At the farthest edge of the Realm of Light — where no ray dares to reach — there exists another world.
A kingdom without dawn, ruled by eternal night, where earth and blood are one, and the echoes of lost souls drift through the dark like the universe's final lullaby.
The air is thick with black mist, so dense that even sight feels strangled.
In the distance, jagged stone towers rise from the abyss, sharp as the spine of an ancient beast.
Above them, a crimson moon hangs half-veiled behind clouds dense as velvet, its faint glow staining the heavens like dried blood.
The wind howls through cold corridors, carrying the scent of ash and rust — the breath of the dead.
At the heart of that realm stands a vast hall, black and endless. Candles made of blood burn upon iron pillars, their violet flames casting trembling light upon a colossal throne of steel.
Upon the throne sat a figure — motionless, statue-like.
His skin was pale as wax, faint veins visible beneath its frozen surface. His hair, long and black, fell over his shoulders, catching dim red glimmers from the dying candles. His lips bore the color of dried blood, and each breath he exhaled shimmered into swirling shadows.
But it was his eyes that drew terror —
Eyes as deep as the abyss, not reflecting light, but consuming it. To meet them was to gaze into the pit where souls were dragged to silence.
He was Azrakar Noctis, the being humans once feared as Dracula, the Firstborn of the Eternal Night —
Half god, half demon, and no longer wholly either.
His voice broke the silence — low, slow, and heavy, like the sound of stone fracturing beneath the earth.
"You have come… Lucifer."
The sound rippled across the hall, striking every wall, every flame, until even the air seemed to tremble.
The final gate opened, and a surge of crimson fire filled the doorway.
Lucifer entered.
His cloak trailed behind him like a spill of blood. The wings upon his back — once white as the morning star — were now scorched and dusted with ash. Each motion scattered faint sparks that died before touching the ground.
In his hand, he carried a dark crystal flask. Inside it, a dim light swirled — the last fragment of Satan's soul.
He halted before the steps of the throne. His voice, hoarse yet sharp and proud, rang like steel grinding against stone:
"This is what remains of Him — the final shard of Satan, the Fallen Lord.
I need you to keep it… until the time of resurrection."
Azrakar raised an eyebrow. A faint smile crossed his lips — not mocking, but the weary smile of one who has lived long enough to see meaning wither.
He rose from the throne.
The iron seat groaned, screaming like metal scraping bone. His black cloak trailed across the floor, merging with the darkness as though it were alive. As he approached Lucifer, the air thickened, and the temperature dropped so sharply that Lucifer's breath turned to frost.
"Keep it?" Azrakar's voice slid across the space like night mist.
"No, Lucifer.
I will sow it."
Lucifer's eyes narrowed. The light within the flask flickered, casting twin red reflections in his pupils.
"What are you saying, Azrakar?"
Azrakar raised his hand.
Drops of black blood fell from his palm, but instead of splattering, they evaporated midair — coalescing into glowing symbols that spun slowly like constellations.
"Since the Night was young," he said, his tone a measured chant,
"I learned how to make souls that never die.
I call them Soul Seeds."
"Each time I feed, I plant one within my prey — a piece of my own essence.
It grows, takes root in their hearts.
They believe themselves vampires…"
He smiled, revealing fangs that gleamed like crystal.
"But in truth, they are only my roots."
Lucifer took a step back, gripping the flask tight. His voice cut sharp as molten iron:
"You are playing with annihilation, Dracula.
You think you can control a fragment of Satan's soul?"
Azrakar laughed softly. The sound was low and resonant, echoing through the vaulted chamber like the reversed scream of a violin.
"Annihilation? No, Lucifer.
I am restoring balance."
He drew nearer, each word trembling through the air like ripples across still water.
"Your God created light by tearing apart the darkness.
Now I will mend the wound."
Lucifer studied him long and hard — eyes glimmering with both awe and unease.
"You've already done it… haven't you?"
The candles flickered. A cold wind swept through, smelling of ash and old blood.
Azrakar turned toward the window, gaze lost beyond the walls — toward a distant world of light and men.
"Yes," he whispered.
"I've found one who is worthy.
A soul pure enough to contain the fragment without shattering."
Lucifer froze.
For the first time in ages, fear crossed his face — a feeling he thought long buried since the Fall.
"You… planted it in a human?"
Azrakar smiled — a smile both regretful and proud.
"Every seed I sow," he said softly,
"knows when it must bloom."
He turned back toward Lucifer. The light inside the flask flickered — then died.
Darkness swallowed everything.
