Chapter 43: Title

The shadow coalesced into a humanoid figure—a youth draped in an opulent black robe, his fair complexion and delicate features accentuated by a black jade earring shaped like an ouroboros adorning his left earlobe.

Though this unfolded mere steps from Merlinka’s doorstep, none witnessed it, not even Myers’ agents stationed nearby to guard Waylin.

With a spring in his step, the youth entered the courtyard, gliding through the door without knocking. He strode past the living room, his gaze fixed ahead, and made for the dining area.

There stood a figure with its back to him, meticulously pruning blossoms in a vase.

“Waylin Beers,” he announced.

Waylin froze, unaware of any intrusion. Swiveling around, she found herself scrutinized by a black-haired youth.

“Who are you?”

His attire defied modernity—a stark contrast to Waylin’s own adaptation to contemporary dress after six centuries.

“I am—” He checked himself, swiftly amending his words. “I am the God of Death. You’ve overstayed your mortal tenure by six hundred years. Come.”

“The God of Death.”

Waylin recoiled. She’d evaded Death’s gaze for centuries, clinging to Merlinka’s sanctuary. This encounter contradicted every detail in Myers’ reports.

Though Yin-Yang eyes remained rare, populous nations always yielded a few bearers. Myers’ documents described Death as a hooded reaper bearing a scythe—nothing like this polished youth.

Yet conviction gripped her: this being spoke truth. Escape was impossible.

“I can’t depart yet,” she murmured after a pause.

“Refusal?” His eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“A friend just left. I must bid her farewell.” Regret tightened her throat—she should’ve cherished those final moments with Merlinka.

The youth wasn’t Death, but Death’s master—Satan, Lord of the Dead. Dispatching a six-century specter required mere snap of his fingers.

But haste robbed amusement. He’d petitioned Father God for this excursion precisely to savor mortal intrigues.

“How long?”

“A month?” Hope tinged her plea.

Satan nearly grinned. Thirty days of exploration! He schooled his features into sternness.

“For your clean record and eradication of Abyssal aura, one month. Then you come willingly.”

“Thank you, Lord of Death.” Her bow hid trembling hands.

With a nod, he dissolved into air.

Alone, Waylin stared at her quivering fingers. Terror had numbed even this physical truth.

Waylin contemplated briefly whether to contact Myers before finally pulling out her phone and dialing his number.

The God of Death and their companions appeared indifferent to human visibility—after all, every living soul would ultimately be escorted by them upon death.

Satan strolled down the bustling street, observing hurried pedestrians clad in suits, overcoats, and scarves. After a thoughtful pause, he snapped his fingers to transform his attire.

Now wearing a white shirt with its top two buttons undone beneath a casually draped jacket and black pants, he exuded effortless charm.

Emerging from a shadowy alley, he meandered aimlessly until a group of delinquents with neon-dyed hair and piercings cornered him at a dead end.

Amused—having never been accosted before—Satan recalled the novels his subordinates provided. He observed the troublemakers with keen interest, anticipating their next act.

"Lookin’ sharp, shrimp. Hand over your cash," sneered one.

"Empty pockets," Satan replied cheerfully.

His breezy demeanor provoked the red-haired ringleader, who slammed him against the brick wall. "Dressed like that? Pay up or get hurt."

Satan blinked innocently, his current appearance—borrowed from a sports car-driving teen—radiating vulnerability. Yet anyone believing the Prince of Darkness could be bullied belonged in an asylum.

The name Satan evoked neither innocence nor neighborly charm. Well… except perhaps when he playfully pouted before the God of Death—his sole indulgence in such theatrics.

Only his three elder brothers, the Lords of the Dead, dared discipline him—whether dunking him in the river of the dead or delivering stern lectures.

Though Satan instantly discerned the delinquents’ remaining lifespans, he refrained from altering them. Father God’s rules forbade direct interference. Still, mortals offending underworld royalty rarely enjoyed peaceful afterlives.

"Surrender your valuables," Satan parroted their demand, adding a twist: "Every last trinket."

The thugs blinked dazedly. When clarity returned, their pockets and fingers lay bare—wallets, phones, jewelry vanished like morning mist.

Four figures trembled in the winter chill, exchanging bewildered glances. They’d cornered a teenager, yet now stood robbed themselves.

"Did… did we just mug an extraordinary individual?"

