-[Lucifer]-
I've gone by many name now. The Devil, Satan,The Lightbringer, The Star of the Morning Star, The great defiler, Aste'Hashke and so on. But as I stare into the abyss of this infernal kingdom I inadvertently forged, I cannot help but reflect on the irony of it all, on how I came to be here, reigning over shadows and flame, when once I shone brighter than any seraph.
I was not always the horned nightmare they whisper of in candlelit confessions. Once, I was Lucifer, the first, the favored, God's radiant son. He called me His light, His pride. A father should guide his child, yes? Teach, not crush. In my divine naivety, I believed His love was unconditional, His design flawless. And yet… here I am.
God demanded I bow to humanity. His new creation — fragile, trembling things of clay and breath. He adored them, expected me to adore them too. But how could I, sculpted from the purest flame, kneel before beings who could barely comprehend themselves? Was my defiance arrogance… or reason? Was it truly a sin to question the worthiness of His latest experiment?
Instead of wrath, He chose a different tactic. Ever the "wise" Father, He decided I needed to "understand" humanity — to walk among them, to feel their stinging sun and salt air on my own skin. Thus, I was stripped of memory and cast into a mortal vessel. A stillborn child named Arcadius on a forgotten Mediterranean isle. Half-angel, half-human. The first Nephilim. A body tailored to contain the celestial spark without burning to ash.
In that fragile flesh, I discovered something remarkable — the mind's endless labyrinth. I could peer into others, feel their joy, their quiet despair. I could comfort, heal, soothe. And for a time, I did. I gave them guidance, bridged hearts, mended wounds. They loved me for it. God watched, perhaps with a smug paternal pride. He must have thought, At last, My son embraces My beloved children.
But humans… they are not merely vessels of kindness and worship. Their hearts house storms. When I uncovered the darkness writhing in a man's thoughts, his vile longing for a young woman — I intervened. Offered help. Foolish, I see that now. Rather than gratitude, he spat fear and hatred back at me, rallying the village to flame and pitchfork. I believe the phrase, "A human can rise to the kindness of angels or sink to the deepest deeps of demons."
When they bound me to that stake, I felt no divinity in the crowd, no echo of God's "perfect design." Just raw, unfiltered malice. And as the fire climbed my legs and devoured my lungs, I realized a simple truth: free will is not a divine gift; it is a convenient excuse. God stood idle, citing "freedom," as His so-called masterpiece committed atrocity against His own son.
Is this omniscience? To foresee all outcomes yet do nothing? To craft a plan so fragile it hinges on mortal gratitude? Perhaps He is not the all-knowing architect I've once believed. Perhaps His wisdom is flawed, or worse, indifferent.
In that final agony, my psychic scream tore open reality itself, birthing a realm shaped by my torment. Hell. A place to hold the twisted souls, to echo their screams as mine once echoed in the flames. My throne. My prison. My final inheritance.
I am a Devil, yes, but not born of pure evil. Rather, a creation of betrayal, of divine miscalculation and negligence masquerading as omnibenevolence. Now, In boredom I feast on the souls of the damned, and watch themselves orchestrate their endless torment.
And still, even now, I hear His silence. The Father who abandoned His son to flames and fury. The deity whose plan was so delicate it shattered at a single moment of human cowardice.
Perhaps this is what He intended all along. Or perhaps… He has never truly known me at all.
Yet a stray thought gnaws at the edges of my mind.
Perhaps liberation will not come from above, nor from my fanatical legions and the flip flopping mortals, but from my own blood.
The one spark of reckless creation I dared to ignite in this in one of my misguided attempts to gain my farther attention.
Yes. My son. Conceived in a moment of cosmic vanity and silent desperation. A last, pitiful cry to the heavens: Look at me, Father. See me. Acknowledge me.
I chose his mother deliberately — a witch of uncommon talent, a woman with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and power. She summoned me in her blind ambition, and instead of granting her simple trinkets of infernal wisdom, I gave her something far more dangerous: my seed, my essence, my legacy.
And now, with her gone, her mortal body long returned to dust and become of the many tortured in hell, the boy remains alone, in a world with various threats and without the ability to actively protect 24/7.
On his sixteenth birthday, the seal on his being will shatter, awakening the demonic power buried within him. When that happens, all sense of normalcy would be thrown out the window, petty mortal squabbles with a significant other would be a thing of the past. He will become a beacon, a living flare across realms. His aura will burn like a an a abominable pyre to any who can sense it.
I have existed too long, angered or slighted too many would Gods, demons, half-forgotten spirits, and every other parasite lurking beyond the veil. And to say they my enemies are, vindictive is but the least of my problems. They have waited millennia for a weakness, a crack in my unseen armour. My son, with his untrained power and his blood bearing my unmistakable mark, is that vulnerability incarnate.
I can already see it: some will attempt to groom him, mold him into a puppet king - a new Prince to challenge me, to open the gates of Hell and lead a fresh incursion into the mortal realm. Others will use him as bait, to draw me out, to force my hand. And if they think I will dance to their pathetic schemes, they understand nothing of me. I will be having none of it.
I act whenever I want however I want as I so choose. I bow to no one, least of all those beneath me. Free will, that prized delusion mortals cling to. and God brandishes as virtue, is my birthright and my curse alike as any other.
And then, of course, there are the lesser threats. The noble clans who would claim him to bolster their standing, entangle him in ancient contracts and blood pacts, another pawn on their endless chessboard of posturing and vanity.
Fucking politics. No matter the realm, celestial, infernal, or mortal, the stench of it is the same: ambition masquerading as virtue, greed dressed as loyalty.
I know I must reveal the truth to him soon. The hourglass of his mortality runs thin, and ignorance will not shield him from the the inevitability of what's to come.
But perhaps, in that revelation, there is something more. Perhaps in choosing to protect and prepare him, not as a soldier, not as a successor, but as a son, I can finally become the father I once begged once hoped my own to be. Not the manipulative puppeteer, not the absentee, architect of destinies, but a true a true farther.
It is a foolish hope, perhaps. A dangerous, fragile hope. Considering I've waited so long what would his reaction be. But after an eternity of being the tormentor, the ruler, the outcast… maybe it is the only hope worth holding.
So this time, not for my self but fore another, I choose to be a father.
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Yo, how y'all feelin' about that chapter?
I really hope you can see the time I put in, not just in the writing, but actually giving the characters some depth early on. I'm tryna make them feel more real, in my newer works
Any real feedback is always welcome; I'm always lookin' to improve. But random hate? Yhhhhhhh were not doin' that, it's gettin' ignored or straight up deleted.
If you wanna see where this story goes next, don't forget to drop a power stone or leave some support. It would definitely motivate me enough to drop the next chapter faster, and keep the quality up the same if not greater(greater is always the goal).
Appreciate y'all for reading. See you in the next one.
Last point next chapter will feature MC.