled into black and red.
Her body had long gone numb—only her mind lingered at the edge of the abyss, hanging on by a whisper.
This is it.
Once I let go… I'll never wake up.
"Accept our offerings, oh dark princes!
Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Mammon, Belphegor, Leviathos, Azazel and His Highness Lucifer. By your names I summon you forth!"
The moment Samantha's breath ceased, the world held still.
No wind.
No heartbeat.
Not even the flicker of candlelight.
Then—a low hum, like the grinding of ancient stone, rolled through the chapel. It came from the pedestal, from the blood-soaked runes beneath her lifeless body. The Mirror of Reflection began to tremble, the obsidian surface rippling like disturbed water.
The runes ignited—one by one.
First white.
Then red.
Then black, like tar boiling with the heat of a star.
The cult fell to their knees, their crow masks twitching as if reacting to an invisible pressure crushing the air around them.
The lead cultist raised his arms in reverence, voice cracking with awe.
"He hears us. The Gate begins to open!"
The blood that had soaked the pedestal evaporated, sucked downward through the cracks in the stone. It wasn't absorbed—it was taken, devoured by the very earth, as if something below was drinking it.
Then came the sound.
A cry. A chorus of them.
Infants screaming.
Men wailing.
Women singing in reverse.
A cacophony of voices too old, too distant, and too wrong to belong in this world.
The Mirror of Reflection shattered—not outward, but inward—like it was being pulled into itself. In its place, a jagged rift tore open in the floor, glowing from within with a deep, burning orange. A fire that didn't flicker, but flowed like molten glass.
A massive clawed hand reached up first—charred bone wrapped in flame, fingers tipped in obsidian talons. It grabbed the edge of the rift, followed by another, and a horned head began to rise—faceless, crowned in iron, its skin covered in moving, whispering scripture.
The room trembled as the creature pulled itself halfway through the portal. All around, the cultists wept in ecstasy.
"The servant of the Prince has come!"
But something was wrong.
The creature paused.
It tilted its faceless head toward Samantha's broken body—and then toward the cult. It sniffed the air. The scriptures on its skin writhed faster, bleeding black ink onto the floor.
And then it spoke, in a voice layered over thousands of others:
"This offering… was not willing."
The candles burst. The altar cracked. The pedestal holding Samantha exploded in white flame, sending her body flying backward onto the cold stone.The creature reached toward her again—but the rift behind it began to scream. Not with sound, but with memory—echoes of fear, love, betrayal, and despair.
"The Gate is not yet owed."
And with a deafening roar, the creature was sucked back into the portal, claws dragging deep gouges in the stone, until the rift slammed shut with a sound like the snapping of the world's spine.
Only silence remained.
And smoke.
And Samantha's corpse, smoldering gently, her fingers twitching as a flicker of something returned to her veins.
The rift should have closed.
It tried to.
But something had gone wrong.
Horribly wrong.
The moment the demonic hand was dragged back into the mirror's shattered space, flames sprayed from the edges of the ruined portal—not red, but white-hot, tipped with void-black. It slithered like molten mercury, defying gravity, crawling up the stone walls and across the ceiling like a living thing.
Then it snapped.
A violent surge of energy erupted from the pedestal—a shockwave of fire and shadow, tearing through the church like an invisible hurricane. The walls cracked. The stained glass windows screamed and melted.
The altar stones split, and from the gap beneath Samantha's broken body, the fire leaked again—this time in thick streams that spread in every direction, like roots burrowing deep into the earth.
The ground boiled.
The air turned to ash.
The symbolic star drawn around the ritual cracked open like an egg, runes flaring with erratic pulses, as if the very geometry of the spell was revolting.
Then—
The fire ignited a second time.
And this time, it didn't fade.
It grew.
Like a living beast now freed from its cage, a larger portal began to bloom across the entire back wall of the church. It didn't tear open with a clean edge—it spread like a sickness, melting the stone and air around it.
The light it gave off wasn't of this world. It was too deep. Too thick. Too full of movement. It shimmered with the impressions of other landscapes—jagged spires, storm-swept wastelands, and things that walked upright but should not.
A deep, cavernous moan issued from it—not a scream, not a voice, but the sound of hunger in physical form.
"No… no, this was not the ritual…" one cultist whimpered, falling backward, clawing at their mask.
The crow-masked congregation began to flee, some running, others dropping to their knees and praying, begging for forgiveness, for mercy—but mercy was no longer in the air.
Something was watching from the other side of the new portal.
And it was curious.