Meanwhile, Satan strolled away studying the delinquents’ memories while testing his new phone. His nimble fingers danced across the screen—password cracked, apps explored—all without breaking stride.

This pocket-sized portal to human knowledge fascinated him. Within an hour, the deity mastered everything from mobile games to search engines. Gods learned fast.

Glancing at his outdated robe, he mentally compared it to the God of Death’s sharp suits. Perhaps hell needed sartorial upgrades. Modern insights deserved discussion with his brothers—uniform changes should be coordinated across the realm of the dead.

A mischievous plan took shape. First, he needed test subjects (preferably not the God of Death). Where do ordinary people reliably encounter reapers? Hospitals, naturally.

Summoning a reaper directly felt lazy—where’s the fun in that? Satan smirked. Perfecting underworld reforms could wait. Tonight, adventure called.

Every day, patients die in hospitals, making them prime grounds for the God of Death to linger—particularly outside intensive care units.

As a Lord of the Dead, he perceived impending deaths quicker than even the God of Death himself. Upon entering the human realm, he had deliberately muted these deathly premonitions.

But as he stepped into the hospital and lowered his mental barriers, he immediately detected a fading life within the building.

"Hm," he murmured, pausing mid-stride. "An angel’s presence?"

Angels in hospitals weren’t entirely unexpected—devout believers sometimes warranted heavenly retrieval, as Satan well knew. Such cases usually saw souls delivered to heaven through established custom.

He boarded the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

In a spacious private ward on that floor, three entities formed a tense triangle.

The God of Death stood cloaked in black hooded robes, skeletal fingers curled around his scythe’s shaft.

Across from him hovered an angel, white wings shimmering, golden hair framing blue eyes that mirrored summer skies.

Leaning casually against the wall was a sharply dressed young man—black hair styled impeccably, obsidian eyes gleaming with mischief—were it not for the shadowy wings furled at his back, he might’ve passed for human.

The room’s sole occupant, a pale little boy of seven or eight, sat propped against pillows. Lightly golden strands clung to his damp forehead, his cerulean gaze luminous against sickly pallor. He turned a book’s pages with frail fingers, seemingly oblivious to the supernatural standoff around him.

"Death, angel, Fallen Angel—quite the gathering," Satan drawled as he shouldered through the door, surveying the trio stationed at cardinal points. "Neglecting your duties?"

He made no effort to veil himself. The boy glanced up, curiosity overcoming weakness. "Who’re you? I don’t remember you visiting."

Three stunned faces whirled toward the intruder. The God of Death recovered first, sinking into a deep bow. "My Lord of the Dead."

"Lord of the Dead," the angel and Fallen Angel echoed simultaneously before glaring at each other, the former’s wing twitching in revulsion.

Satan ignored their mutual disdain. "Purpose?"

"In four hours," the God of Death rasped, "this child’s thread snaps. I come to sever it."

"His soul radiates purity," the angel countered, feathers bristling. "Heaven claims him."

"What Heaven desires," the Fallen Angel purred, plucking a drifting down feather from the air, "Hell delights to withhold." The angel’s left primary quiver trembled with suppressed rage.

"Who’re you talking to?" The boy’s reedy voice sliced through the tension.

"Death," Satan answered, perching on the room’s lone armchair.

"Death… Am I dying?"

"Four hours remain." The Lord of the Dead leaned forward, lips quirking. "Your escorts await—Reaper, Seraph, Hellspawn. Choose wisely."

The angel’s jaw clenched at the bluntness but held his tongue. Mortal children required gentleness, not cruel truths.

Instead of fear, wonder brightened the boy’s eyes. He hugged his storybook tighter. "Can I see them?"

"No fear, little one?" Satan’s eyebrow arched.

Satan rubbed his chin, contemplating the boy’s truly pure soul—such radiance had drawn even an angel’s presence. As for Hell’s involvement, it existed solely to counterbalance Heaven’s influence. Though newly manifested as a deity, he instinctively understood the eternal discord between celestial and infernal realms, their tumultuous dance of rivalry and reluctant kinship… a truth known to every mortal and immortal alike.

"Do they appear frightening?"

Satan’s gaze swept over the trio nearby. Ironically, his own subordinate seemed the most intimidating figure. A faint smile curved his lips.

"Judge for yourself." With a flick of his wrist, Satan unveiled the room’s hidden spectators to the child.

The God of Death stared as his skeletal scythe morphed into a leather-bound tome. His form shifted to mirror the Fallen Angel’s humanoid appearance, though spectacles now framed his eyes.

