Ţhē Đēvīľ'ś Ēmīssāry

Boy, come inside."

Lucien turned, wondering who was there.

"Quickly, boy, come inside now!"

Lucien hesitated, a sense of unease washing over him. Yet, a strange compulsion, almost as if someone else were nudging his thoughts, told him he would regret it if he didn't obey. He couldn't explain it, but the thought felt true. He glanced around once more, then slipped into the cave's dark mouth.

Immediately, the air grew heavy with an unnatural stillness. Whispers, like the rustling of dry leaves, tickled his ears, weaving words he couldn't quite grasp.

"Do you seek entertainment?"

"Do you seek thrills?"

"Do you seek power, cosmic strength?"

"Do you seek a second chance?"

The whispers intensified, morphing into a booming voice that echoed through the cavern, shaking the very walls.

"Answer me, boy! Do you seek world domination?"

A wave of heat washed over Lucien, and a thrill shot through him, a dangerous excitement he'd never felt before.

"Yes!"he breathed, the word torn from his lips.

Suddenly, the cave blazed with an otherworldly light, the shadows retreating to reveal walls shimmering with an eerie luminescence. A deafening roar echoed across the deadlands, a sound that seemed to tear the fabric of reality.

"In exchange for this," the voice thundered, "you must cleanse the demons."

"From every corner of the multiverse, they must pay the price for betraying Lucifer Morningstar!"

The chilling laughter echoed through the underworld, reaching the ears of every being there. Hades, Anubis, and countless others felt the tremor of raw power shake their domains.

Then, a blinding light erupted, consuming half of the cave and a portion of the deadlands. Lucien was caught in the blast. Anubis, sensing the surge of energy, raced toward the source of the cataclysm.

When he arrived, the sight that greeted him was one of utter devastation. The landscape was obliterated, reduced to smoldering ruins. Not a trace of life remained. Neither body nor soul could be found. Lucien was gone.

A deep breath rattled in their chest, and a body opened it's fragile eyes—or perhaps simply became visible. Long, thick, and dirty silver hair, a cascade like a woman's, fell around the frail form, reaching their hips and covering a back etched with scars, remnants of whippings and pain.

As the figure took in their surroundings, they realized they were held in the arms of a middle-aged woman. Tears streamed down her face, each one a testament to a deep well of sorrow. She clutched the figure tightly, her embrace a desperate plea, and soaked their face with her tears.

Before comprehension could flicker, an axe of obsidian, wreathed in shadow, sheared through her skull. The severed head, eyes wide and vacant, was hurled aloft, a grotesque offering to the crimson moon. A torrent of ichor, black as night and thick as tar, gushed from the ragged wound, drenching the oblivious Lucien in a chillingly warm, unholy baptism. Her body, now a marionette of death, crashed to the earth, limbs askew. The severed head, a macabre parody of a smile frozen on its face, landed beside him. The world shimmered, a glitched reality. Then, an instinct honed as an assassin's brutal lifetime screamed a warning: the obsidian axe was descending. reflexes of his past, etched into his very soul, took over. He contorted away, narrowly avoiding the blow that instead shattered the already violated corpse. The headless husk twitched and convulsed, a final, obscene dance.

Lucien, his mind a whirlwind of nothing and fascination, felt something primal awaken within him. Tears, not of sorrow but of something darker, began to trace paths down his face.

He touched his chin, a sensation both alien and intoxicating. "Is this an emotion?" he croaked, his voice raw. His gaze swept across the charnel scene, his mouth agape. "By the abyss," he rasped, "Where in the seven hells am I?

And what unholy madness is this?"

Right in front of him was a gladiator, looking like a chimera according to his perception. The figure was large, as large as a bulldozer, and Lucien grinned after its head. "Now this will be interesting," the figure growled, and chased after him.

Being an assassin, and how dark his environment was, he was at home.he sprinted as if he were sane, running for his life and looking for something he could use as a saber. He had done it for less than thirty minutes before his body almost died of exhaustion .

Due to the distraction, a sickening crunch echoed as he was struck in the abdomen. His frail body, already battered and bruised, was sent hurtling through the air like a discarded ragdoll. He slammed against the rough stone wall with a sickening thud, the impact forcing a grotesque spray of blood and viscera from the ragged wound in his stomach.

He stood, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of his mouth. Coughing, he spat a mouthful onto the dusty floor, his gaze fixed on the crimson pool. A slow grin spread across his face as he lifted his eyes to his opponent.

"Clap, clap, clap," he began, the sound echoing strangely in the tense silence. "Clap, clap, clap."

He paused, the clapping ceasing abruptly. "Well done," he said, his voice laced with a chilling amusement. "You know, I haven't seen my own blood in a long time… except when I died, I suppose. And now you've made me see it again. You should consider yourself lucky."

His eyes raked over his own body, as if assessing the damage. "This body… it seems weak, fragile, doesn't it? But let's see…" The grin widened, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. "It might just be enough to have some fun with you, brother."

