AFTER THE DEVIL LEAVES
Lucifer Morningstar left without spectacle.
No thunder.
No fire.
No torn sky.
One moment he was there—smiling, amused, eyes older than sin itself.
The next, the chair across from Damian Wayne was empty.
The café returned to normal.
People talked.
Cups clinked.
Life continued.
Damian did not.
He stared at the empty seat for a full thirty seconds.
Then—
"…Yeah. No."
He paid for the cake, stood up, and walked out with the stiff posture of someone who had just survived something deeply unfair.
TWO HOURS LATER
Damian sat on the roof of Wayne Manor, knees drawn up, staring at Gotham's skyline.
He had replayed the conversation at least a hundred times.
Not what he said.
But what it meant.
Lucifer Morningstar did not threaten him.
Did not bargain.
Did not test him.
Which meant something far worse.
Lucifer had been curious.
Damian rubbed his face.
"Great," he muttered.
"Just great."
He exhaled sharply.
"I fight Doomsday, survive gods, hide from assassins, juggle interdimensional systems… and this is the point where my life choices get judged by the literal Devil."
He leaned back, staring at the sky.
"Who did I piss off?"
A pause.
"…No, seriously. Was it the fire pillar? The fruit? The earthquakes? Giving the power away?"
Another pause.
"Or did the universe just wake up one day and decide to mess with me personally?"
Damian groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
"I would rather get shot at by assassins."
"I would rather deal with metal humans."
"I would rather fight a rogue Kryptonian again than have a normal day interrupted by Lucifer freaking Morningstar."
He stayed there for a long time.
Thinking.
Re-evaluating.
Questioning every decision that had somehow led to cosmic entities showing up uninvited.
Finally, he exhaled.
"…Enough."
BACK TO WORK
If gods were watching—
Then let them.
Damian stood and entered his personal dimensional space.
The Hextech Crystal remained sealed, its magic suppressed, silent, contained.
The schematics hovered in front of him.
A staff.
Not a weapon for himself.
Not yet.
Something prepared.
Something waiting.
A tool meant for a moment when the world stood on the edge and needed one final answer.
Damian rolled his shoulders and got to work.
Precision.
Focus.
Discipline.
Magic and technology interwoven carefully—not dominating one another, but balanced.
As sparks of controlled energy flickered and faded, Damian thought only of function, stability, purpose.
He did not feel the eyes on him.
ELSEWHERE — THEY WATCH
On New Genesis, Highfather stood at the edge of infinity, staff in hand.
"He continues," he said quietly.
On Apokolips, Darkseid observed through forces even Boom Tubes could not trace.
"He builds," Darkseid rumbled.
"Not for conquest."
"Interesting."
Among the Endless, Dream paused mid-thought.
Desire smiled.
Death watched with soft patience.
Fate's book remained open on a page that refused to settle.
Old Gods whispered.
New Gods calculated.
Gods of magic across every pantheon felt the shape of something forming, though they could not yet name it.
Not good.
Not evil.
Necessary.
DAMIAN WAYNE — UNAWARE
Damian tightened the final alignment ring and checked the energy flow.
Satisfied, he nodded to himself.
"Good."
He stretched, already thinking about the reward the system promised once the staff was complete.
A fruit.
Another power he couldn't use.
Another responsibility.
Another future choice.
He had no idea how many beings now watched his hands move.
How many futures trembled with each adjustment.
Or how many gods silently agreed on one thing:
This mortal was no longer background noise.
He was a variable.
And the universe had begun to revolve around him—whether he liked it or not.