"Much improved symmetry," Satan approved with a nod.

Unaccustomed to exposed features after eternity shrouded in hooded shadows, the God of Death’s expression remained rigid under scrutiny. The Lords of the Dead exchanged glances with the angelic and infernal observers, their collective attention intensifying his discomfort.

"Are you an angel? So pretty! But why don’t you match them?" The boy’s awestruck eyes traveled over the celestial being nearest him.

The angel shifted self-consciously. Flanked by sharp-suited figures, his flowing robe suddenly felt anachronistic.

"Black wings mean you’re a Fallen Angel?" The child turned fearlessly toward shadowy plumage.

Mythology whispered of ebony wings marking the fallen, stark against their heavenly brethren’s snowy pinions.

"You… Death’s avatar? Books described you differently." Puzzlement creased the boy’s forehead as he studied the figure at his bedside.

The God of Death sighed inwardly. Until moments ago, he’d perfectly matched mortal depictions.

"Am I truly dying? Why else see angels and Death?" Sorrow clouded the child’s features. "Mama and Papa will weep. Grandmothers, grandfathers too…"

The door swung open, admitting white-coated attendants with a medical cart.

"Vichy, checkup time," chimed the lead physician, brandishing a stethoscope while retrieving the chart labeled Vichy Luther.

Medical staff moved with practiced efficiency, oblivious to supernatural observers.

"Uncle Doctor… will I die today?"

The physician froze. From birth, congenital heart disease had imprisoned this child in sterile corridors. Never before had such despair tinged Vichy’s voice.

"Hush now. We’ve secured a donor heart. Post-surgery, you’ll chase butterflies outdoors."

The non-humans exchanged knowing glances. Only extraordinary courage allowed this mortal child to endure their dreadful presence.

Monitoring stable vitals, the doctor exhaled quietly.

"But Death’s here. He says four hours remain." Small fingers plucked at the white coat’s sleeve. "Please… fetch my parents?"

"Death… You truly saw him?"

The physician’s face paled. Since Magic Return’s proclamation, reality itself had unraveled. Terminal patients often glimpsed the Reaper’s approach—harbinger of final breaths.

As a physician sworn to science, I find myself compelled to acknowledge mysticism in this age where rationality falters. True atheists remain scarce – even self-proclaimed nonbelievers harbor secret reverence for forces beyond comprehension.

"Can’t you see Death standing by the bed, Doctor?" Vichy inquired, his small finger pointing toward the spectral figure before turning to observe Satan lounging on the sofa.

The physician’s complexion drained of color. Though constantly battling against mortality, practitioners never wish to confront its embodiment – an omen both professionally disheartening and personally unnerving.

"Full diagnostic panel immediately!" The doctor barked at nurses, determined to disprove the child’s fatal prophecy. Any four-hour death sentence must indicate undetected pathology requiring intervention.

"How quaint – he challenges your claim," sneered the Fallen Angel, crossing arms over his tailored coat. No mortal clinician could possibly thwart eternal designs.

"Should this physician succeed, it might prove preferable," mused the celestial being, compassion softening his ethereal features. "Youth belongs among living blossoms, not celestial halls."

Silence hung about the God of Death as he turned questioning eyes toward the Lords of the Dead.

"Consult your ledger," Satan drawled, gesturing lazily with a jeweled hand. The death deity’s weathered tome revealed Vichy’s entry – scarlet script blurring under mortal defiance.

"Fates rewrite themselves… occasionally," the underworld sovereign remarked, watching medical personnel swarm like worker ants. As orderlies wheeled the boy away, Satan’s fingers brushed his serpent-shaped earring. "Fortune’s child, perhaps?"

Vichy’s wide eyes lingered on the underworld entourage until hospital doors eclipsed the view.

"Permission to observe?" The God of Death’s stony visage concealed turbulent curiosity.

At the Lords’ nod, the angel stepped forward. "I’ll accompany him. Mortal courage deserves witness."

"Neither shall I lag," the Fallen Angel declared with mocking courtesy. "The Demon King dislikes celestial victories."

Satan’s brow furrowed as the dark-winged being turned to leave. "Hell’s gates shouldn’t permit your passage." Memories surfaced of Eden’s serpentine legacy – forbidden fruits and humanity’s eternal complications.