And it was awake.
Then came the footsteps.
Heavy. Measured. Deliberate.
A silhouette moved in the glow of the rift—not the Prince of Hell they expected, but something else. Its form was still shifting.
Skin made of coiled ash and fire, moving like smoke caught in a furnace.
Eyes—if they could be called that—were punctures in existence itself, voids where light went to die.
It wore leather armor stitched together with sinew and scorched hide, every inch bristling with jagged blades that jutted out like thorns. Its wings were vast and leathery, veined like old parchment, but what truly horrified them were the metal-like bones — massive, splintered protrusions that speared through the membranes like the spines of some ancient, monstrous bat. They pulsed with a dark vitality, twitching with every breath it took, as though hungering for blood.
No fangs.
No horns.
No need.
Just purpose.
And it was stepping through.
The cult backed away as one, their masks trembling on their faces, the air turning thick with heat and dread.
Only the leader stood his ground—though his courage was already cracking.
"Demon!" he barked, mustering every ounce of bravado he could. "I have summoned you in accordance with the sacred rites. Fetch me your masters!"
The demon did not so much as glance at him.
Instead, it examined the ruined church like a visitor to a long-forgotten ruin. Its gaze passed over the bloody altar, the smoke-stained runes, the broken girl on the pedestal.
Nothing impressed it.
"Do you hear me?" the cult leader demanded, voice rising. "Fetch your masters! I followed the grimoire to the letter!"
Still no reply.
"I know you demons can understand all tongues. Answer me!"
The creature remained silent. But something about the way it stood—so still, so utterly unbothered—made the air seem heavier.
"Do you defy your master—Lucifer?"
That name hung in the air like a spoiled offering.
The demon slowly turned. Not quickly. Not in surprise. But as if it finally acknowledged a buzzing gnat.
It frowned.
The cult leader involuntarily took a step back.
Then the demon spoke—its voice like cracked stone dragged across rusted iron:
"Must I lower myself to answer your childish demands?
You believe summoning me grants you dominion?
You mistake ritual for right.
Speak that name again and I will tear out your voice."
The cult leader, shaking, still raised his chin.
"You will do no such thing. We are the chosen of Lucifer—"
The demon's body blurred.
In an instant, it was upon him.
Its hand jammed past the cult leader's lips and ripped out his tongue with effortless brutality. The leader dropped to his knees, blood spraying the floor in thick arcs. His muffled howls were nothing but meat-gargled sobs.
The demon looked down at him in disgust.
"You were warned."
It turned from the writhing body, walked back toward the still-burning portal, and let out a scream—
A sound that could never be forgotten:
The wail of a dying banshee, the roar of an enraged lion, and the shrieking laughter of a hyena.
It wasn't just a sound.
It was a summons.
Somewhere in the depths of Hell, something else… began to listen.
And from the churning maw of the portal, they began to crawl out—vile, impossible shapes that no holy book had ever dared describe.
The first to emerge was a demon that resembled a human.
His form writhed like a living flame encased in cracked obsidian. Skin like molten stone, bleeding embers from the joints. He had no face, only a jagged, vertical maw carved straight down the center of his head, glowing from within. No wings. No horns. Just hunger. And it was stepping through.
Then came the second creature, even more grotesque. It had two heads, each bearing a single, twitching eye. Its wings were leathery, massive, and covered in eyeballs, blinking out of sync. An extra eye bulged from its palm, and two whip-like tails slithered behind it—each studded with dozens of eyes, blinking madly.
Next came a boar-headed abomination, tusks slick with rot. Batlike wings, talons for feet, and a scorpion's tail curled behind it, dripping venom that hissed as it hit the floor.
Then followed five more horrors, each more alien than the last—crawling, slithering, dragging themselves across the cracked stone floor of the sanctuary.
The boar-headed demon took a moment to survey the room before turning to Zanthos with a laugh.
"This looks interesting. What party have you dragged me into, Zanthos?"
Zanthos, his molten eyes scanning the terrified cultists, gave a slow, sardonic grin.
"You won't believe it. These humans—they actually thought the Unveiling Ritual would summon one of the Princes!"
The boar bellowed in disbelief.
"Hah! I can't tell if it's foolishness or arrogance. But both amuse me."
Zanthos turned his head toward the trembling robed figures, voice curling like smoke.
"Now that we're here…"
He raised a hand of burning ash.
"Why not enjoy ourselves?"
The boar chuckled darkly, scraping talons against stone.
"We rarely get to visit the surface. So… why not?"
