Hell’s Scion: My Magical Family Doesn’t Know I’m the Antichrist (Villain Protagonist Isekai)

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Chapter 95: Nightmare, Part 7

They entered the convent, naturally accompanied by a large number of soldiers. Not all of them, though—an entire army trailed behind. A full damn army out there. So most of them stayed outside, guarding the perimeter. Not that he was sure they even called it that in this world or era. Azón had never cared much for history, to be honest.

The only thing he'd ever been interested in—or rather obsessed with—was making a lot of money as fast as possible. That had been the sole focus of his mind since he was a kid: money, power, status. Only to end up a miserable wreck, just another crazy bastard on the news that normal people would watch and think: Holy crap! That guy must've been high as hell on coke.

Sam frowned. But that had nothing to do with him. Absolutely nothing. That was another world, another life, and other concerns. His aspirations were within his grasp. He could almost touch them with his fingertips. He had slaughtered the Wrights, growing stronger. He had killed War, removing her from the picture for a long, long time. But still, there was too much in his way: Hunger, the bastard in her womb, Pestilence, Death, Satan, and, of course, the heavenly hosts as well.

I have promises to keep, he thought, and miles to go before I sleep.

Except he wouldn't "sleep," and the promises were only to himself.

Inside, it was very quiet. Sure, there was that damn glitch, but it was still true. Too much silence—an obvious ambush. It couldn't have been more obvious since Famine had been given more than enough advance warning. He was the only one focused on the possible ambush. The others were more distracted.

"Damn! I've never seen anything like this," muttered another soldier.

With other things. Apparently, Famine had felt inspired because she painted the convent's interior with the blood and guts of its inhabitants. And of the spies too, probably. There were heaps of entrails grotesquely hanging over a perfectly good chandelier—a little too fancy for some nuns.

In any case, the most unsettling detail wasn't Famine's decorative hobby but the fact that not a single corpse could be found. Despite the sea of blood and guts everywhere, there wasn't a trace of bodies. That, in his opinion, was the creepiest part.

But if she thought she could make him back off with this horrifying display, she was dead wrong. Though it was likely more a ploy for her own amusement than anything else. Well, the opposite of amusing, really. Ha ha.

The queen couldn't take it anymore. She brought a hand to her mouth, swallowed back bile, and doubled over, showing weakness—tears welling in her eyes. She probably thought she had to hold it together, but at this point, in the middle of this hell, who the hell would care if the queen broke down? Sure, morale mattered; seeing their leader falter wasn't good for the soldiers. But who would be focused on the little majesty's reaction now? They were animals in a slaughterhouse. Nothing more. Their only concern was avoiding ending up hanging and disemboweled. Doing whatever it took to avoid that ignoble fate.

Sam had to admit it: that bitch had done a good job. Even his stomach was churning, mostly from trudging through so much gore. He didn't have a germ phobia or any crap like that, but it was still gross as hell. He liked these boots. Someone had clearly paid a lot for them.

"This is a nightmare."

Yeah, no kidding, Sam thought. Where the hell is that bitch? If she'd already given birth, the reception would surely have been very different. At the very least, the mother would have come for him—no games, no delays, no wasting his time with this crap.

Sam had had enough. He moved ahead of the group, even ahead of Anabela. There were three directions, three doors. That was it. He chose the center one, kicking it open. Beyond it, just the same damn thing. No sign of Famine. Except for evidence of what she'd been up to in recent weeks.

Damn weeks, he thought. Weeks. Goddamn it.

Mostly, she'd wasted his time. But at least he still had a chance to right his mistakes. One last shot.

"Samuel, be careful."

Anabela, all formal all of a sudden. Of course.

Samuel didn't take any damn care. He went to the next door and kicked it down too. Mainly to avoid wasting his energy with magic before he'd even found the bastard. Nothing. The third, same story.

They'd barely begun searching the convent. He knew that. Many hiding spots, many ways to ambush people. Yet it annoyed him more than ever. He wanted to drop to his knees and scream in frustration.

So close. So close and so goddamn far.

It felt like the world was working against him, which it shouldn't be, considering he was technically fighting to save it. The ungrateful bastard.

"There's a basement, right?" Sam suddenly asked.

One of the soldiers answered, "Yes, sir. It's in the blueprints."

Sam nodded slowly. "All right. Some of you come with me to check out the damn basement. The rest…" Oh no. What had he been about to say? Splitting up to cover more ground never worked. "No, forget it. We should all stay together, as a team. We can't give her the chance to screw us over one by one."

Thank goodness he'd corrected himself just in time. Barely. But done was done.

Sam took a deep breath. The group was really a hassle for everyone. Hell, with the soldiers, there was hardly room to cross the hallway. They approached the basement. Sam forced the hatch open. It was even easier than kicking down those doors.

To keep up his streak of non-stupid decisions, Sam directed a few poor bastards to go down first. Jumping, because it required a jump. Sure, he could heal from pretty bad injuries, but there was no reason to risk himself like a damn fool.

For the same reason, he subtly pushed the queen back when she, for some stupid reason, apparently wanted to be among the first to go down. The poor bastards below lit torches.

"There doesn't seem to be anything here either," they reported, wandering in circles like a bunch of idiots.

Damn bitch, where the hell could she be? Once again, if she was still hiding at this point, it must mean she was about to give birth—but only about to. There was still time to stop this madness.

Even if she was so close, there was hope. He had to make it. All this worry, all this effort, just to get here and have her spit in his face? No, that was unacceptable. He wouldn't allow it.

Sam started biting a nail, frustrated beyond belief, but stopped immediately. That was a classless act; he was better than that now.

Splitting up to cover more ground still seemed like a very bad idea, but maybe he couldn't afford the luxury of good ideas. Maybe this was all he had.

Damn it, the basement was one of the first places anyone would think to hide, so did that mean Hunger wouldn't be there? Or that, precisely for that reason, it would be? Damn it.

In the end, Sam jumped down.

"Be careful," said Christina, following him inside without a second thought.

You're one to talk, Sam thought. He also considered telling her to stay back just in case, but he knew she wouldn't listen. He knew she hadn't come all this way just to stay behind.

What did surprise him was that Violet did stay behind, Sam would have thought the same went for her. But oh well, she'd always been the hardest to predict, the one who surprised him the most.

Whatever the reason, Christina and Sam advanced together through the darkness, at the center of the soldiers' formation, under the light of the torches. Sam looked around, searching.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

But it had to be somewhere. How was it that it wasn't even making a sound? He didn't know what kind of abomination it carried in its belly, but even a mother screamed giving birth to a normal child. That thing should have been howling. Its location should have been more than obvious, just a matter of following the sounds.

So what was going on here? Had Anabela been wrong? But she'd seen it with her own eyes. She'd told him from the start, and she'd confirmed it countless times over the two-day journey, that it was still there. That she'd seen it.

