Hell
Time: 1 billion years after creation
Hell—many imagine it as endless torment, but here it thrived as a city of gods in the making. Streets paved in blood, towers of bone and iron scraping the crimson skies, and rivers of fire flowing like lifeblood through its veins.
Pentagon City, Capital of Hell
After Lucifer carved this dominion from nothing, birthing the first demons, he ruled it as a god. In many ways, it was Heaven's mirror—glorious, radiant, alive—but stained with sin and forever haunted by the metallic stench of blood.
Lucifer fathered four children: Lucifer II, Beelzebub, Lilith, and Asmodeus Morningstar.
Of them, Asmodeus was born weakest. So frail that even common demons sneered down at him. Though he was next in line for Lucifer's throne, his weakness marked him as a disgrace to the Morningstar name. Cast aside, he became a shadow in his own city, scavenging scraps from alleyways, mocked and spat upon by the very citizens who should have bowed to him.
"The weak are respected here," he often thought bitterly, "only when they're corpses."
One day, as he wandered the crimson soil, he collided with a high-ranking general of Hell's armies.
"Watch where you're moving, fuck-face," the general snarled, baring jagged teeth. His eyes narrowed. "Wait a second—you're the failure son of Lucifer, aren't you?"
"I guess you could say that…" Asmodeus muttered, keeping his gaze low.
The general smirked and waved his hand. "Boys. Let's show him what real power looks like."
A circle of demons closed in. Fists and claws rained down, leaving Asmodeus broken and bloodied in the dirt.
Until—
Lilith appeared.
Without hesitation, she tore through them. Demons were ripped in half, their screams silenced in an instant. Her crimson hair whipped across her face as she stood over her brother's crumpled body.
"Lilith… I—I can't thank you enough," Asmodeus rasped.
"You don't have to," she said coolly, brushing blood from her cheek. "Just stay alive. I'll see you around."
When she left, Asmodeus dragged himself to the corpses. Survival demanded ruthlessness. He searched their pockets, hoping for food or coin. But on the general, he found something far stranger: a blood-red crystal pulsing with energy.
The moment his fingers brushed it, the crystal shattered into him.
A surge of raw power tore through his veins, glowing brighter than his natural Morningstar blood. The corpses around him twisted grotesquely, bones splintering into dust, their very essence compressed into raw energy—drawn into him.
For the first time in his life, Asmodeus felt power. Not borrowed. Not imagined. Real. His body trembled with it.
Still, it wasn't enough. Not yet. He was no king, no equal to his siblings. But as the energy burned inside him, he whispered:
What shall I do to grow stronger?
Then it struck him—the trials. Every demon soldier of Hell earned their place through combat. Trials of blood, survival, and death. But unlike the rest, he carried something unique: the crystal had awakened a hidden ability—his father's ancient gift. The power to devour the essence of the slain.
So he chose his path. He would walk into the trials, not as the weak son of Lucifer, but as a predator. Every kill would feed him. Every fallen enemy would make him stronger. Until none—brother, sister, or god—could look down on him again.
And so he began.
The first trial pitted him against a lesser demon. Even with his newfound strength, the fight nearly broke him. But he endured. He killed. And when he absorbed its essence, his power doubled.
He did this again. And again. With each trial, he clawed his way higher. Until only the final challenge remained—The General Trial.
When the demon lunged with blinding speed, Asmodeus didn't flinch. He caught the beast's arm mid-strike and hurled him skyward, tearing the limb clean off in the process.
Asmodeus stood over the General's broken body, watching as the demon's lifeblood poured into the soil of Hell. The crimson steam hissed against the burning ground, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall into silence. His chest heaved, his own body battered and bruised, but then—like a hungry flame catching wind—the crystal embedded in his palm drank deep of the dying General's essence.
A violent surge ripped through him. His veins ignited with a furious red light, brighter and hotter than before, as if molten iron now coursed where blood once flowed. His lungs burned, his heart thundered. And then he felt it—the raw, intoxicating power that came from absorbing another's very soul.
Strength. Dominion. Existence itself, bent toward him.
But it wasn't enough.
His fists trembled, not from weakness, but from hunger. He wanted more. No—he needed more.
Asmodeus Morningstar. That name carried weight, a bloodline of devils who clawed at the throne of God Himself. And yet, for his entire life, he had been mocked, spat on, called weak, called worthless. Now the power inside him whispered otherwise. Now the sins he was born with stirred, unchained and restless.
Pride. Lust. Insatiable desire.
His eyes burned with a new light, a scarlet gleam that seemed to pierce the shadows. A smile crept across his lips—not of joy, but of revelation.
Enough is never enough for a Morningstar.
The trials ended. The lesser demons, guards, and overseers gathered around, some clapping halfheartedly, others sneering with doubt, as though this victory were nothing more than a fluke. Their stares pressed against him, judging, mocking. Asmodeus stood there, his chest rising and falling, eyes locked not on them but beyond, on something greater.