He gestured with a languid wave of his hand. "Come on. Let's see what you've got left."

D333, the gladiator he was fighting, charged. Due to the arena's vast population, gladiators were designated by numbers – the demons deeming them unworthy of true names. He dashed toward the towering figure. As the axe swung, F999, Lucien, leapt onto the weapon's haft.

His hands lashed out, fingers digging into D333's eyes. The demon shrieked, a high-pitched sound of pure agony. Seizing the advantage, Lucien tore his hand down D333's groin. The towering figure crashed to its knees. As Lucien lunged for the other eye, D333 head-butted him, sending his fragile body tumbling in the dust. Lucien scrambled to his feet, a manic laugh escaping his lips.

"Don't tell me the party's about to end?" F999 asked, his gaze fixed on the bleeding, kneeling D333.

D333 screamed, a mix of pain and fury contorting his features. He rose, charging once more, but the damage to his groin made his movements shaky and unbalanced, giving F999 a distinct advantage. F999, mirroring the charge, moved with a newfound fluidity.

The crowd watched in stunned silence. F999, known for his past foolishness and a brutal punishment for secretly seeing his mother, had been given an opponent two ranks above him. He had fainted, and upon awakening, something had snapped within him. He now exuded the aura of a highly trained killer, his killing intent on par with B-rank gladiators. The crowd, witnessing the impossible unfold, remained quiet, captivated by the transformation.

High above the arena, in a glass-walled enclosure, two demons observed the match. "Magistrate," Cuban ordered, his voice sharp, "make sure you observe his movements. Tell me what happened. How can he move so skilled?.

The force of D333's jab shattered the air, the sonic boom ripping through the arena like a thunderclap, sending a cloud of gritty dust billowing outwards. The dust, thick and choking, obscured the combatants, a swirling curtain of grey. D333, a grotesque parody of a warrior, grinned, his fanged teeth glinting in the dim, purple light. He was certain of his victory, the impact of his blow resonating in his bones. He opened his maw to bellow his triumph when a chillingly calm voice cut through the haze.

"Oh, come on," Lucien drawled, his voice a low, unsettling murmur. "You think I would have let that hit me?"

Before D333 could react, a blur of motion erupted from the dust cloud. Lucien, his movements preternaturally swift, delivered a savage roundhouse kick to D333's already weakened knees, the sickening crack of bone echoing through the arena. In the same fluid motion, his hand transformed, the fingers elongating and sharpening into a makeshift dagger.

He lunged, the improvised weapon plunging into D333's throat, tearing through flesh and cartilage. A gurgling, wet sound filled the air as blood, thick and dark, gushed from the ragged wound, coating E999's hand and half his face in a gruesome crimson mask. D333's eyes widened in disbelief, his body convulsing as his internal jugular vein was severed. Blood flooded his airways, choking him, causing his body to seize and tremble.

E999, his face now a canvas of blood, smiled, a predatory, almost serene expression. "I suppose it's time to satisfy my curiosity," he murmured, his voice laced with a dark amusement. He began his dissection, his movements precise and methodical, as if performing a delicate surgical procedure. A thrill, cold and sharp, coursed through his veins, a perverse pleasure in the act of dismantling life. D333's body lay still, a grotesque tableau, the swirling patterns of his skin now seeming to writhe and shift like living shadows, a macabre testament to the life that had been extinguished.

With a reverence that bordered on the blasphemous, E999 made the initial incision, the blade tracing the curve of D333's torso with surgical precision. The bone, weakened by the earlier blow, yielded with a sickening crunch as the blade tore through the remaining flesh and cartilage. A faint, pungent aroma, like the metallic tang of ozone mixed with the sulfurous stench of brimstone, wafted upwards, filling the air with an almost palpable sense of corruption.

E999's hands moved with deliberate slowness, each movement a study in controlled violence. He savored the moment, his focus absolute, his intensity palpable, a tangible force in the arena. Every gentle probe of tissue, every careful dissection of muscle and bone, was a testament to his dark artistry. He discovered tissues that seemed to flow like molten lava, their heat radiating outwards, a demonic fire burning within.

His eyes gleamed with an unholy light as he delved deeper into D333's anatomy, his breathing slowing, his movements becoming almost ritualistic. It was as if he had transcended the realm of mere mortal curiosity, entering a state of ecstatic wonder. He was oblivious to the growing silence in the arena, the horrified gasps of the demonic audience. His focus was solely on the intricate workings of the body before him, the dance of life and death playing out in the crimson depths of his dissection.

Suddenly, a sharp blow to the back of his head sent him crashing to the ground, the world dissolving into a black void. He felt himself being dragged away, the rough hands of the arena guards pulling him from his macabre masterpiece. The demonic crowd, silent until now, erupted in a cacophony of cheers and roars, a perverse celebration of the spectacle they had just witnessed. It was an epic show, a masterpiece of violence, and they were eager to see more.