Sam bit down hard on his lower lip. He tasted blood soon enough. If it wanted to ambush them, it should just come out of the damn darkness already. Stop playing games.

Then, as if answering his thoughts:

"I'm here, Sammy."

A voice like the heartbeat of the darkness itself. A warm, damp darkness that reeked of death.

"I'm here."

Nightmare, Part 7: END

 

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Chapter 96: Nightmare, Part 8

Then he realized it. He lifted his head and almost wished he hadn't. There were legs, like those of a massive centipede, crawling out of the shadows. It gave the impression that it had once been a single entity, like the voice that had reached his ears.

"It's on the ceiling!" Sam shouted the warning.

The soldiers prepared themselves, some raising their weapons, others beginning to chant their spells. Some started forming incantations. Without hesitation. Or maybe both.

Because, as he'd heard, most of Her Majesty's army were knights and mages simultaneously. Experienced first-class mages. Mages who shouldn't back down before anyone.

And yet...

"What the hell is that?"

A pale face emerged from the darkness, floating in the void. It was Hunger's face. Just the face. The rest of the body wasn't visible—not even the neck. The head spun 180 degrees, smiling. The smile was like a bleeding, festering cut. It was a creature, not a human being.

He had known that from the start, but the same went for himself. And yet, he wasn't as unnatural as that bitch. Sam wasn't exactly afraid, but it annoyed him. It annoyed him not to understand what was happening, to have no choice but to retreat, using the wall of soldiers—cannon fodder—to shield his withdrawal.

He shoved Christina back too, though the foolish girl resisted. Maybe out of fear, or maybe because she didn't care what was happening. She had come here with a mission. It didn't matter. Whatever the reason, the result was inconvenient.

"For fuck's sake, just go up the ladder! Don't choose now to start disobeying me."

Christina shot a venomous glare at the spectral face but turned and climbed the ladder with Violet's help. Violet had unfolded the ladder to begin with—after all, they had all jumped down earlier.

Hunger laughed. Its laughter rang through the fetid darkness of the basement with the clarity of a bell.

"Let her go, let her go. It doesn't matter. She can't escape me or hide. The end is here, Samuel. The end of everything, at the hands of your own son."

"That bastard isn't my son—or anyone's. Just a tool, isn't that right?"

"We are all tools."

"Yeah, sure. Spare me."

Hunger laughed again.

"Your heart is as empty as the void between the stars, Samuel. And to think you had so, so many years to grow among humans. Don't you ever wonder why?" Hunger laughed again. It was really starting to piss him off.

"No," he replied simply.

If he were the real Sam, he supposed he'd actually be wondering. But being who he was, he knew the truth: there was no explanation. He had always been the same person. This world had simply given him the chance to unleash his worst impulses. And, conveniently, on very easy prey.

Hunger laughed again.

"Whatever you say, Samuel. Whatever you say."

"Soon I'll wipe that smile off your face, you miserable bitch."

While they continued this back-and-forth, the soldiers had already begun attacking. But it was barely worth mentioning. It couldn't be called a battle. Every strike, every slash, every spell of various kinds—all of them hit the centipede legs, so to speak. And they tore off significant chunks of flesh. But it didn't matter. Because the very next moment, as if it had been nothing more than an optical illusion, it was all there again. Regenerated. Perfect. Whole.

This wasn't a battle. It was nothing more than background noise to their conversation.

"If things were truly in your favor, Hunger, the fight would already be over. But you haven't delivered the baby yet, have you? You haven't brought that disgusting, wretched abomination into this world, have you?"

"That's true."

He was surprised by how easily she admitted it.

"It's true, very true, but it won't be long. And you're not going to find the real me. Especially not if you keep wasting time here with this nonsense."

Hunger laughed one last time before the spectral face vanished into the darkness without a trace. The segment of the centipede's body remained. Maybe because no one cared. Maybe because it hadn't been real to begin with.

Or maybe it just wanted to waste his time to ensure it could give birth.

Sam gritted his teeth. He was tired of all this. He wanted to focus on—well—sitting on the throne, ruling, giving orders, and making sure some idiot did the dirty work for him. Someone else could deal with all the fighting and exhaustion that overwhelmed and suffocated him, leaving him no peace.

Sam moved ahead of the queen's soldiers. No, his soldiers.

"That's enough. Fall in behind me."

They obeyed quickly, without needing the queen to bark at them. Small victories.

Sam unleashed his ice powers, covering the basement in the blink of an eye. The substance, almost crystalline in appearance, a blindingly bright blue, illuminated the darkness of the basement. And revealed that, indeed, there was nothing there. What could be seen of the thing resembling a centipede was all there was—at least here and now. Nothing more than an illusion.

Maybe. Or a part of a body stretching from a very distant place. A fragment of some mysterious creature.

Either way, it was the same. Not a threat. Nothing worth spending time, energy, or magic on.

Sam turned his back on the supposed creature and made his way out of the damned basement, now turned into a kind of crystalline cavern. A somewhat beautiful place. The soldiers obediently followed him out, though a few clumsy ones struggled with all the ice scattered around.

"What the hell are we doing?" Sam nearly shouted, his frustration boiling over. "Where the fuck do we look now?" He fixed his gaze on the queen. "Are you sure? Are you sure it's still here?"

"It has to be," the queen replied slowly, as if afraid of making a mistake. "It… well, it spoke to you, after all. There's no way it could do that from miles away or something. It must be here."

"Yeah. Besides, if it wanted to leave, it's had days to do so and try to lose us."

At least that much was true.

They might have been screwed with the time limit closing in, but at least they knew the prize was there, within reach. It was right there. An attainable goal, not some pointless, impossible objective. Not a mockery. Not cruelty.

"I think I know where it is," Violet said, surprisingly.

"Then spit it out," Sam demanded. "What are you waiting for?"

"Don't take that tone with me. I said I think—just think. I'm not sure."

"Say it anyway. It's worth trying. Time's running out."

"Fine. I think… well, I think it's in the chapel."

"The chapel?" Anabela repeated.

"Yes. I mean, it's basically a demon, isn't it? Impregnated with the seed of a good man. A damn demon that's committed a massacre and mocks us every chance it gets. Why wouldn't it…?"

"Oh, I see. Giving birth at the altar would be the ultimate blasphemy." Anabela crossed her arms. "Now it makes sense. Now I understand why it hasn't left."

Sam wasn't sure it was that simple, but frankly, he didn't care.

"Then let's go check it out."

The good news was that Violet was right.

The bad news was that they were too late.

The baby's head was already emerging from her cunt. She was, in fact, on the altar, legs spread wide, wearing nothing but a semi-transparent white dress.

It looked like a perfectly normal baby's head. They'd expected some obvious monstrosity, but it didn't matter. For all intents and purposes, it was the same. The baby was monstrous simply because of the way it had been made. The fact that it was an abomination supposedly destined to destroy the world was almost secondary.