"And when Satan awakens," his voice descended to a whisper, like the lullaby of night,
"you will see… I have never done anything without purpose."
Lucifer said nothing. The light in his eyes dimmed; his scorched wings trembled and dissolved into drifting cinders.
As he departed, the candles in the great hall extinguished one by one, until only the echo of Dracula's laughter remained — low, drawn-out, and cold.
A sound like a seed cracking open beneath the earth.
And in that darkness, the world seemed to shift —
as if Night itself had just signed a new covenant with Darkness.
The Remnant of the SoulA time later — years, centuries, none could tell — the eternal sky above the Black Kingdom shuddered once more.
The thick clouds tore apart under a surge of red flame. Castle Noctis trembled, woken from its millennial slumber.
The grand doors burst open.
Lucifer entered again — this time wreathed not in bloodlight, but in true Hellfire, coiling around him like enraged serpents.
Each step he took made the stones quake; shadows recoiled, and the blood candles snapped in half, spilling molten wax and gore.
"Azrakar!" his voice thundered, rending the air with fury.
"The fragment… has been stolen!"
Azrakar stood silently by a black window, the crimson moon pale through the mist. He did not turn; his voice came quiet and cold as ancient stone:
"Stolen?
From whose hand?"
Lucifer's teeth ground; his wings ignited, molten feathers shedding sparks.
"The Archangels!" he roared.
"They found the vessel. They sealed it, hiding it beneath the guise of a chosen saint!
I've lost the trail — the fragment of Lord Satan has been stolen from us!"
His rage split the air. The walls cracked; blood from the candles splattered across the floor like rain. From those fissures leaked icy vapors that merged with his wrath, birthing a storm unseen.
Azrakar turned, moving through the dark like a shadow of smoke.
"Calm yourself, Lucifer," he said, voice softer than breath but louder than the storm.
"If you let wrath consume you, you'll become no different from the fragment — mindless and lost."
Lucifer's chest heaved, flames still flickering.
"You expect me to be calm when our resurrection is undone?"
Azrakar's eyes glowed faint violet — deep as the abyss.
"Did you set demons to watch the vessel?" he asked quietly.
Lucifer hesitated — then nodded.
A faint, knowing smile curved Azrakar's lips.
"I thought so."
He traced a sigil in the air with black blood; it spun once before fading.
"You fail to see, Lucifer — your surveillance exposed it.
The angels smelled the stench of demons… and followed the scent."
His eyes glimmered faintly red.
"You led them straight to what you wished to hide."
Lucifer's fury flared, bathing the hall in molten orange.
"You speak as if this is my fault."
Azrakar shrugged, settling back into his throne; stone trembled beneath him.
"Not fault — inevitability. When a hothead dares to play the game of destiny."
"Listen, Lucifer," his voice dropped, steel beneath the calm,
"the fragment has now fully merged with its vessel.
It's no longer Satan's shard — it has become a new soul.
A complete being.
You cannot reclaim it… because there's nothing left to reclaim."
Lucifer's eyes flared.
"And you would have me wait? While the angels nurture that thing beneath their light?"
"Wait," Azrakar replied.
"Sooner or later, its true nature will awaken.
A shard of Satan cannot sleep forever within mortal flesh.
When it does, the balance of light and darkness within it will tear apart —
and then, we shall find it again."
Lucifer stood still. The fire around him died to embers.
He looked at Azrakar — suspicion and anger mingling in his gaze.
"You speak of waiting and sowing, but I know you, Dracula — you plant other things as well, don't you?"
Azrakar only smiled, faint and unreadable.
"I plant what must be planted… so that the Night may endure."
Lucifer's voice dropped to a growl.
"Fine. I will wait — as you say.
But when I reclaim that soul, Azrakar…
don't think I'll share it with you."
Azrakar did not move.
Only his voice followed, smooth and chilling as wind through bones:
"You may keep it, Lucifer…
if you live long enough to see that it belongs to no one."
Lucifer turned, wings unfolding in a storm of crimson ash.
The gates of Hell closed behind him, leaving only the scent of iron and fire.
When his shadow vanished, the candles died.
The red moon's light trickled down the iron throne like a streak of dried blood.
Azrakar sat still, gazing into the emptiness where Lucifer had stood.
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, and he whispered, almost to himself:
"The bearer of that soul… will awaken.
And when he does, Lucifer —
it will be you who wakes the Devil."
In the deepest heart of the kingdom without dawn,
a sigh of black wind passed —
signaling that the night was about to change its master.