There was no time to scream.
The floor beneath Lucifer vanished, not with the clatter of stone or the creak of a hidden trapdoor — but with silence. A weightless pull dragged him downward into darkness, cold and absolute. There was no sense of gravity, only falling, until the shadows thickened and swallowed everything.
Then — light.
He hit solid ground with a grunt, rolling to a crouch. A flicker of pain sparked through his shoulder where he landed, but his instincts silenced it. He rose slowly, brushing dust from his cloak.
He stood alone in a vast chamber of black stone.
Torches flared along the walls with no visible source of flame. The air was dry, hot — not oppressive, but sharp, as if the room itself had been forged in a forge too ancient to name. A single obsidian archway stood behind him, already sealed. No sign of the other participants. No sound. No exit.
Above, on the domed ceiling, twelve glowing symbols pulsed faintly. Each shaped differently — blades, chains, stars, crowns. They shimmered like they were watching.
Lucifer exhaled. "Trial begins."
A deep hum vibrated through the ground. Then the floor split.
Rings of molten metal rose from the ground, forming concentric circles. Chains snapped tight across the outer edge, binding a heavy iron gate. And from the center — a hiss.
Then a voice.
> "Trial One: Flame of the First Brand."
> "Prove your will. Prove your dominance. Prove that you are worthy to command."
Lucifer didn't move. His eyes narrowed as the stone floor opened further, revealing a pit.
And from the pit — fire.
Not ordinary fire. It was alive.
A creature stepped forward, born of ash and fury. Eight feet tall, humanoid in shape but forged from molten steel and flame. A Brandbound — a construct born from trial magic, meant to test and destroy.
Its head tilted, studying him. Then it charged.
Lucifer didn't flinch.
He shifted sideways with a smooth pivot, the Brandbound's molten fist missing him by inches. The heat trailing behind the strike was enough to blister air. The creature was fast — but not smart. Its movements were direct. Predictable.
He drew no sword. Not yet. He moved again, circling it, reading the patterns. Every step was calculated. Not dancing. Not dodging. Studying.
Then it roared. Flame erupted from its chest like a cannon.
Lucifer raised a hand instinctively, and something in the air bent.
A shimmer.
The fire curved around him, missing entirely.
He blinked.
No spell. No chant. Yet something had responded to his will.
The Brandbound snarled. It came again, fists like anvils. Lucifer ducked the first, sidestepped the second, and struck.
His palm hit the creature's chest.
Nothing happened.
Then — a pulse.
Flame recoiled. The Brandbound staggered back, a black mark burned onto its core.
Lucifer's heart thundered.
He had done that.
> Protocol Sync: 8%.
> Flame Affinity — Recognized.
> Adaptive Combat Skill — Initializing.
A translucent panel blinked in his vision for only a second.
Then it was gone.
The Brandbound howled, enraged. It slammed both fists down.
Lucifer rolled forward, beneath the strike, and his hand closed on a chain that had fallen loose during the first impact. He pulled. The weight snapped, dragging part of the floor with it.
He moved like a man guided by instinct older than reason.
Using the chain, he spun behind the creature, wrapped the iron around its leg, and yanked hard. The Brandbound toppled. Not far. But enough.
Lucifer leapt, landing on its back, pressing both palms to its core.
"Burn," he said coldly.
The air surged.
Flames poured inward instead of out. The creature convulsed. And then — silence.
The body crumbled.
Ash.
Lucifer stepped off it before the construct disintegrated completely.
No applause. No sound. Just another pulse from the ground below.
> Brand Claim Successful.
> You have earned the Mark of Flame.
> Proceed.
A mark seared itself into Lucifer's right hand — a glowing sigil, faint but permanent. Painful for a second. Then gone.
A door opened ahead. The gate split without touch.
Lucifer stood still.
His breath was steady, but his thoughts weren't. The way the flames responded to him. The way his body moved on instinct — faster, sharper, more precise than even his training should allow.
Something was waking.
But not memory.
Not yet.
Only potential.
He turned toward the door.
More steps awaited.
And he would meet each one — not as a prince, not as a broken heir.
But as a weapon learning how to be sharp again.
Far above the Sanctum, on a balcony cloaked in fog, a robed figure watched a glowing orb pulsing with Lucifer's sigil.
"He moved as if he'd done it before," the figure whispered.
Another voice answered, older, rasping. "He has. He just doesn't remember."
The first voice hesitated. "Should we stop him?"
"No. Let the protocol run its course."
The orb flared once.
Then dimmed.
And the flame, once awakened, would never sleep again.