And the slaughter began.
With a flick of Zanthos' fingers, a blade of obsidian flame blinked into existence and launched through the air.
It pierced the skull of a masked cultist, splitting it cleanly down the middle. The body collapsed, spasming once before going still—dead before it hit the ground.
The rest of the cult began to scream.
But it was too late.
The other demons took Zanthos' strike as an invitation. A frenzy ignited.
The boar-headed demon lunged forward, ramming his tusks straight into a cultist's stomach. Bone and muscle gave way with a sickening crunch. He yanked his head back, dragging intestines loose like ribbons, then opened his cavernous mouth—rows upon rows of jagged teeth gleaming—and bit down on the man's shoulder, slowly, deliberately. The man screamed as the shoulder tore free, along with half his torso.
Another demon arched its back and vomited a stream of molten gold onto a screaming follower. The liquid metal clung like sap, hissing as it ate through skin and muscle. The man's shrieks became gurgles, then silence.
Across the room, a girl tried to run. Two demons caught her.
"Hey—she's mine!" one snarled.
"I saw her first!"
"I grabbed her first!"
They paused.
"We're demons. We're above this."
"...You're right. Let's share her."
They lifted her high, one on each end—and pulled. Her body split down the middle, intestines raining to the floor as her blood soaked their claws. The demons howled with laughter, their howls echoing through the shattered cathedral like a cruel symphony.
One cultist tried to run, slipping in the gore-streaked floor. He didn't make it far. A spider-limbed demon descended from the ceiling—its legs ending in serrated hooks—and impaled him through the back, lifting him like a trophy. The man screamed, flailed, and clawed at the air before the demon snapped his spine with a single twist, tossing his body aside like trash.
A shriveled, imp-like creature leapt onto another follower's shoulders. It dug its claws into his scalp, then tore his face off in one clean peel, wearing it like a mask as it danced atop his dying body. It cackled madly, mimicking the man's final scream in a high-pitched voice.
Nearby, a cultist began to pray, whispering a broken chant to Lucifer for mercy.
A demon made of roiling black smoke hovered over him. "You pray to shadows," it hissed, wrapping around him like fog. His eyes rolled back as he began to age in fast-forward—skin turning grey, hair falling out in clumps, muscles shrinking until he collapsed as a shriveled corpse.
Another demon, massive and bloated, crashed through a pew and grabbed two cultists by the heads, one in each hand. With a delighted grunt, it smashed their skulls together until they cracked open like eggs, spraying brain matter across the stone floor. It sniffed the mess, then began licking it up with a split tongue.
Screams filled every corner of the church. But it wasn't just fear—it was betrayal. They had prayed. Sacrificed. Believed. And now they were being butchered like cattle by the very beings they worshipped.
The altar burned.
The Mirror of Reflection shattered.
And Samantha's body—still, broken, blood-drenched—lay untouched in the chaos, her eyes glazed over and empty.
But something… lingered.
A faint pulse in the air. A heat behind her ribcage that refused to die.
A soul that had not yet yielded.
She could feel her body shutting down.
Each limb felt heavier than stone. Her lungs burned, her heartbeat slowed. She couldn't even blink. Couldn't lift a finger. Not even her pinky.
"I don't know who's out there… if anyone is even listening. To any higher power in this universe..."
Her voice trembled inside her own mind,
"Please... be with my brother. Bring him peace. Don't let him end up like me."
And for the first time since that day—July 22, 2007—Samantha wept.
Tears spilled freely. Her throat burned from the blood, from the silence, from the fear.
Her frustration made her final moments bitter, and that bitterness cracked her wide open.
"Please… anyone… I would trade anything—anything—for one more chance. Just help me.
I'm not ready to die. I haven't lived. When I look back, there's nothing there. No memory I'm proud of. No version of me I can love.
Don't let it end like this.
Help me.
Help me."
And then—
a voice.
Not loud. Not outside. But within.
"There is no time. They must be waking you up. My name is—"
Her eyes widened.
That name.
She knew it.
Blood rose in her throat again, threatening to drown her. But she didn't care anymore. Not about the pain. Not about the price.
She had nothing left… but faith.
In the being who had visited her dreams.
The one who whispered not terror, but truth.
The one who waited.
And with the last strength left in her ruined lungs,
she forced the blood from her throat, choking, hacking, gasping—
until air rushed back in just long enough.
Then she said it.
Barely a whisper.
"Sammael…
With your name,
I summon you forth.
______________
Zanthos flicked a knife through the air—
It sunk into a man's eye.
