Ten years had passed since the final battle, when the churches crumbled and the world fell completely into the hands of the satanic cults. The world was no longer the same. The great cities were now filled with towering black freestructuresblinkedwasfacesarchwayread: "Only the chosen shall bear the weight of destiny."
This academy existed not to educate, but to seek the one called the Satanic Son of Fate. The concept was simple: among the millions of children born after the war, there would be one destined soul—one who would transcend human limits and rise as the new leader, guiding the cults toward what they called the Celestial Demon—the peak of existence before which even hell itself would bow.
Inside, students were not taught mathematics or history, but the secrets of the supernatural. They learned the art of summoning spirits, writing symbols in the air to open rifts into other realms, harvesting negative energy born from human suffering, and diving into dreams to plant illusions within others' minds.
Rituals were part of their daily routine. Every student was required to ignite a flame at the center of a blood circle and recite the morning oath. Failure was not met with bad grades—it was met with punishment. Some were locked inside the Mirror Chamber, where one's own reflection became the cruelest teacher of all.
Yet that was not the most terrifying thing about the academy. At the end of every month came the Selection. Students were summoned to the grand hall, where a black altar burned with roaring fire. The new High Priest and the teaching council would test them, and those deemed unworthy would never return to their dorms. No one knew where they went—only whispers remained, that their bodies and souls were offered to strengthen the gates of the demon world.
Those who survived grew not only intelligent but merciless. They learned that sympathy was weakness, and doubt the greatest sin. The academy did not simply raise future leaders—it stripped away the remnants of their humanity.
In the main hall of Satanic Academy, two thousand students stood in perfect rows. They came from every background—some born to noble blood, others raised from the filth of the streets. But here, such differences meant nothing. There were no titles, no inherited honor, no family pride.
Beneath the towering statue of Lucifer that loomed over the hall, only one law existed: the strong shall lead, and the weak shall kneel.
The teachers' eyes watched the students like blacksmiths judging raw metal—not with pity, but with calculation, deciding which would be forged into something useful and which would be melted down as fuel.
The first lesson they received was not about rituals but about life itself. An old teacher clad in a black robe, his face covered in scars shaped like carved symbols, stepped forward and spoke:
"Out there, you were taught that life is about goodness—that virtue brings light, and light brings salvation. But look at the world now. The churches have fallen. Prayers go unanswered. Goodness has perished with the weakness of its believers."
He lowered his head slightly, his eyes sweeping across the hall.
"Here, you will learn something more honest—that life is not black and white. That goodness can kill more people than evil ever could. That lies can save more lives than truth. And that cruelty, when directed with purpose, can be a greater kindness than a weak love."
The children swallowed his words—some in awe, others in silent horror.
"What you must understand," the teacher continued, "is not morality, but value. Anything can be good, anything can be evil—it depends only on how you wield it. And here, you will learn to master that value. Fail, and you will become its victim."
Lessons took place not only in classrooms but on vast stone fields, in mirror-lined basements, and in the towers where rituals were held. They learned to fight not only with blades, but with words, with illusions, with the manipulation of the human heart.
Here, a street orphan could defeat a noble-born child if they learned to read sigils faster. A girl could subdue ten boys if she could channel negative energy more deeply. There was no mercy in battle, no tolerance for weakness.
And yet, beneath its ruthless teachings, the Satanic Academy instilled one truth rarely acknowledged by the outside world: the understanding of life itself. That to truly live, one must dare to face the darkness. That life is not about being good or evil, but about how one gives meaning to their power.
And among the two thousand students, one question echoed in every mind:
Who will endure the longest—and who will fall first?
Because in the Satanic Academy, destiny is not something you wait for—
it is something you seize.
The High Priest of the Satanic Academy—No. 5—walked slowly across the grand hall, his gaze sharp and ink-black, as if piercing straight into the souls of the students. The room was silent, filled only with the sound of two thousand anxious breaths—half boys, half girls—caught between fear and curiosity.
He stopped in the center. His black staff, carved with ancient sigils, struck the ground three times, sending a heavy echo that pressed against every chest.
"You are not here by luck, nor by your parents' will," his voice resounded, layered with whispers that seemed to come from unseen mouths. "You are here because the world has chosen you. Because destiny demands your existence."
"Beyond these walls, the world is empty. False virtues have failed humanity, and blind faith has chained their minds. But here—inside the Satanic Academy—you will learn the hidden truth: that darkness is not an enemy… but a power that sets one free."