Sam and the others moved forward but didn't get far. A hundred feet emerged from the shadows, coiling around their legs and pulling them down. Sam wasn't knocked over, and he wasn't the only one. Even so, it was a nuisance—and unsettling—that they'd come from their own shadows.

Sam gritted his teeth. The fat lady was about to sing the final act, and that bastard Miguel was nowhere to be found. Where the hell was he? He'd made so many promises and threats, but when it came down to it, he wasn't going to show up. Unbelievable.

Sure, he'd ensured Anabela's help, which was the only reason they'd found Hunger eventually. But now, was that what really mattered? Damn it, this spawn was supposed to kick off the apocalypse. What else could that winged slut be doing? What could possibly be more important?

"Oh, Sammy, Sammy," said Hunger. "There are some things that can't be stopped, whose gears have been in motion since long before Albion was anything more than a patch of land inhabited by savage tribes in loincloths. There are some things that simply must happen, Sammy."

"Destiny is a fucking lie. If you want to be its whore, then go ahead and spread your legs even wider," he said, summoning an ice sword to shatter the giant centipede wrapped around his legs. "But I'll write my own destiny. I didn't come into this world to let anyone control me. Never again. Never again."

Like a wild animal, he lunged toward the altar. Once more, he became the eye of an ice storm, a storm as fierce as the flames of hell. But he didn't reach the altar. Just as he was about to leap and close the remaining distance, something happened, and he collapsed on the stairs. He barely managed to hold onto the sword. Barely. Something had happened.

All the chapel windows shattered. Glass rained everywhere, a potentially lethal storm. A few shards struck his back; he felt one slice into his lower back. He gritted his teeth, roaring, gathering his strength, trying to stand. Slowly, he managed it, first bracing himself on the stairs, then on one of those candle stands—whatever they were called.

He looked Hunger in the eyes. The child's head was already emerging from her damn body. It had no eyes, just caverns filled with writhing worms. But it was undoubtedly alive. And then Sam understood everything: the centipedes, the windows… It wasn't that Hunger was giving it her all at the end, unleashing some hidden powers. It had been the child from the very beginning. Even before leaving the womb, it was causing trouble.

He raised the sword.

"It's inevitable, Sammy. Inevitable."

Sam swung the sword with all his might.

The abomination's head twisted upright and looked at him. It didn't matter that it had no eyes; it was clearly looking at him. He felt it like a dagger sliding between his ribs. And then, even though he was so close that it should have been impossible, the attack missed.

The sword buried itself between Hunger's legs, into the stone of the altar, far from the abomination. Then Sam shattered the ice sword, hoping the deadly shards would do the job. But, impossibly, the fragments of shattered ice flew backward, away from the abomination. Every last one of them.

Sam felt a chill. That creature hadn't even been born yet. Fucking hell. And yet, it wouldn't be long now. Hunger was in the final stages of labor, the last pushes.

He didn't know what would happen once the abomination emerged, but there wasn't much time left. Surely, the remaining time was measured in seconds, not minutes.

Hunger's screams, her body wracked with labor pains, rose above even the infernal cacophony engulfing the chapel.

Sensing something, Violet came for him, practically leaping onto him. But once again, there wasn't enough time. Violet's right arm was torn off from wrist to elbow.

Thrown back, flung like a sack of trash through a broken window, she hit the ground, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. Her mind went blank, but not for long.

Sam remembered the day of the massacre. What he'd done to Detective Adams. That bastard had tried to kill him in the chapel, realizing too late what was happening. But Sam had struck back, throwing him out a window.

Like now.

But this time, the situation was different. Sam had grown, had changed, yet the sense of defeat felt familiar.

He stood and re-entered the chapel, staggering, jumping through the broken window. His legs buckled. He found Violet lying in a pool of her own blood, staring at what was left of her arm.

Giant centipedes emerged from the room's shadows—not just those cast by the people present but from anything: pillars, seats… it didn't matter.

This was a scene from a very different hell than the one he'd come from.

Sam gritted his teeth, hating every second of this nightmare. He armed himself with two ice swords and began to conjure a storm behind him. Step by step, he advanced toward the altar, toward the little abomination that was already halfway out of Hunger's body.

It was like pushing against an invisible force. He wasn't sure if it was just his injuries or if something truly was pressing down on him. Either way, the result was the same.

Weakness whispered to him. Told him he'd done enough. That he could lower his head and drop his weapons. He'd gotten further than anyone had expected, especially Satan.

But no one could truly defy the destiny woven by the Morning Star.

Sam stumbled. He had to grab onto a balcony to stay upright… barely. He kept dragging himself forward, leaving a trail of blood on the wood.

Lucifer had been there since the dawn of time. At first, guiding humanity with his light toward tomorrow, toward a future full of infinite possibilities. And then, dragging them into hell.

It didn't matter.

But… what had made him think he could defy that blinding guiding light?

He, a mere human.

He straightened.

No.

A god.

A god of hellfire. The one true god.

Christina threw herself over Violet, shielding her with her body, pushing her back to relative safety. Of course, she did it out of desperation. It was a relatively grave wound. And she was afraid. Like everyone else. Like himself.

Sam ignored it. Ignored both of them, walking past toward the altar. Toward the end of all this.

Hunger seemed to care about nothing anymore. When he tried to kill her with the ice sword, the creature didn't even resist. She'd left everything in the abomination's hands. Up to now, every one of his ice spears, fired with great speed and precision, had missed. For no reason. He'd missed at close range, so painfully close… so there was no reason to think he'd hit from a distance, to begin with.

But he had to try. Before it was all over. Before there was no turning back.

Hunger wouldn't resist. She would just stay there, legs open, waiting to finish her work. That was it. This was his only chance, and he had to take it.

There was no point in being a god or a king if all that was left to rule was a kingdom of ashes. After all, the apocalypse was terrible for business.

Gut-wrenching crunches. Crunches like a glass panel splitting into a thousand pieces. That was Hunger's own body.

Apparently, her cunt wasn't big enough because her body was beginning to break apart from the stomach grotesque but unreal way. Or perhaps unreal precisely because it was too grotesque. It looked more like a scene from a gore film than something happening right in front of his eyes. It was enough to make him vomit.

Sam got close. He swung both swords. The result didn't surprise him at all.

That is, the fact that the swords exploded.

But when the ice began to reform, quickly sealing his legs and slowly creeping up his chest like a living creature, like a slithering serpent stealing his life away, that's when he truly started to panic.

As if that wasn't enough, he was beginning to lose control of the icy blizzard. Not only were the spears missing their mark, but they were resisting him. He could feel it, and he didn't doubt it for a second.

I need control, he thought.

Being one of the most powerful beings in this world was useless if he lost control.

 

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Chapter 97: Nightmare, Part 9

Everyone wanted to be at the top.

Anyone who said otherwise was either lying or had spent years making excuses, rationalizing, and coming to terms with their mundane lives. But if given the chance, nobody would say no to it.

