"What's worshipped without consent becomes possession."
The night sky burned red.
Hundreds of cultists stood beneath the bleeding moon, hooded in black robes, their chants echoing like a twisted hymn across the stone altar grounds. In the center, suspended in the air by unseen force, floated Lucen—his body limp, his eyes shut. A fiery ring behind his back spun slowly, casting infernal light across the scene like a second moon.
Calista stood closest to him, arms raised, hands stained in black ash. Infernal symbols danced through the air where her fingers moved, curling like smoke before vanishing.
"O devoured son of betrayal," she cried out, voice raw with ecstasy. "Reborn through our tongues—wake, awaken, awaken!"
From the edges of the ritual grounds, hidden in shadow, Scarne watched. His breath trembled. His hand clenched a chain. Whatever this was… it was no longer a ritual. It was a resurrection.
In the void of Lucen's mind, the world was endless black. A dark ocean without a surface. He floated aimlessly, the weight of sleep dragging him deeper.
Far below, he saw his human self drowning.
And rising above—emerging from the water like a nightmare—was his other half. Crimson skin scorched with ancient burns. Silver eyes leaking smoke. Three jagged horns crowned his head. His four monstrous arms moved with elegance. Hair of fire flowed like liquid rage.
The devil version of him smiled.
"You hid me so long," the voice whispered. "Even from yourself."
The voice wrapped around him, low and patient.
"But they remembered. They worshipped. And you… you listened."
Lucen tried to scream. No sound came.
His body convulsed in the real world.
The cult roared in joy as his transformation began. Muscle tore and rebuilt. Bones cracked and realigned. Fangs lengthened. A new energy exploded from his back—a burning disk, wide as a shield, bleeding ancient symbols. Not wings, but something older. Divine. Damned.
He lowered to the ground with quiet grace.
And then… he began to dance.
Each movement precise. Beautiful. Terrifying. His body flowed like fire and shadow, mirroring the rhythm of the cultists. The earth responded. With every step, waves of corruption rippled across the globe.
Lies bloomed across the world like weeds.
Politicians tore apart treaties they'd promised to protect. Lovers betrayed one another. Families crumbled. Children lied. Friends deceived. The air grew heavier with malice and secrets.
Somewhere, a mother stabbed her own son.
Somewhere else, a priest stole from the dead.
The world was breaking, and they didn't even know why.
Scarne had seen enough.
He charged toward the altar, rage and desperation burning in his chest. His hands threw explosives. Chains cracked through the air.
"Lucen!" he shouted. "You're not this! You're NOT this!"
Lucen turned slowly.
He caught Scarne mid-air, held him up like a feather, and slammed him into the stone floor with a shuddering crack.
"You were always the kindling," the devil said.
A fireball formed in his hand, large enough to consume a car. It pulsed with death.
And then, the sky broke open.
Light crashed down like judgment. Two golden comets exploded through the clouds, blinding the cultists. Wind howled.
From the dust walked two radiant figures—wings of light, swords of prayer, armor shining like the sun.
Michael and Gabriel.
"You've fallen far," Michael said, voice calm and clear. "But not beyond reach."
Gabriel stepped forward. "This isn't who you are."
Lucen screamed and lunged. The ground exploded beneath him.
The fight shook the altar. Blades met claws. Light met fire. They moved too fast for human eyes. It wasn't a battle. It was a storm.
For minutes, maybe hours, the world stood still.
And then Michael drove his blade into Lucen's chest—not to kill, but to anchor him.
"Remember," he whispered, leaning close, "who mourned your first breath."
Gabriel placed a hand on Lucen's head. Light surged through him, filling every crack in his soul.
One by one, sigils lit up across Lucen's body. Seven marks of virtue.
"Chastity. Temperance. Charity. Diligence. Forgiveness. Kindness. Humility," Gabriel said.
"You'll carry three at a time. But not as weapons—as penance."
Lucen's scream split the night. A cry caught between two worlds—half demon, half man.
The cultists scattered like dust. Calista vanished in a cloud of smoke.
Lucen fell to his knees, human again, naked and trembling. Tears fell from his eyes. He couldn't stop shaking.
Scarne crawled to him, bruised and bleeding. He rested a hand on Lucen's shoulder.
"You're still here," he said quietly. "That's what matters."
Dawn arrived.
Lucen sat on a hilltop, watching the sun rise over a quiet earth. His eyes were closed. The ring behind his back glowed softly, no longer a weapon. Just a reminder.
"I have to end it," he said. "This cult. This curse. The blood. The prophecy."
Scarne said nothing, only nodded.
Lucen's voice was almost a whisper.
"I'll face my father. But he won't fight me until I prove I'm worthy."
He opened his eyes.
"And to do that—I have to defeat my seven brothers."
"Each one a Sin?" Scarne asked.
Lucen nodded.
"Each one… a piece of me."
End of Chapter 17
Next: Chapter 18 – Brother of Wrath