Demon Lord Lucien POV
The throne of the Abyssal Citadel was not made for comfort. It was forged for dominance—wrought from charred bone, veined with molten hate, and pulsing with the dying screams of forgotten kings.
Lucien, the Demon Lord, sat upon it in stillness. Shadows draped across his shoulders like a mantle; hellfire crowned his brow in an eternal blaze.
Before him, a hundred lesser demon lords knelt—each a monster in their own right, yet trembling in his presence. The great chamber seethed with whispers: voices of the damned, the devout, and the broken. But Lucien heard none of them.
His eyes, deep as a sunless abyss, stared into something far beyond this moment.
A vision fractured through reality.
A silver-haired youth stood on a battlefield—radiant, blood-drenched, unbowed. Mana, blade, and flame obeyed him like loyal hounds. The world bent at his will, and yet… in his eyes, there was no mercy. There was sorrow. There was Seraphina.
Lucien whispered a name he had buried long ago.
"…Rael?"
No. That couldn't be. His son had died.
Hadn't he?
A tremor passed through his ancient chest—not fear, but the most dangerous of emotions.
Hope.
He gritted his teeth, claws tightening against the bone-arm of the throne. Hope was a poison. It softened blades. It destroyed kings.
And yet, he could not look away.
A decision began to bloom—dark, inevitable.
"Then I shall forge another," he whispered—not to the court, but to the void itself. "A son… a blade to carve through gods."
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A Glimpse of the Past
There was a time before the darkness.
Lucien had once been a mere warlord in a dying realm, clawing for survival. It was during the war that shattered continents that he met her.
Seraphina. Hero of the Kingdom. Light-bearer. His enemy.
They met in blood and starlight—on battlefields where angels wept and demons howled. But it was between battles, in the rare moments of silence, that something took root.
Not love. Not yet.
Understanding.
She laughed for the first time in years, and he, who had never known warmth, felt her hand in his and understood the word home.
Their love was reckless. Impossible. Unforgivable.
She became pregnant. She told no one.
Together, they vanished from the world, hiding in a cottage beyond maps, beyond time. Under the watch of moon and flame, she gave birth to a boy with silver hair and eyes like sun and moon colliding.
They named him Rael. The one between.
For a time, it was enough.
But secrets rot, and peace is the most fragile lie.
The Kingdom found them. Whispers turned to daggers. The High Priest declared Seraphina a heretic. The King—once her friend—branded her a traitor and signed her death.
Lucien had been away, carving an escape route through realms and rifts.
He returned too late.
Seraphina had fled, bleeding and desperate, with Rael in her arms. She ran through fire and shadow.
Lucien found only ashes. Blood in the grass. Her sword, broken. No body. No child.
Only silence.
And he screamed—so loud the skies darkened and the abyss welcomed him.
From that day on, he ceased to hate only the gods.
He hated all of creation.
His path became clear: Burn the world to its roots. And when the last ember died, plunge the blade into his own heart.
To return to her. To the son he had lost.
---
Summoning the Firstborn
Deep beneath the Citadel, beyond doors sealed with soul-blood, lay the Chamber of Seeds—a sanctum where life and blight blurred.
Lucien descended alone.
Five monstrous cocoons floated in black ichor, chained by veins of corrupted mana. Each pulsed with unnatural rhythm—each a half-born horror.
He stepped before the largest and raised his clawed hand. Shadows coiled as he poured a fragment of his essence—his rage, sorrow, and hope—into the pod.
It shattered with a shriek.
A being emerged—tall, pale, and beautiful in a terrible way. Horns curled from his crown. Veins shimmered silver. His eyes opened like twin voids, consuming light, memory, and mercy.
Lucien looked upon the creature—not as a father, but as a king shaping his apocalypse.
"You are Malak," he said. "Devourer of Hope."
The being tilted his head. Something like curiosity—or ancient hunger—twitched in his gaze.
Then he knelt.
Lucien followed, placing a hand gently over his chest.
"You are not Rael. But you are mine."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Train. Grow. And when the world dares raise its banners again…"
"…we'll burn it all to ash—together."