No matter how humble, no matter how much of a saint they claimed to be, no one would refuse.

Saints and monsters wanted the same thing.

Money to fulfill every whim and need, more than enough to never feel fear again. So many people seemed to live to work rather than work to live, trapped by necessity. Anyone would do anything to escape that miserable cycle. And once you no longer had to fight and scrape for the essentials, you could start to think about what truly mattered, what truly filled you—the honey in the haystack.

Fine dining, cars, women. All kinds of things.

Some people might preach about humility, how money doesn't buy happiness, and all that, but those were always the empty words of losers.

Life was actually very simple. It was about control.

People without control were desperate. People with control thrived and found happiness. Sam knew that deep down—it was just that simple.

That's why Sam was convinced he hadn't done anything wrong. Anyone else in his shoes would've made more or less the same decisions. Whether it was for power, the control it promised, or out of fear of Satan.

And the consequences of disobeying him without the strength to back it up.

So why had things turned out like this? If someone asked him what he would've done differently if given the chance, he wouldn't even know where to begin. He had no idea how to avoid this ending.

Maybe Hunger had been right all along. Maybe some things were set in stone long before he came into this world, long before his reincarnation—or migration, or whatever they called it—into this new life.

He didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Even in the best-case scenario, it would be a cold comfort, if it was any comfort at all.

Sam gasped, coughing violently. The pain was like being stabbed. No—he had been stabbed. One of the many beams that had fallen amid the wreckage had impaled him.

He was buried deep in darkness, the rubble pressing down on him like the lid of a coffin.

A beam had pierced his shoulder—shattered it, reduced it to pulp—and the debris crushed and suffocated him. His tomb was ready. Sam struggled to move, barely able to shift, clawing his way back toward the light, toward the surface.

What scared him most was that he didn't understand why this had happened. He couldn't remember how he'd ended up here or what he could've done to avoid this outcome, this… defeat.

Defeat? No. That was impossible. No one defeated him. Every single person who'd tried had died screaming for daring to think they could.

Forming a stalactite in his left hand, he shoved aside the debris and began crawling through a narrow tunnel, hoping it led upward. Believing it did.

But his hands were slick with sweat, his head throbbed, and he couldn't see anything. Nothing. His eyes burned, but there was only darkness. So dark.

Like the ocean floor. The depths of death.

No.

He was a god. He couldn't fall here. He was a god, and he had defeated everyone.

Everyone?

He'd barely managed to send Castiel running with his tail between his legs.

Hunger had escaped him twice, and only Michael had saved him from being finished off in her vengeance for what he'd done to her sister, War.

Not to mention Michael himself, who thought he could control Sam, wield him like a weapon. Just like his brother had thought. Ha. Like father, like worthless son.

And maybe—just maybe—they'd been right all along. Maybe he'd been dancing in the palm of destiny's hand from the very start. Misfortune never came alone. Or rather, it never stopped coming.

Life was nothing but suffering. Agonizing to the very end.

At the mercy of forces beyond your control—that was the life of an ordinary person. So what was so wrong about wanting control?

What was so wrong about wanting to be the master of his fate, the captain of his soul?

Fuck, it hurts. My guts are on fire. They're more out than in. I can feel them. Dragging along the ground, with me.

The world was pain. Pain was the world. He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe in this darkness. He didn't want to die in a place like this. He didn't want to die at all.

He'd once read a story about some idiot condemned to hell, offered a way out. An escape via a single spider's thread, climbing upward.

But his thread, his way out of hell, was this torturous climb, his guts scraping against the stone. His regeneration doing its best to shove them back in, to keep him alive.

And awake, despite the overwhelming pain.

It wasn't fair. He hadn't made a single mistake. That's what pissed him off the most. At every turn, he'd made the right call, taken the optimal path. And still, everything had gone to hell. There was no justice in that.

Life was a shitty game.

Sam clawed his way out of hell, what felt like hours later—maybe it really had been hours.

He emerged, gasping like a drowning man breaking the surface.

The sky was red. Not the red of sunset, but the red of a fresh, festering wound. Even the moon had turned the same color.

Wait—the moon? How long had he been down there, in the dark? He must've passed out.

What had happened while he was gone? He almost didn't want to know.

It could only be terrible. But he had no choice but to face it.

"Shit," Sam muttered.

The ground was a heap of rubble and corpses.

A sea of blood flowed between the stones, but at least he didn't see his sisters or the queen.

That was something, at least. They were probably alive. They were strong women.

They couldn't have died while he'd been unconscious down there. That wasn't… it wasn't fair.

"Shit! Shit!" Sam muttered, stumbling through the debris and bodies.

Where was Hunger? That was another good question. Not to mention the abomination that had grown in her womb… and which she'd finally given birth to.

He couldn't remember how he'd ended up in the dark. But he did remember that. The head of that unholy thing emerging from between her legs.

Its eyes had been nothing but cavernous sockets crawling with maggots.

It brings death, he thought. To everyone. To heaven and hell. That's what it means.

Sam staggered forward, barely catching himself on a chunk of wall that, against all odds, still stood.

His breathing was harsh and ragged, like a wild animal's.

He still wasn't healed properly. He had to press his stomach wound with one hand to keep his guts where they belonged.

A moment ago, he thought his ears were ringing.

Now he realized he'd been wrong.

Trumpets.

Beyond the blood-red sky, the trumpets of the apocalypse were sounding.

"Sammy! Enough of this nonsense, okay?" said Lucifer. The voice came from inside his skull. "Give in. Surrender to me. Only together can we defeat it."

"Where is it?"

"Right here. Right in front of you."

"What are you talking about? I don't see anything."

Sam looked up. And then higher.

And then he realized something very important.

Yes, the sky was stained blood-red, but that wasn't the only thing red in the heavens. There was a massive section where not a single cloud could be seen. A contrast so striking it would've caught his eye immediately—if not for the chaos, the confusion, and the fear.

All of which only grew now.

"Oh my God."

The thing in the sky moved.

 

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Chapter 98: The End Times, Part 1

"What the hell!" Sam's voice trembled.

"This is all your fault, Sammy," said Satan, his voice echoing inside Sam, scraping against his skull. "You forced me to come up with a Plan B, and this is the result."

Sam clicked his tongue at that. "I still don't understand how the hell you thought I'd just hand over my body like that."

"You want to know? Fine, since we've reached a climax, I'll tell you, Sammy. The simplest answer is usually the right one. It's a seemingly stupid hole in my plan, isn't it? I hope you don't think I'm stupid."

"You're many things, but not stupid, so get to the point."

"I've already said most of it. It doesn't make sense because it wasn't supposed to be your choice. After the massacre of the Wright family, your soul should have been shattered, and the vessel emptied, so I could take it as I pleased. Your will, your ability to exercise it, was never part of my plans."

I see, Sam thought. Now it all made sense.