He raised his hand. Shadows poured from his fingertips, swirling above the students like living smoke.
"Here, you will learn to speak with spirits, to draw sigils of power, and to understand the true nature of life. You will learn that death is but a doorway… and that what mortals call 'evil' is merely light, reflected in reverse."
He lowered his head slightly, his gaze cutting through the silence.
"Remember this—only the strong will survive. Only those who can stare into the abyss without flinching will rise as leaders. And perhaps among you… lies the long-awaited Child of the Satanic Fate."
The students glanced at one another—some trembling, others smiling with ambition.
"Before your lessons begin," the High Priest continued, "you must understand what the True Cult stands for."
"This cult is not a mere gathering of followers. It is a form of spiritual alchemy—an ancient inheritance long forgotten by the world. Where others sought control through lies, we seek freedom through truth. We do not pray for power; we become power."
He lifted his staff again, and a red sigil ignited in the air—a circle of turning symbols glowing like molten iron.
"Here, truth is not found through blind devotion. Truth is found through knowledge, through courage, through the will to embrace darkness and emerge unbroken."
The pressure in the hall grew heavy; some students clutched their chests from the weight of the energy emanating from the sigil. Yet the pain only deepened their hunger to learn.
The High Priest stood before the black altar surrounded by crimson fire. His voice deepened, filling the vast underground chamber.
He walked slowly , against the stone floor.
"Darkness is not evil. It is freedom. Knowledge. And to know it, one must face it without fear, without judgment—only then will you see it for what it truly is."
The fire circling the altar began to shift, forming ancient symbols of forgotten gods. The students felt the air grow heavy and hot—some trembled, yet none dared to move.
"The true path," said the High Priest, his voice echoing through the stone hall, "was born long before the world divided light from shadow. The ancient wisdom that once guided humanity was buried, but here—within these walls—we reclaim it."
He gazed forward, his eyes sharp as obsidian.
"You are not here to pray. You are here to awaken—to tear through the veil of falsehood and see the truth that was hidden. The path is not easy… but it is real."
The crimson flames reflected against the obsidian walls, dancing across the still faces of two thousand students seated in silence. The High Priest stood within a circle of living symbols that pulsed like a beating heart. His voice was deep, resonant, carrying an ancient authority.
"The Cult does not follow the faiths of the surface world," he continued, each word heavy like a spell. "For centuries, mankind's spirit was bound by illusions—beliefs crafted to suppress knowledge and harvest human will. Here, we break those chains. Here, we seek what was lost."
Some of the students bit their lips, the Priest's words seeping into their thoughts like fire and venom intertwined.
"The ancient ways were never about worship," he said, his tone like waves crashing against stone. "They were about understanding. About power born from awareness. You are here to rediscover that power—to awaken what sleeps within you."
The fire rose higher, its shapes twisting into complex sigils that shimmered with forbidden energy.
"Truth," he declared, "is not something given—it is something found. And to find it, you must have the courage to unmask the world's greatest illusion."
The flames seemed to listen, pulsing with every word. The students bowed their heads, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear.
The High Priest lifted his black staff, drawing a glowing red circle in the air. The lines expanded, forming a radiant symbol that hovered above them like a living star.
"Now," he said solemnly, "we begin your first lesson—understanding the Sacred Symbol."
He paced around the fiery pattern. Each step echoed across the stone floor as though awakening old memories buried deep beneath it.
"A symbol is not merely a shape," he said. "It is a language. The language of spirits. The language of energy itself. The unspoken words that bridge our world with the unseen."
He extended his hand and drew a line of blood across his palm, letting it drip onto the circle. The sigil flared—its pulse quickened, and heat filled the air.
"Every line has meaning. Every angle holds direction. Every point sparks creation. The sacred symbols were not drawn by human hands—they were revealed, fragments of a greater map connecting the mortal and the infinite."
The students gasped as the vibrations grew stronger, their bodies trembling under the unseen force. The High Priest smiled faintly.
"Do not resist," he whispered. "Let the symbol speak to you. If you fear it, it will turn away. But if you surrender your fear, you will hear its whisper—and understand the language of the unseen."
The symbol began to emit a faint sound—like the whisper of a thousand tongues speaking in a language no one could understand.
High Priest No. 5 raised his hand.