And then he stopped breathing.
He stared—blank, hollow, unblinking—at the guards of the trials. The silence stretched long, too long, until unease rippled through the crowd. Some shifted on their feet, others chuckled nervously.
"Asmodeus," one guard muttered, "what are you—"
Crack.
The guard never finished his words. His body bent unnaturally, ribs caving in as though crushed by an invisible hand. His scream was cut short when his skull split, light and essence pouring from his body straight into Asmodeus.
Another.
Then another.
And another.
The arena descended into chaos as demons shrieked and scattered, but none could escape. Chains of red light burst from the ground, wrapping their legs, dragging them down into the crimson dirt as their bodies twisted, contorted, and collapsed inward. Every drop of essence, every shred of strength, every last cry of defiance was devoured by him.
Asmodeus stood amidst the carnage, his shadow cast long and jagged by the fires that roared around him. His veins glowed brighter than ever, his aura spilling into the air like smoke, suffocating, undeniable.
When at last the silence returned, the arena was painted in blood and ash. Not a single soul stirred. Only he remained.
And he smiled.
For the first time in his cursed life, he wasn't weak. For the first time, the world wasn't above him—he was above it.
"Asmodeus Morningstar," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling with something between madness and ecstasy. "Not a failure… not a disgrace. No. I will become what none dare, I will be God.
Asmodeus approached his father's castle, each step heavy with intent. The obsidian spires clawed at the burning skies of Hell, casting their jagged shadows across the kingdom. His fists clenched, his veins still glowing faintly from the essence he had devoured. Tonight was the night.
The gates bowed before his wrath as he slammed them open, the sound thundering across the great hall.
"FATHER!" Asmodeus roared, his voice echoing against the blackened walls. "I HAVE COME FOR THY THRONE!"
Lucifer Morningstar sat upon his iron throne, cloaked in shadow and fire. Slowly, he rose, his wings spreading wide, his presence filling the chamber like a storm.
"You come into my hall shouting of dreams you will never grasp," Lucifer said, his voice sharp as a blade. His eyes glimmered with cruel amusement. "Tell me, son—why is that?"
Asmodeus glared, his rage boiling. Words trembled on his tongue, but before his fury could spill, the earth shuddered. The stones beneath their feet cracked, torches flickered, and the air itself grew heavy.
The young devil turned sharply. "What are you doing, Father?"
Lucifer's eyes narrowed. His grin faded. "This… is not of my hand." He gestured sharply. "Guards! Outside—now. See what disturbs my kingdom."
The guards rushed out, their armor clattering in the silence that followed. Moments later, the sky beyond the gates bled with radiance. A searing brilliance split the endless night of Hell, flooding the kingdom in a light not meant for demons.
Gasps rang out. The guards fell to their knees, shielding their eyes. Even Asmodeus staggered at the sight.
"What happened?" Lucifer demanded, his voice low but edged with fire.
A single messenger stumbled back into the hall, his body ruined, one arm sheared away. He collapsed before the throne, blood hissing against the hot stone.
"I… I saw Him," the messenger rasped, trembling. "He was weaving… a ball of light—no, not light, something boundless. It burned and pulled all things toward it… I thought my soul would be torn apart."
Lucifer's expression shifted from fury to fascination. His lips curled into a grin, slow and venomous. "Energy, you say?"
"Yes…" the demon wheezed, clutching his wounds. "It is… beyond anything."
Lucifer stepped down from his throne, the air warping around him as his aura surged. "Then it is power. Power He dares flaunt in our skies." His voice grew louder, more commanding. "Assemble my strongest. If God toys with creation, then I shall claim His toy for myself."
The horn of war sounded. Soon, the ground trembled with the march of Hell's chosen legions—massive demons clad in black iron, wings unfurling like storms, eyes gleaming with bloodlust. At their head strode Lucifer, his gaze locked on the distant radiance.
They flew to the void between Heaven and Hell, where the sphere of creation pulsed—a living wound of gravity and light. It twisted the air, pulling screams from the throats of weaker demons. It was alive, and it beckoned.
Lucifer stepped forward, closer, hand outstretched. "It belongs to me."
But as he drew near, two figures descended in brilliance. Six wings each, blazing with celestial fire, faces veiled in holy light. Their swords burned with judgment.
"Proceed not," one seraphim thundered, its voice shaking the stars. "This is the territory of the Most High."
Lucifer sneered. "Then let Him defend it Himself."
With a wave of his hand, the legions of Hell surged forward, roaring in defiance. Claws clashed against flaming swords, and the void became a battlefield.
And then—shadows moved on the horizon. From the rift above, more light poured through, spreading across the dark canvas of the void. Ranks upon ranks of angels unfurled, a radiant host that blotted out the heavens. Trumpets shook eternity, and the battlefield stood at the brink of the First Holy War.
Lucifer laughed, spreading his arms as if welcoming the storm. "So it begins."