Satan had been playing him from the beginning, and the only thing that had prevented disaster, his complete destruction, was that the one who had massacred the Wrights wasn't the real Samuel, but a man from another world. A variable that not even Lucifer, the Morning Star, could have accounted for.

Someone capable of making plans involving other universes and anticipating such moves could only be God, right? Sam didn't like what that implied about his arrival in this world and his future prospects, but at least now he had an explanation, good or bad. He was willing to bet it was true, precisely because it disgusted him.

"I see," Sam said finally. "So every death would make me stronger. You expected my human half to be too weak, that the accumulated power would shatter me. I guess I'm more like you, Father."

Sam laughed.

"Laugh all you want, but don't look away from the truth, from the future that awaits this world. Look at that thing in the sky. Do you think you can stop it? Really? You barely handled War, Pestilence, and Famine. They screwed you, literally and figuratively, and got away with it, without suffering real damage. What makes you think you can kill that? A being so large it would crush the mansion like a toy."

"I get what you're hinting at," said Sam.

"Then let's stop wasting time. Say yes, let me in. Just you and me, Sammy. Only you and I can stop that thing."

"You prefer Plan A, huh? Very flattering."

"That's how it is, Sammy. It was decided this would happen before the world was created. You are my predestined body, my perfect vessel. Out of necessity, everything else is just a distraction. If I could use someone else, I would, believe me, with all the headaches you've given me."

"I'm tired of hearing crap about destiny."

"Is that why you haven't hidden among the ruins yet? There are easier ways to kill yourself than waiting for that thing to notice you. And even if you do, I'll just bring you back again and again, as many times as needed."

Thanks for confirming my suspicions, Sam thought. That you could do that.

He didn't like taking advice from the son of a bitch, but Sam hid among the ruins, piling some rubble on top of himself for cover. As if he were burying himself alive. He remembered the darkness and the pressure down there, where he had emerged not long ago.

Sam bit his lip.

"My sisters... are they alive?"

Lucifer didn't answer.

"Asshole, you only talk when it suits you. Just like your useless brother. So many promises, and still no sign of the damn useless son of a bitch."

"Go on, go on. I'm not the biggest fan of Michael either. Betrayal comes naturally to him."

His laughter echoed in Sam's skull. Sam clenched his teeth.

"My sisters. Are they alive or not?"

"Go out and find out. What's wrong, are you scared? Don't tell me you actually care about them, Sammy? And here I thought you only saw them as sex toys."

Sam ignored his taunts. He had already given him too much attention. Although he wasn't sure if the Abomination had left (or where the damn thing could even go, for that matter), Sam crawled out from under the rubble. Carefully. And fearfully. He didn't like admitting it, but he was afraid of that thing. This wasn't even the first time he had faced a being he knew was far more powerful than him. He had massacred the Wrights from the shadows, fearing being discovered and easily killed. In other words, he had spent most of his time in this world hiding like a rat. But he had gained a powerful confidence quickly. Being discovered and forced to kill the rest head-on had changed everything.

He had tasted true power, not just the power to manipulate people, pushing them toward the desired outcome.

The power to step into the light and simply do as he pleased. To crush anyone who stood in his way like a cockroach.

He looked up. That thing was no longer in the sky, hovering over the ruins. He sighed in relief.

Considering it had defended itself even before being born, there was the question of how much that abomination knew about the world. Enough to know about the capital, that it was the place to strike to cause the most damage?

If not, where could it be? Where could it have gone? Well, it was hard to lose sight of that thing. The hard part wasn't going to be finding it, so he could set those questions aside.

He had bigger concerns, like his sisters. Surely they were alive, right? Lucifer had avoided giving him a direct answer. He had told Sam to find out for himself. And why do that? When he could hurt him more with the truth. So they were probably alive. He probably just wanted to worry him.

Sam walked through the field of rubble and corpses, over the sea of blood, searching for them. It was hard to stay optimistic, given the damn scene. Nothing but death everywhere. Even the queen's soldiers, who had stayed outside the main area, seemed to have been caught, so to speak, by the shockwave of the abomination's birth.

What had happened to Famine, by the way? Was she under the rubble? Could she be dead? She had given birth to such a creature. After all, that should have been impossible. At the very least, it should have split her in half.

His head hurt and was still spinning. Useless questions. Step by step. Everything step by step.

Not all the soldiers were dead. He noticed. Some were groaning, agonizing. Sam paid them no attention. He didn't help them, though he didn't finish them off either. In his eyes, they were already dead. They had lost all usefulness.

He found the queen buried under a huge wooden cross. It wouldn't be hard for anyone to get out from under it, but of course, she was unconscious. She had a wound on her forehead. Head wounds always bled a lot. It always looked bad, but she was alive. Good. At least that pawn on the board would remain. She was useful.

Sam crouched beside her and woke her by shaking her, slapping her. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

"Samuel," said Anabela, as if she couldn't quite believe it. "Good. What happened?"

I wish I knew, Sam thought.

"Never mind. Get up. And don't look around too much," he said as he pushed the cross aside.

The cross had helped her more than hurt her. If it hadn't fallen on her, a mountain of rubble would have crushed her. Rubble that slid down once he moved the cross, and he pulled her out immediately, in the same motion, to avoid disaster.

He had told her not to look around. So, of course, that was the first thing she did.

"God," murmured Anabela, doubling over and covering her mouth, resisting the urge to vomit.

In the end, she managed to suppress the nausea, at least for now.

"And Famine," she said, gathering all her willpower. "What happened? Did you succeed? I don't remember much of what happened. There's like a gap."

"No," Sam replied simply. "That thing was born."

And fucking Michael didn't show up, he thought.

"Then we're done."

"Nothing's done. Nothing!"

Anabela flinched, as if he had threatened to slap her. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he had given that impression. He didn't know.

"You're right. We must keep hope until the end."

That wasn't exactly what he had meant, but it would do.

"Help me find my sisters."

Without another word, they split up.

Sam's mind was blank. He didn't want to think. He couldn't think.

The completely red sky, despite the moon shining, seemed to reflect over the field and the remains of the convent, making it feel like the ground was covered in blood. A sea of blood and endless debris. Even for a heartless being, it was enough to make you want to vomit.

The blood. You could close your eyes, but you couldn't escape the smell. Blood had a foul odor. That was bad enough. But of course, it wasn't just blood out there. Piss, shit, all kinds of filth.

How had things come to this? He was supposed to have been reborn as a rich kid, or a privileged son of a bitch with an easy life. He could barely remember how simple things had seemed at the beginning.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long to find them. Well, Anabela was the one who did.

"Sam, over here!" she shouted.

As soon as he heard her voice, he knew what had happened. But as he approached, his heart in his throat, he at least hoped it wasn't her. Of course, he was wrong. Anabela must have helped Violet get up and out from under the rubble, but it seemed she wouldn't last long. His older sister doubled over and vomited immediately.

"Oh no. Oh God. Oh God, no."

