Lucifer's complicated, you see; he's not like your every day, run-of-the-mill demon joe. He's into old-timey gramophones, and traditional torture (think pulling nails and flaying skin), and just about everything else stuck maybe three centuries in the past. What can I say? He's a hopeless sentimentalist. 

Can't exactly say I blame the guy; things were way better back then.

​

No bureaucracy, no rules, no red tape and management and all the fancy rules, just us — down here — and everyone else — up there. Whenever we so pleased, we'd just climb top-side and haunt some poor sod while he slept, or played tricks with soldiers stationed in some far-away lands, or possessed things. Remember when you used to read about possessions in the daily paper? Haven't seen one in forever, have you?

​

That's boss-man over here cracking down on us.

​

He says it's bad for business. The more we act like Hell's demon spawns, the more summoners are less likely to call us in, and the less likely they are to call us in, the less souls we're able to pick off from the Overworld. Personally, none of this really mattered all that much to me; I just wanted a nice, dark, quiet corner where I could break off from the rest of the world for maybe more than five minutes at a time. Now, in the grand scheme of things, 200 years of silence might sound a tad bit long (you humans seldom live for half of that, after all), but it's worth noting most demons like myself have the luxury to remain undisturbed for millennias.

​

"Come along now, you two," Lucifer said, ushering both Ra'az and I into his lavish office space. "We have all the problems in the world and not any of the time. I'm a busy man, so hurry hurry."

​

Reluctantly, but without complaint (not that complaining would do much, that is), the Sand Jinn hauled me inside and shut the door behind him. He marched to the center of the room, dropped me onto a sofa (face down, by the way), then stood at attention before Lucifer himself.

​

I tried to move, but well. . .  There's only so much you can do with a broken spine — oh, that and the weight of my armor made it borderline impossible.

​

"Hey, bird-man, a little help?"

​

There was no answer from him.

​

"Hello? For someone who could supposedly hear every grain of sand shift, you sure are a deaf o—"

​

"Yes," Ra'az more or less hissed at me (how he did so with a beak is indeed puzzling). "I heard you the first time; I simply chose to ignore you."

​

"That's rude."

​

The Sand Jinn nudged and poked and prodded with the tip of his bejeweled staff, flipping me upright eventually. Lucifer's ceiling stared right back.

​

"Thanks," I said.

​

No response.

​

I forced my head to turn, taking in the office space and every minute detail (I make it a habit to survey my surroundings often. After all, you never know when and where you'll be duking it out. Fun fact: I once wrestled this imp in a portable toilet the size of a small closet. As you can probably guess, it was messy work).

​

Honestly speaking, it was a rather. . . Disappointing affair. I expected way, way more. Let me be clear: perhaps 300 years or so ago (give or take a few hundred), you'd find Lucifer himself sitting atop a massive throne, fiddling with his infamous pitchfork while legions upon legions of lesser demons bowed and swore loyalty before him. Now? You couldn't tell the difference between The Devil and a sprightly Imperium accountant wearing red.

​

Like I said, real disappointing. At least it smelled of day-old whiskey, which was always a sure-fire way of telling a good demon from the rest (I'm joking, of course; we all smell terrible).

​

His office itself was not something I'd call 'glamorous,' or 'befitting of Hell's very own ruler.' It was a large square space, with red walls and red carpeting and just about red everything else you could possibly imagine, from the accenting to the ceiling to all else in between. There was a massive mahogany desk towards one end, with an impressive assortment of human skulls and other such millennium-old relics sitting to its front. Behind, was this lavish, leather chair — dated, but still fashionable as ever — and on this very same lavish, leather chair, sat none other than Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell and Ruler of the Damned.

​

To his back was a tinted, glass window, and way beyond that? The City of Hell itself, sprawling and massive and all things magnificently awe-inspiring. It was still very much alive, and very much growing, I see.

​

There were lovely handcrafted, wooden bookshelves too — two bookshelves (to be precise) containing all sorts of classical works and historical accounts, and more recently, human pornography and other such endearing works of non-fiction (look, I don't know this guy, alright? I work for him; that's about the extent of my relationship).

​

These bookshelves sat squarely to one side of the room, and accompanying them were the many framed paintings depicting Lucifer himself in his infinite glory, giving great speeches and fighting greater battles and doing other less great, more mundane things (think garden parties and ballroom dances). There was a stone fireplace too, between the two bookshelves, burning and crackling and spitting embers here, there, everywhere. And, of course, there were the normal, everyday office furnitures, which in this instance consisted of, but were not excluded to: a set of black leather couches, both encircling a glass coffee table carved from ancient wyvern bones; a literal bar towards the other side of the room, complete with just about every kind of liquor ever known to men (even the bad ones, I'm sure); and a statue of The Devil yet again, carved perfectly from a mix of obsidian, marble, and gold. He posed as a philosopher in deep thought, holding onto a blackened trident.