"This is your first lesson," he said. "Listen and record what you feel. Remember it well. This symbol will be both your companion and your trial. It will reveal whether you are worthy to move forward—or be destroyed by the truth you seek."
His footsteps echoed through the dim underground hall. The black torches flickered wildly, their flames dancing like demonic shadows on the stone walls. His voice rose higher, trembling with a hysteria that pierced the air as he lifted a carved sigil marked with dried blood.
"Behold! This is no mere mark! This is the key! The mirror of your souls!" he cried, his eyes wide and glimmering with madness.
The disciples stared at the symbol. The longer they gazed, the more alive it seemed—turning, writhing, crawling into their minds. Their subconscious opened, and one by one their bodies began to shake violently. Some screamed, seeing the faces of their loved ones crumble before their eyes. Others wept, tormented by loss, loneliness, and endless regret. Some collapsed to the floor, convulsing as old wounds—childhood trauma, betrayal, torment—surged back to life, flooding them without mercy.
The air was filled with screams and sobs, a symphony of suffering that echoed like a summoning ritual. In the midst of it, the High Priest laughed maniacally, his hands raised toward the stone ceiling, his voice cracking with ecstasy.
Yet among the crowd, a few young ones remained still. Their eyes held no tears, no screams, no fear. Their pupils widened, reflecting the glowing sigil like black mirrors. They did not resist; the symbol merged with them, pulsing through their veins, as if they had been born for it.
The High Priest stopped laughing, his breath ragged. Slowly, he lowered his gaze toward the motionless youths. His expression shifted—from hysteria to pure, burning delight.
His chest rose and fell; veins stood out around his crimson eyes as he stepped closer. The cries around them grew wilder, but for those in resonance, the world seemed frozen.
The symbol pulsed once more—and suddenly, a whisper slid into their inner ears. It was not one voice, but thousands, speaking in unison, piercing through the layers of their consciousness.
"We are the roots of all fear… the shadow even light dares not touch.
Those who gaze upon us without breaking… shall become us.
You are the gate… you are the vessel… let us in."
The youths trembled, but not with fear—with ecstasy. Their pupils fractured like cracks in glass, black mixed with a burning crimson. One of them smiled faintly—a smile no longer human.
The High Priest lifted the sigil high above his head, his voice shrieking with madness.
"Look! They hear it! They accept it! They are chosen by the Symbol! No more sorrow… no more pain… only eternal power flowing in their veins!"
Inside the heads of the resonant students, the whisper grew sharper—turning into command:
"Consume their pain.
Drink their fear.
Let their flesh and souls become the fuel for your awakening."
Several others collapsed, their eyes blank, foam spilling from their mouths. Their bodies convulsed, then fell silent—as if their souls had been drained away. From the dying bodies, thin black mist rose, swirling toward those aligned with the symbol.
The mist merged with them—seeping into pores, filling lungs, fusing with bone. The screams became strength; the fear, pure energy.
The High Priest fell to his knees before them, trembling, his face filled with rapture.
"You… you are the embodiment of the sigil itself! You shall transcend humanity—beyond pain, beyond death. You are the true children of darkness!"
The chosen students said nothing. Their glowing eyes fixed upon him, cold and distant—as though they now stood above him.
The High Priest clapped his hands once. The sound thundered across the hall. Instantly, the screams, the black mist, and the choking shadows vanished. The disciples staggered, gasping for breath, some collapsing and wiping the cold sweat from their faces.
"What you just witnessed," said the High Priest, his deep voice echoing, "was but an illusion I created. Yet through that illusion, your true potential was revealed. Through the trial of the symbol, it is now clear who among you can face the sacred emblem without drowning in fear—without being bound by the wounds of your past."
His gaze swept across the room, settling on those whose faces remained calm and cold, as if they had merely awoken from a dream.
"You who understood the symbol correctly… are worthy of my respect."
He bowed slightly, though his aura still dominated the air. The chosen ones felt their bodies lifted—as if their very existence had been elevated above the rest.
Then his tone sharpened.
"To those who failed—to those who fell to fear and were devoured by memory—you are fated to serve those who succeeded. But remember, fate is not fixed. You still have the chance to tear it apart… in the next trial."
Silence followed. The sound of breathing mingled with the pounding of their own hearts.
"For now," he said, "you may rest. The hall has been prepared as your quarters. Use this night to reflect upon what you have faced."
With his black robes trailing behind him, the High Priest turned and walked out of the Satanic Academy, through the great door carved with the ancient sigil.