But yes. Yes. Christina was dead. There was no doubt. He wasn't a damn doctor, but he didn't need to be to know. A single glance, a tenth of a second seeing how her chest had been crushed, was enough. She was dead. Dead.

Sam fell to his knees. His favorite had to be dead. Of course. His little sister. His most obedient toy. The most real one.

Sam clenched his teeth. He bit his tongue hard until he tasted blood filling his mouth. He felt like he was going insane. He supposed he was already insane. So now he was surpassing it.

In that valley of death, stained red, kneeling on the stones, Sam…

"Fine. Deal."

He spoke the words of his damnation without thinking twice.

"What are you talking about?" asked Violet, trembling, a hand over her mouth.

"Say it clearly, Sam. It has to be crystal clear."

Sam doubted it. Castiel had made a deal with Detective Adams after Sam mortally wounded him and threw him out a window. He highly doubted Castiel had had the time or energy to give a damn speech. But he wouldn't argue.

"I'm saying deal. I'm giving you the yes, asshole. You can enter my body, but bring her back. And leave my sister alone. My sisters."

"Deal, then. Believe it or not, Sam, I'm a man of my word."

"No, no, no. What are you doing? I can't lose you too."

Violet lunged at him, but when her hand touched his face, he was no longer in the driver's seat. He felt it instantly.



——



Lucifer smiled.

 

[MadsGM]

Chapter 99: The End Times, Part 2

"You… You are..."

Violet hadn't fully recovered from everything that had happened. She hadn't even had time to process it, to begin with. Too much, all at once. Losing Christina was like being dead inside. The colors of the world seemed duller; even the air felt thinner, giving her less oxygen.

It was as if not only she, but the world itself, had lost something irreplaceable. Losing Christina alone was enough to destroy her, to make her incapable of ever lifting her head again. But fate was cruel and capricious.

And it wasn't done with her yet.

"Of course, it's me," Satan replied in her brother's voice.

She didn't know what she had done to deserve this.

"I'm glad you guessed my name."

Lucifer laughed, stepping closer to Christina's corpse.

"No, don't touch her, you damned monster!"

He crouched, stretched out a hand, and touched her head. Naturally, he didn't listen to her. Her voice lacked any real conviction.

She was too scared. This wasn't just a monster but a legend. Violet knew perfectly well that Satan could tear her apart with the snap of his fingers, making her burst like a piñata of blood and guts. There was nothing she could do. Now that Satan had escaped his cage —even in another body— there was simply nothing anyone could do.

She wasn't even worried about that bastard Famine anymore.

"Well, believe me, kid, if it were up to me, I'd leave her just as she is. Unfortunately, Sammy and I made a deal."

He moved his left hand, and all the debris covering Christina flew away. In a moment, a short one at that, the gaping wound in her little sister's chest sealed itself. And all the blood returned to her body.

Violet watched closely as the blood flowed back through skin and flesh, presumably finding its way into veins that shouldn't even be functioning anymore. But they were. Christina was breathing again. Violet could see her chest rising and falling, could hear her faint breaths.

In a horrifically casual manner, Satan had done something that should've been impossible.

He had resurrected a person—not just any person. Her little sister.

She should've been happy, should've felt joy, but was this truly her sister? How could she be sure that what had returned was Christina and only Christina?

Satan stood up.

"Well, Sammy, a promise is a promise. Little Christina is back in the land of the living. And I won't touch your other sister, either. She can go wherever the hell she wants. Now that I've got you, they mean nothing to me. They're not part of my plans. Very well, very well."

Christina coughed violently, her eyes snapping open. She looked at Satan with blurry eyes, her gaze unfocused.

"Sammy?"

"Yes and no. I'm afraid he's no longer in the driver's seat, sweetheart."

Satan threw his head back and burst into laughter—the miserable bastard.

"You have no idea how freedom feels after so many, many years."

He blinked, and when his eyes reopened, they were no longer their natural color. They burned gold. A demon with yellow eyes—a living nightmare. Sam's eyes glowed the same way, but it wasn't the same. This was a black hole, a bottomless pit of pure evil.

"At last, I'm free to do whatever I please. Well, not everything. I know, Sammy, but I'll deal with my brother when the time comes. We'll finish what he started. Will you help me, Sammy?"

What kind of answer had he given? In any case, the ultimate monster—the father of sin—manifested two enormous wings on his back, feathers white and gleaming.

How could such wings belong to Satan, of all beings? He almost looked like some kind of angel.

The very thought was blasphemous, Violet supposed, but right now, she didn't care about that.

Satan took flight. Only God knew where.

Violet fell to her knees. She had no strength left, no hope. She had never felt like this—so utterly destroyed. As if she were drowning.

Christina was back. But all Sam had achieved with his stupid deal was to trade the loss of one sibling for the other.

Even Christina herself would've said no. If she'd had a say, Violet thought, she would've stayed dead rather than allow this to happen.

But Sam had given in, against his own will. And there was nothing they could do about it.

It had happened. The thing they should've always known would happen.

Sam loved them too much. It was obvious that this would be his weakness, his downfall. So obvious, it didn't even need to be said. But she had never truly thought about it. She had never done anything to prevent it.

"If only I'd known. If only I'd known."

Wasn't that what everyone lamented in the end?

"Oh no. No."

Christina cried. Violet clutched her head in her hands.

Satan had left them alone, as he'd promised. She had no idea why he'd even bothered keeping his word. Maybe because it didn't matter.

The Horseman of the Apocalypse, Famine, had birthed an abomination—a hybrid between her and, well, the Antichrist himself. And now Satan was free of his cage for the first time in millennia.

The monster who had plunged the world into an age of darkness and terror was free once again to do as he pleased.

So, of course, it didn't matter. They weren't safe. Nothing good could come of this.

After all, the apocalypse was here.

At last.

——

Flying was highly disorienting when you weren't in control. Or maybe it was simply the feeling of losing autonomy over the one thing you couldn't turn your back on—your own body. Sam didn't know and didn't particularly care.

In any case, he felt like throwing up.

"A promise is a promise, Sammy."

I heard you the first time, he thought. Stupid son of a bitch.

"Want to know where I'm going? What the first item on my agenda is?"

No, I don't know, and I don't care, he thought.

That was all he had left now. His thoughts were the only thing that still belonged to him. He couldn't even move his mouth to form words. Though he was conscious, he was nothing more than a passenger in the back seat.

All he'd ever wanted was control. And he had lost it completely, irrevocably, with a single yes.

Why the hell had he made that decision? Why should it matter whether Christina was alive or dead, given the circumstances? He wouldn't be able to enjoy her presence anyway. He couldn't understand it, truly. What exactly had driven him to make that choice?

He supposed it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He was a prisoner in his own body—forever.

"Don't be so melodramatic," Satan suddenly said. "Of course, I'll give you your body back. It's comfortable, sure, but I'd prefer to use my own. So that will happen once I figure out a way to open my cage and be myself again. It might take me a few hundred years—or thousands. But sooner or later, you'll be you again."