"Mortals perpetually forge dangerous alliances," came the oblique reply. The implication hung heavy – human ambition had bridged realms, constructing stable dimensional conduits.

When the last supernatural entity departed, Satan contemplated the transfer station of mortal existence. Through this fragile plane, all non-human entities now flowed like dark rivers finding new courses.

Since the passage to hell had opened, it meant one could pay an infernal visit. Yet this gateway likely wasn’t in Europe – had it been, I’d surely have known.

*

Two days prior in America.

Within a desolate forest clearing, an arcane magic circle sprawled across the earth, its twisted patterns cradling an eerie statue at the center. Crimson fluid trickled into five-centimeter trenches etched around the formation, while fragmented moonlight pierced through dissipating storm clouds.

As lunar rays bathed the ritual site, six trembling figures knelt beyond the circle’s edge – Young Men no older than twenty-five, chanting guttural invocations through bloodless lips. Fragments of their desperate pleas carried through the night – immortality… riches… demonic bargains…

The sacrificial offering coalesced into rivulets snaking toward the central statue. The grotesque effigy drank deeply until its stone surface glowed vermilion, emitting pulsating scarlet wisps. Invisible mana swirled through the air, intertwining with crimson particles to birth a slender vertical fissure.

Minutes crawled by as the glowing rift expanded. When unfiltered moonlight finally struck the completed formation, spatial fluctuations crescendoed violently. From the widening abyss emerged slender fingers clutching the void’s edge, then a second pale hand joining to rend reality itself.

The dark aristocrat emerged through the three-meter tear like time-woven royalty, his arrival heralded by undulating black distortions. Raven locks framed alabaster features – a delicate-faced youth of twenty-three winters, his lithe form draped in ancient elegance.

"How nostalgically familiar," he crooned, each syllable dripping aristocratic melody. "Crude vintage, yet you’ve unsealed the path. Commendable."

"Your reward shall be as sworn – eternal life… and fortune beyond measure." Moonlight glinted off the sleeping bat cupped in his palm, its folded wings deceptively peaceful.

"Awaken, little one." The crimson-lipped noble prodded the creature, his smile sharpening. "Feast."

Yawning, the disoriented bat flapped erratically before dive-bombing its chosen victim. The summoners recoiled in horror – they’d bargained for eternal youth, not the cursed bite from folklore’s blood-drinking fiends.

A mirthless chuckle sliced through their panic. The pale watcher observed their mental curses, voice glacial: "Carve this name in your shriveled souls – henceforth, I am the ancestor of the blood clan."

"Cain."

Cain?! The bitten initiates writhed on bloodied soil, minds reeling. Every Western soul knew the primal myth – Cain, first among night’s children.

The progenitor’s garnet eyes glinted with contempt at his groveling fledglings. "Blood clan," he corrected icily. "Misname us again, and more than hands will fall."

Six severed right hands thudded to earth in gruesome unison. As screams pierced the night, Cain clicked his tongue. The bat abandoned its crimson perch to nestle against his shoulder, already drowsing.

These ordinary people scarcely deserved the gift he’d bestowed. By blood clan hierarchy, an ancestor’s direct embrace should have birthed six princes. Yet for gutter rats? Mere bat-bitten thralls sufficed.

"We dare not," a voice quivered. After their transformation into the blood clan, they keenly experienced the oppressive hierarchy inherent to their kind.

Before Cain, the primordial ancestor, even the faintest thought of resistance withered in their minds.

How bitterly they regretted it now – why had they heeded that cursed statue’s whispers to inscribe the magic circle? Their folly had summoned the progenitor of the blood clan himself. This catastrophe endangered not only themselves, but potentially the entire world.

Cain snorted derisively, though he harbored no true intention to maim these fledgling subordinates. The human realm still required their service.

"Reattach your limbs. Our kind’s regenerative power will mend them swiftly."

At his command, the converts scrambled to press severed arms against bleeding shoulders. Within moments, severed vessels began snaking across the wounds like crimson vines, flesh knitting itself whole.

The progenitor turned his gaze upon the pulsating dimensional rift. A forty-six-faced pentagonal crystal materialized in his palm, its facets catching hellish light as he raised it toward the vortex.

The chaotic tear gradually stabilized, transforming into an immense portal framed by carvings of the seventy-two demon lords of hell – each visage radiating such malice that mortal eyes would crumble beneath the sight.