​

That was Lucifer's place. Welcome to the most expensive office space in all of Hell. Rent? Don't even think about it (the place doesn't even have lights installed, for crying out loud).

​

"I understand you may have somewhat failed a Deathwish Oath, Al-Nashur," boss man said; he was fiddling with a fountain pen and working through the mountain of paperwork sitting idly upon his desk. "May I ask why?"

​

I tried wiggling a finger. Success! Now for the whole hand. "Yeah, uhh. . . Someone decided to join in on the fun — interrupted my sleep and all. It was a demon, might I add."

​

"Continue."

​

"Not exactly sure who he was, chief-man. Maybe one of Mammon's? Or, wait — no, actually — probably one of Asmodeus'. Only his cronies go out dressed like funeral takers. Yeah, that was probably it, no questions asked."

​

"Describe him to me."

​

"Well. . . Let's see, where do I start?"

​

Lucifer waited impatiently, tapping his pen against the desk.

​

"He was tall, black."

​

"Go on."

​

"Stitches for skin — almost like threads, I'd say."

​

"Good."

​

"Claws, crooked; horns, white; no face, but a mouthful of fangs, yes."

​

"Very nice."

​

"Suit and tie."

​

"Pinstripe?"

​

"Yep."

​

"Black or blue?"

​

"Black."

​

"Tsk. How tasteless. Tail or no tail?"

​

Tail."

​

"Classical spade-end?"

​

"You know it."

​

Lucifer was gazing out of the colored window and unto the city of Hell itself. I couldn't properly see his face from my position, but I would've guessed he was somewhat. . . Preoccupied with daydreaming. He does this every now and then — stare off into space, I mean. Nobody ever asks (unless you'd like to be skewered and turned into a shish kebab), but we more or less knew what he was thinking of: the better days of our underworld. 

Hey, sometimes I reminisce too, okay? Not because I'm an idealist or whatever, but because back then there was this colosseum-style arena where you could duke it out with whoever whenever — and to oblivion. I say 'oblivion' because, up there, we demons don't really die, we just get sent back down here. But if you die down here, you're done. Completely done. Anyways that's gone now, so. . . Not a whole lot left to do in Hell anymore.

"Look at us," he muttered to himself. "How disgraceful. How the mighty have fallen."

​

"Figuratively speaking, or literally speaking?" I said. "Knowing your brief history with heaven and all."

​

Ra'az poked me with the tip of his staff, rather harshly too, might I add.

​

"We were unstoppable once, Nashur. We were revered, worshiped, deified — gods among men and warriors among Divines. We consumed everything, and took for ourselves all that we so wished. Look at us now, divided. And all for what? For pride?"

​

"A bit ironic coming from you isn't it, Mr. Pride?"

​

The Sand Jinn poked me harder.

​

"It was well before your time, Nashur. It was. . . All so good. So perfect."

​

Lucifer was quiet.

​

He swiveled around in his chair, meeting my gaze.

​

"What else of the demon can you remember?"

​

I considered.

​

"He had a boy with him."

​

Both The Devil and the Sand Jinn looked to me at once. There was a general air of confusion and disbelief. You look just as confused as the two of them, so let me explain. 

Whenever a demon has a human with them, one of two things are happening: either said human is possessed, or said human is possessed.

​

And as I said, possessions don't come often these days. Unsanctioned ones are big, big trouble for people like boss-man over here, which ultimately means big, big trouble for the demon as well. Usually, if they're lucky, they'll just get away with maybe some slow, agonizing torture. If not, then it's the eternal fiery pits for them.

​

"Possession?" Ra'az spat the words out with such venom. "That's impossible. We haven't done one in forever."

​

Lucifer was much less dismissive. He raised a hand to silence the Sand Jinn. "Did the demon have a name? A calling? A sigil? Anything at all?"

​

"Yeah. Think so."

​

I tried to recall the name; it was hard. 

Hey, don't look at me like that, okay? When you've met thousands and thousands of beings, you tend to skip over their names and just remember the face (if they have one, that is. A lot of them don't). That, or how many times they’ve tried to kill you.

​

"Zha'Khiri? I think? Might've said that wrong. My tongue feels weird."

​

I looked up at Lucifer; he was no longer in his chair.

​

The Devil was standing directly in front of me, eyes blazing (and oh, I see he found himself a new pair of fangs. Fancy). He picked me up by the gorget, slamming me against a nearby wall; the office itself shook — the chandelier and paintings too. Ra'az watched idly by, nervous, I’m assuming.

​

"What?"