A mocking laugh, using his own voice, echoed through the crimson-tinted night sky.

This was nothing but a sign of the strange and terrible things to come.

The End Times, Part 2: END

 

[MadsGM]

After so many years, the morning star finally shone again in the heavens—though it was already night, haha. Lucifer stretched out his arms and wings, tilted his head back, and filled his lungs with fresh air. Only, of course, they weren't his arms, his head, or his lungs. He was simply using Sam's body as a vessel for his soul.

A part of him was still down there, in the depths of darkness, in his icy prison. A part of him would always remain there, even if he physically managed to escape. He had simply spent too long in captivity after Yahweh's disappointment and Michael's betrayal—defeating him and casting him into hell.

The scars left by his imprisonment would never disappear. He had no doubt about that. However, there was no reason to ruin this moment.

It was freedom, in a way—a second chance—and he intended to savor it to the fullest. Lucifer soared even above the clouds. Of course, the air thinned at such heights, but he didn't really need oxygen to live.

This body was merely a reflection of the one he occupied. Over time, he would stop breathing altogether. When his new vessel adapted to the new reality, it always worked that way.

Or at least, it should. He didn't just know the theory—he'd put it into practice many times. Naturally, angels needed a body to act on Earth, and he was no exception.

However, Sammy was. He was special, so Lucifer couldn't be entirely sure of anything when it came to him. Oh well. Lucifer sighed and looked out toward the distant horizon.

"You won't do anything now, Yahweh," Lucifer whispered in challenge.

There was no need to shout it at the top of his lungs, after all. He was talking about God. Wherever He was, no matter how Lucifer said it, He would hear—if He cared at all. He could hear him even if he said nothing.

The words were for Lucifer's own benefit. Speaking them meant something. At least, that's what he believed.

"The prodigal son has returned. He's free again. So what? Are you just going to sit there with your arms crossed? Why don't you reach down and crush me like a fly?"

There was no response—verbal or physical. No words, no thunder and lightning, no quaking earth. Silence.

"I figured as much," Lucifer continued. "And I think I know why."

"What are you talking about?" Sammy asked inside his mind.

Lucifer smiled. It was a pleasure to have switched roles. Now, everything was a pleasure. But the irony and vengeance for all the headaches that little puppet had given him were especially sweet.

"You don't need to know," Lucifer finally replied. "In truth, you don't need to know anything about anything. Drown in the darkness inside me and die, Sammy. Dissolve—dissolve until there's nothing left that can call itself a self."

Lucifer licked his lips and chuckled softly, almost lazily. But his smile was wide and shone with something that seemed almost innocent, rather than malicious. He was the Morning Star, after all—the most beautiful of all the angels. The most important, no matter how much Michael disagreed.

"Just kidding, man. Just kidding, Sammy. You stay right there, in the passenger seat, watching. That's where I want you. Hold on to consciousness and watch closely as I save the world."

Lucifer laughed again, this time more forcefully. Yet there was still something like that beautiful innocence in his laughter, as if he was reveling in the simple pleasure of the act of laughing itself. As if it had nothing to do with the conversation, with Sammy's humiliation, anger, or pain. And it didn't.

Well, not for the most part. He could feel other things in his reaction, in that tumultuous whirlpool of emotions. Doubt. Doubt stood out.

"What surprises you, Sammy? Neither of us wants to rule over ashes, after all. Besides, we made a deal."

Lucifer shot forward toward the horizon, onward to the future.

——

Lucifer had clarity. If there was one thing he had in his cage, it was time to think.

Even so, given the circumstances, he couldn't help but look back. To think again about the day he lost everything. The day of original sin. Disobedience.

Except it wasn't exactly disobedience. It was a story crafted to Yahweh's convenience, like all the others, but this was the truth. Lucifer had simply asked why they had to bow to humans, dedicate their lives to serving them, guiding them.

Why, in the first place, had He created another species with its own consciousness, as if angels were inferior? Lucifer couldn't conceive of it. It was as though He had grown bored with them and reached into the toy chest for another plaything.

Of course, he hadn't said it in those words. Back then, he believed himself a good son—the favorite. So he'd been as polite as possible, bowing his head.

The point of his argument had been that humans were vile, prone to violence and self-destruction. He told Yahweh they would tear each other apart and destroy the beautiful planet He had created—that they didn't deserve such treatment. From his limited perspective, he was just trying to understand. That's what questions were for.

And Yahweh had called that disobedience.

That's why He turned Michael and the other angels against him.

And Michael—the one he had called brother—had stabbed him in the back with ease. They said he lost the battle against the majestic Archangel Michael and his flaming sword. While that was true, it wasn't the whole story. There hadn't been a proper fight to begin with. Lucifer had been convinced his brother wouldn't really dare to hurt him. So he'd only defended himself.

He'd held back, as if it were all a pantomime. What a grave mistake. That had cost him everything—his freedom, his autonomy, his sanity, almost.

So many years. So many years exiled to that prison, the darkest and coldest of hells. So many years for one question—for the slightest disobedience. And now, here he was, flying in search of the abomination Hunger had birthed, to kill it and save the world in the process. What a turn of events.

Life was full of twists. That much was certain.

History had proven him right, though Yahweh surely wouldn't see it that way.

Yahweh wouldn't agree, even when he killed the abomination and became the one to save the world—not Michael, and certainly not His precious humans.

But honestly, at some point, Lucifer had stopped caring. He wasn't here to prove anything to anyone.

He was just…

——


This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The queen and her older sister told her what had happened. And the truth, patiently and very carefully, as if they feared the truth would break her.

Christina didn't like it, but she had to admit they behaved that way for a reason. As soon as she heard the truth, she felt as if she couldn't breathe, as if she were mortally wounded again. That would make for a good metaphor, but not one especially faithful to the truth.

Because she had simply died; she hadn't even realized it, didn't even remember it. And because of her, now Sam... Christina doubled over, utterly convinced she was going to vomit. She supposed she would have if she had anything inside to expel. Her body was simply wracked by powerful dry heaves.

"Calm down, please," Violet told her. What a ridiculous request.

It was like telling an angry person to calm down. It didn't work by magic. It wasn't that simple.

"How can you expect me to calm down?" Christina asked, unable to hold herself back. Better said, she didn't see any reason to bite her tongue—not anymore. "Satan is out there, and my brother, my love…"

Violet shot her a scandalized look, because the queen was present. No other reason. Christina wasn't stupid. She hadn't failed to notice that those two had been sleeping together behind her back.

She didn't care. She also didn't care who knew about the kind of relationship she had with her older brother.

No one could do anything worse to her than the nightmare she was currently living through. The abomination Hunger carried in her womb had managed to be born. Although it had killed Hunger herself in the process, they had merely replaced one horrific and troublesome enemy with one a thousand times worse.