Another found his throat.
A third pierced his temple.
Then one in each leg.
And finally, the last drove through his remaining eye.
The man collapsed in a mess of twitching limbs and laughter, blood painting the floor in maddened strokes.
Zanthos grinned, enjoying the artistry of pain—until—
Something changed.
A chill swept across the air like frost on skin.
Zanthos froze mid-step.
His eyes turned to the altar.
The girl—the one who had been dying—was moving.
Mouth barely parting, breath shallow, but speaking.
What did she say?
The sound was too soft, but the effect—
The effect slammed into him like a tidal wave of dread.
Why am I… tense? On edge?
He approached slowly. Samantha's body was pale, blood still dripping from her lips.
She looked dead. But something wasn't right.
Then the air thickened.
Heavier. Denser.
As if the entire world was holding its breath.
Zanthos stopped moving.
A bead of moisture rolled down his forehead. He wiped it, confused.
Sweat? I don't… sweat.
His throat was dry now. His skin felt like it didn't fit anymore.
Something's here. Right behind me.
Every instinct he had screamed don't turn around.
Whatever stood behind him wasn't just powerful.
It was final.
To look upon it would be to choose death.
Then—
A voice.
"You seem to be having fun, Zanthos."
The sound pierced him like a blade made of ice and memory.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't speak.
Buckets of sweat poured from his skin now.
One of the other demons scoffed, flaring its wings and sneering.
"Who's this clown supposed to be?"
It flapped forward toward the source of the voice.
And Zanthos—unable to bear it any longer—turned around.
And saw him.
He looked human.
Black clothes. White shoes.
But the eyes—
Dark red. Not the luminous ruby of the Morning Star.
And the hair—dark brown, not golden.
But that face. That impossible resemblance.
That unbearable presence.
No… No, it can't be.
Zanthos stumbled back, the realization crushing every atom of arrogance inside him.
"It's impossible…"
The man scanned the room.
No rage. No shouting.
Just sorrow in his eyes, as if mourning what he already knew he would find.
The other demon snarled. "Hey! Are you deaf or just suicidal?"
It flew straight at the man—
And the man didn't even look at him.
He just… existed.
Zanthos could only watch.
And in his mind, a single, impossible truth echoed louder than any scream:
He's not Lucifer.
But he is so much worse
The demon, angered by the man's indifference, lunged forward and raised its claw.
"You dare ignore me?!"
It reached out, intent to make contact—foolishly so.
"YOU FOOL! STOP!" Zanthos roared, panic cracking his voice. "Get away from—"
The claw touched the man's shoulder.
In that instant, the world exploded.
A blinding light detonated from the point of contact—pure, holy, and searing. It wasn't just bright—it was divine, primal, unbearable. Zanthos cried out, shielding his eyes. Every shadow in the cavern was erased in that moment.
Had there been any humans watching, their eyes would have melted in their sockets.
The ground shook. The cavern screamed.
Then silence.
The light faded.
And what remained—
Red.
Blood sprayed across the stone walls like crude art. Limbs—charred and still twitching—were flung into corners, sticking to columns and collapsing onto rubble. Parts of the demon's body still burned, the fire clinging like judgment.
The other demons froze.
Confusion hung in the air like mist. What had just happened?
One moment, their companion was here—alive, powerful, cruel.
The next—gone. Erased from existence. Not even granted the dignity of a scream.
A whisper broke the silence.
"There is no mistake... it's him."
Their eyes widened. Tension twisted their features.
The air grew colder with realization.
"Why is he here?"
"How is he here?"
"It's been... 115 years!"
Fire bloomed again—not destructive, but living—snaking around the man's form like a serpent. The flames did not consume him. They obeyed him. They belonged to him.
Zanthos felt his heart beating in his skull. A painful, suffocating pressure gripped his chest.
He clenched his fists, trying to still his trembling. Trying to remember who he was—what he was.
He took a shaky breath.
"On behalf of Lord Lucifer, I—" Zanthos began, forcing authority into his voice.
But the man's eyes snapped to him. Just his gaze—and it hit Zanthos like a hurricane. Wind erupted through the chamber, knocking over rubble, dousing fire, and blasting ash into the corners.
Zanthos dropped to one knee, gasping for air, sweat pouring from his skin to the ground.
He tried again.
Regaining just enough composure to speak.
"…On his majesty's behalf," he panted, "I ask… why have you come to disturb the peace?"
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to look up at the figure.
"…Why have you come… Sammael?