​

"Look, it sounded foreign, alright? I'm not a linguist major, chief, I'm just a—"

​

"Shut. Please."

​

Lucifer dumped me unto the floors in one satisfying clank!

​

He took a deep breath, hurried towards the bar, and poured himself a glass of bourbon. His hands were shaky, and if you listened carefully (very, carefully), his voice was too. The liquid swished and sloshed and swirled, spilling from the glass bottle and unto the bar top in one messy splotch.

​

And for the first time in the history of existence — in the history of ever — Lucifer said the two words I thought a man of his stature never could. He spoke the magic words, and frankly, I was taken aback. My friend was too, I'd wager.

​

"Well. . . Shit."

​

He chuckled to himself.

​

"We're fucked."

***

I had never seen Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, Torturer of the Sinned, quite so distraught. He was pacing about the office space, emptying bottle after bottle after bottle of expensive liquor, looking like a real work of art (by this I mean one of those abstract, modern, contemporary pieces; I was never one to enjoy blotches of color and finger painting).

​

Ra'az made a spectacle of inspecting Lucifer's many artwork, appraising them as if he was some sort of art critic. Me? I was content simply lying there, on the leather couch. My left arm had regained some sensation, and the right I could flex and bend and move freely already. This was good. My spine was healing far more quickly than I anticipated, which meant bird-man over there wouldn't have to drag me around anymore.

​

Believe me, once was embarrassing enough as is.

​

"I don't quite share your. . . Worry, sire," that was Ra'az. "It's but one rogue demon. Surely even Nashur here could make quick work of this creature had he some. . . Proper help."

​

"No, no, you don't understand," Lucifer said, casting aside his fourth straight bottle in a row. "This isn't just another rogue demon, Ra'az; this isn't even close to what I'd consider a major problem. No, this is something so much worse, and clearly you are not capable of comprehending the gravity of our situa—

​

"Then tell us," I sat up straight, propping myself with both shaky hands (I tried not to let the 'shaky' part show). "Tell me what I just fought. Tell us what it is.""

​

The Devil was silent.

​

"Tell me what I died to.”

​

Lucifer chuckled to himself, then strode warily towards one of the two oak bookshelves. He browsed the collection, scoured his library from top to bottom, then selected a book from amongst a plethora others. It was bound in skin, or more precisely, many different patches of many different kinds. It was thick too, with probably something around a few thousand or so yellowed pages jutting out at weird angles. And as if that wasn't already enough to complete the fabled grimoire look, there was ancient writing carved onto the cover itself. I couldn't read any of it, obviously (hence, the 'ancient' bit), but the one word I could make out spelled 'History.'

​

Lucifer blew on the book, scattering a storm of dust from their rest. They flew and danced and swiveled about the crackling fires like glow moths.

"What've you got there?" I said. "A lecture?"

The Devil smiled to himself.

"A story, maybe, if we have time for one."

​

He sat opposite to me, the fireplace to his back and yet another bottle (of god knows what this time) to his front. Ra'az came too, sitting beside me.

​

And so Lucifer began his tale.

“Ah. . . The good old days.”

***

The fires crackled and flared as we sat there, like small children listening to some epic, bedtime story. And so began The Devil's once-upon-a-time, and my 30 minutes of complete, utter boredom (don't tell him I said that; he really enjoys telling stories).

​

Lucifer pried open the book; the ink seemed to jump from the pages and dance about.

​

"There was a land once — of allegiance, of unity, of peace. It did not matter whether one could wield the arcane magics, it did not matter the color of your skin or eyes, it did not matter who you were born to, or where you came from, or what you were. It was a land of prosperity, and the people of this land saw it fit to call home. 

“Escardia was home and peace."

​

"But peace. . . Peace seldom prevailed for long."

​

"War came."

​

"And it could not have come sooner."

​

"A rift, a tear, a hole in the fabric of our very reality — in came the dark abyss, a realm of rot and decay, a place for Father Destiny's every mistake. In came The Void. It was a terrible thing. It sought to devour and consume and conquer all, and those it could not devour or consume or conquer, were turned; turned into something far more insidious, far more malicious, far more hungry. They were soldiers of The Void, their humanity stripped and their insanity let loose. They were the Voidspawn."

​

"Like a plague upon Escardia, The Void spread to the farthest reaches of the lands, corrupting everything it touched, and taking others it so desired."

​

"The world would have turned black, if humanity itself had not fought back."

​

"A light, a shimmer, a glow in the dark perhaps."

​

"Armies assembled as one, Divines descended from the heavens above, demons rose from the underworld to fight alongside their mortal companions. It was a golden age, an era of gods and heroes. And leading the charge was none other than Gentleman Death himself. He and his army of Reapers."