Satan had gotten what he wanted and flown far away with Sam's body—because of her, because she had made a deal with the devil himself to bring her back. Christina supposed she should even feel happy. This put an end to all her little doubts about Sam, about whether he really loved her or had just been using her, about how he had changed in the last few months. About whether she could truly trust the sweet words he whispered in her ear after using her for his pleasure.

And she would be.

Honestly, she would be happy if she could see the slightest glimmer of hope, the faintest possibility of turning the tables.

But all she could see was a black hole, a bottomless pit. Maybe the situation had gone to hell. Maybe it had been this desperate from the beginning, and it had just taken her this long to open her eyes.

She couldn't say. In any case…

"Christina, are you listening to me?"

"Yes," she lied blatantly. "Yes. What do we do now?"

She could barely speak without feeling the urge to cry. It was good that silence reigned in this place, that most of the people—nearly all of them, really—who might have been talking or listening had become corpses, their remains scattered on the ground.

She swallowed hard. It was truly a miracle that she hadn't vomited.

"I don't know," Violet admitted slowly after a moment.

"If Sam had left you as you were," Anabela said, "we'd still have some hope."

She didn't finish the sentence. Before she could, the queen fell to the ground. She hadn't tripped or anything like that, of course. Violet had punched her in the face.

——

"What's the matter, Sammy? You're awfully quiet. Is it so hard to hold on to what's left of you in there? Well, suit yourself. I'll have enough fun for the both of us."

Lucifer kept flying. The journey was nearly over. As he suspected, the abomination was heading toward the capital of the kingdom of Albion, Albion.

A long time ago, both the capital and the kingdom had different names. Even longer ago, it hadn't been a kingdom at all. Lucifer had witnessed it all. He had been there when the Earth was nothing but form and void.

Though he had spent a significant part of his existence in the Cage—so immense it felt like the majority of his life, immense and oppressive—he hadn't been entirely in the dark. Over time, the Cage had weakened. Not enough to escape on his own, of course, but enough for cracks to form through which he could see and hear.

For that reason, Lucifer knew many things about the modern world. He wasn't lost, and even if he were, even if he lacked some information, he could extract it from Sammy's mind once he had enough time to stop and reflect.

Sometimes he followed the abomination by flying, other times by tracking the energy it emitted. One way or another, he hadn't even tried to attack it yet. Lucifer wasn't sure what that meant about the newborn's mind.

He didn't care, either. Not as if he intended to stop the abomination before it attacked, of course. If he had wanted to, he could have torn it to pieces already. But there was no point in ending a crisis that only four living people were aware of.

First, he would float among the clouds, watching as it brought hell to Earth. And when it had sown enough chaos and fear, only then would he attack, becoming a savior. Those vile sacks of fleas called humans would bow before him, groveling at his feet.

They would be so grateful. God wouldn't have done anything for them, nor Michael—only him. Of course, he didn't expect to change his public perception.

He wasn't that naïve, and more importantly, he didn't care. That wouldn't prove anything to humans, angels, God, or anyone—only to himself, and that was enough for him.

Doing something because you wanted to, because you could—that was the very definition of freedom, and Lucifer fully intended to exercise it.

After a couple of very dull hours—Lucifer could have reached the capital earlier but insisted on keeping pace with the abomination—they finally arrived in Albion.

He wondered briefly what Sammy's sisters and that stupid queen were doing, but only briefly. He didn't care about them, either.

Lucifer crossed his arms, his golden eyes burning like twin bonfires, and watched as the abomination descended upon the city. The air quickly filled with screams and the smell of blood—music to his ears, in other words.

History books spoke of a supposed dark age when he had ruled the world. They had no idea what they were talking about. The true dark age was coming now: the apocalypse, the end times.

——

There wasn't a single living soul; not one of the soldiers had survived. It was normal for those who had accompanied them into the convent to have died during the fight, one Christina barely remembered, or in the collapse of the building, like her—oh, God. But even those who had remained outside were dead.

She was the only one lucky enough to cheat death. Christina let out a bitter laugh—some luck.

Hunger's progeny was already dangerous enough. Knowing that Satan was free again because of her was simply too much. At least everyone was dead; that included Hunger. There wasn't a trace of her. By now, she would have already appeared to finish the job if she were alive.

Christina supposed it was possible she was hiding somewhere, licking her wounds. Technically possible, but she highly doubted it.

So the three of them were left to nurse their wounds, boarding a carriage and setting off on their journey back.

Of course, as ladies of their status, they had all taken lessons in horseback riding. But not all of them knew how to drive a cart, a carriage, so Violet had to do it. She was the only one.

Apparently, Christina wasn't sure if the queen refused because she didn't know how or because she was utterly drained, barely holding enough energy to stagger to the carriage in the first place. If that were the case, Christina couldn't blame her—she felt more or less the same, dead inside.

The silence persisted.

They had nothing to talk about, no idea what they could do beyond returning to the capital and hoping for the best—hoping the rest of the army would be enough. No, it never would. Hoping the combined forces of the kingdoms would be enough and that they would agree to set aside their differences for the time being. That would be the hardest part.

Well, that was all Christina could think of, but she was an idiot. Maybe the others would come up with something—them or some old sage in the palace, one of those with very long beards that seemed to have grown them only to look more pretentious while stroking them.

"I don't even know what I'm thinking," Christina said to herself.

"What did you say?" Anabela asked.

"Nothing," she said.

"Really?"

How many times do I have to tell you? she thought.

"Yes, really. Just forget it—what does it matter to you?"

Christina looked away, glancing out the window. Her eyes itched, so it was a safer place to look.

She felt, well, she felt like a leaf in the wind, at the mercy of something deeply unstable. She felt as if she were missing an arm or a leg, and that was basically true.

Christina gave a light pat to the empty seat to her left, only to touch nothing, of course.

There was nothing natural about it.

——

Violet didn't know what to think.

Christina wasn't acting like herself, but no one would in a situation like this. She tried to tell herself that her sister was back, and that was that, that she should be as glad as possible. And yet… if she was being completely honest with herself, Violet wasn't glad.

Not because Christina had returned, anyway. What had returned didn't even seem human.

Christina no longer felt like the loving girl Violet had raised since she was an infant.

Violet was glad about her return only because it meant her plan hadn't been a total failure.

——

Violet didn't know what to think.

Christina wasn't acting like herself, but then again, no one would in a situation like this. She kept trying to tell herself that her sister was back, period—that she should rejoice as much as possible, and that anything that seemed off, suspicious, was mostly, if not entirely, in her head.

She kept trying to tell herself those things, but it was still hard.

She understood Sam's pain; she understood why he'd made a deal with the devil. But at the end of the day, that's exactly what it was. Satan had resurrected Christina and then flown off, leaving them in peace.

It couldn't be that convenient, that simple, could it? There had to be a catch, right?

——

"Alright, I think it's time I got going," Lucifer said.