​

"Slowly, surely, the darkness was driven back. Cities were liberated, Voidspawns were cut down and burnt, men and women were given back their homes and land. But it was not without sacrifice. It was not without loss and sorrow. Many lives were lost, and many more suffered a far crueler sentence — a fate worse —​ than perhaps death itself."

​

"The Void drew back."

​

"And finally, after much bloodshed, humanity and its allies stood by the gates of The Tear, determined to drive The Void and her armies back to the depths of the black abyss. So it was, that Escardia threw all its might to this one battle, to this one clash, to this one fight between good and evil."

​

"And so it was, that The Void be driven back, and The Tear sealed shut."

​

"But it was not over yet."

​

"No, it was far from it."

​

"So very far."

​

"The Void was clever. It learned. It adapted. It evolved. It knew it could not defeat all at once.”

​

"Where most saw only terror in The Void's conquest, few saw power. Few saw unimaginable, unmatched, untamed power, waiting to be harnessed and set free, and it knew."

​

"It knew exactly what was to be done."

“It knew those that sought power.”

​

"In came Zha'Khiri — Gentleman Death's most trusted general, and an ambitious creature, if anything. Where The Divine saw only wretched terror, the Great General saw untapped potential. He saw a vast gold mine, sitting there, waiting, begging for someone to claim its riches."

​

"He whispered to The Void."

​

"It whispered right back."

​

"And soon, it won the general over with empty promises and sweet nothings. And upon one stormy night, the Great General Zha'Khiri turned his back on Gentleman Death himself. He turned his back on humanity and all her allies."

​

"But the Divine knew."

​

"He knew of the treason."

​

"He knew of the traitor amongst his midst."

​

"And so he waited."

​

"And waited."

​

"And waited."

​

"And then. . ."

“Soon enough.”

​

"A rip, a tear, yet another hole in the fabric of reality came to."

​

"The second coming of The Void."

​

"But this time, there was an army waiting at the gates of the black abyss. There was an army waiting to drive the darkness back once more. And it was an army of Gentleman Death's."

​

"A great battle ensued. The Reapers and Gentleman Death on one side, The Void and Great General Zha'Khiri on the other."

​

"But things would be different this time."

​

"The Divine was clever too, of course. He had learned. He had adapted. And much like The Void, he too had evolved — and so did his Reapers. They were accustomed to fighting the Voidspawns. Every horrific creation The Void spat out and into Escardian soil, Gentleman Death and his Reapers would hack and slash and tear it apart to but pieces of rotting flesh, far beyond recognition and far beyond reconstruction. It was a massacre. A slaughter. To call it an even match would be the world's greatest overstatement — even now."

​

"And in his defeat, did the Great General Zha'Khiri beg for forgiveness? Did he cry out in humility? Did he accept his fate with a smile upon his face?"

​

"No."

​

"He was furious."

​

"The Great General lashed out a final time, not in claws and fangs, but in words."

​

"'Death, you fool! Why do you protect them? We bleed and die and stand by their side, and still they despise our kind no less. Still they wish to see us buried in the dirt and drowning in the mud! Their endless crusades, their burning hatred — we fight for them today, and tomorrow they throw us to the wolves! And now — now you protect them. You insist we remain their guardian angels. Why, Death? Why?! Did you forget they hunted us for centuries?!"

​

"Gentleman Death did not answer. How could he, of course? How could he, when he himself knew the Great General spoke the truth, and nothing but the whole truth itself."

​

"'They are no less than parasites — blood sucking leeches! They take and take and take from this green earth, and bring about ruin to our lands. The forests, they trim for themselves; the rivers, they dry up and leave barren; the lands, they burn and pillage and plunder to quench their greed. I will have no human destroying my future, Death, and the future of my kind — no more! And not even you shall stand in my way! Not even you will stop us!'"

​

"But Gentleman Death did, as he had always done for eternities past, and eternities more to come."

​

"And even as his scythe tore through the Great General himself, the words still rang true."

​

"As true the day it was spoken, as it is now."

​

"The day after, it was a glorious sunrise. The skies shone a magnificent glow, the birds tweeted cheerfully, those that went about their mundane lives found a pep in their step. No one knew of The Void's second coming; no one knew who stood by the gates of The Tear and fought tooth and nail to save humanity once more. They did not need to know."

​

"And since that glorious day, the dark abyss was all quiet."

​

"Was it disgrace that silenced it?"

​

"No."

​

"It was learning once more."

​

"Adapting."

​

"Evolving."

​

"And it was waiting, yet again."

​

"Waiting for humanity's divide, and the world's descent into madness."

​

"And soon. . ."

​

"Gentleman Death would not be there to stand in its way."

​

"No one would."