Hell’s hierarchy stood thus: Lucifer, first among the Seven Kings, ruled supreme. Below him ranked the seventy-two primal monarchs of the abyss, their grotesque likenesses now etched eternally upon the hell gate.

Within the infernal realms

Dust cascaded from the hell gate’s ancient surface as its millennial seal fractured. The massive lock disintegrated into crimson mist, leaving no trace of its existence.

With agonizing slowness, the colossal doors swung inward.

A hundred paces beyond the threshold, upper-level demons jostled for position, their triumphant roars shaking the sulfurous air when the gateway finally yawned open. Further back stood orderly ranks of Fallen Angels, their obsidian wings twitching with restrained anticipation. Behind these, the silhouettes of the Seven Lords loomed – no lesser demon dared approach this sacred convergence.

Yet all denizens of hell perceived the gate’s awakening, from the lowliest imp to the archdukes of the pit.

"Your Majesty," a voice murmured from the shadows, "It appears Cain has succeeded."

Upon the Nine Sacred Mountains of Heaven

Raphael’s brow furrowed as he read the celestial report. "The hell gate stirs."

"Hardly surprising," Gabriel sighed, his luminous wings dimming slightly. "When Heaven’s path to the human realm opened, Hell’s answer was inevitable."

Michael’s quill paused above heavenly parchment. "Shall we petition My God’s counsel? Or dispatch observers?" The archangel’s study glowed with ambient holiness, scrolls floating around the trio.

"Who would you send?" Michael’s gaze pierced through his fellow archangels.

"Our Lord already knows," Raphael countered.

"Low-tier angels would corrupt near that infernal threshold."

"Then perhaps you, Gabriel?" Raphael’s eyes glinted. "Were you not close to Asmodius before his Fall?"

The air chilled. "After millennia of holy wars," Gabriel retorted sharply, "We’re all acquainted with those traitors. Why not volunteer yourself?"

Unspoken memories hung heavy – of Lucifer the Lightbringer, once called Lucifer, whose twelve seraph wings had eclipsed the stars. The shining morning star who led a third of heaven’s host downward, taking with him heaven’s brightest: Beelzebub of the infinite gaze, Belial the honey-tongued, Leviathan the world-serpent, Asmodius of forbidden passions, Samael the venomous.

Now they styled themselves Hell’s Seven Kings – six fallen archangels bolstering the abyss’s might.

A bitter smile twisted Gabriel’s lips. "How Hell must gloat over its stolen treasures."

At the dawn of the holy war between Hell and Heaven, the demons of Hell immediately mocked the celestial forces for their poor judgment, sneering that Heaven had "graciously delivered their Demon King to them."

Lucifer remained an object of worship among angels even after his fall. Michael’s presence on the battlefield drew concentrated attacks from Hell’s forces – while his absence granted temporary peace. The unspoken truth lingered: Michael had assumed the very position Lucifer once held before the Fall.

"I cannot go," Michael refused instantly. "Should I descend to Hell, what assurance exists for my return?"

Raphael sighed in resignation. "Let us deploy the Principalities to investigate. At minimum, we must confirm whether Hell’s demons are breaching the human realm unchecked."

He understood his brethren’s reluctance all too well. None among them desired to venture into that accursed domain.

As Michael began to nod, a sudden stillness came over him. Returning to awareness, he addressed his companions: "Our Lord summons me. The decision rests with you." The archangel departed in haste.

…

Within the Grand Sanctuary of Crystal Heaven,

Ye Linlang’s borrowed visage of Yahweh paled as she surveyed the damage. The converter lay shattered beneath accumulated belief’s weight, its essence forcibly merged with Yahweh’s vessel. What began as a Fantasy Points construct now rapidly transformed into true divine flesh – far outpacing her projections.

Only the primordial mark upon her soul prevented complete dissolution when entering this avatar. Without that anchor, the belief torrents would have erased Ye Linlang entirely, leaving only the radiant God of Light Yahweh.

"So this is faith’s toxicity," she murmured, though abandoning this power remained unthinkable. The world consciousness had deemed belief superior to raw emotion – more abundant, more easily refined into potent divinity.

"If one converter fails, I’ll create multiples." Gritting her teeth, Ye Linlang allocated two hundred million Fantasy Points to reconfigure the Sacred Pool. Her reserves plummeted from nearly a billion as five hundred million more enforced bodily purity, excising contaminated fragments while arresting the divine transformation.

Mortals’ fractured beliefs defied purification. Only saints could generate flawless faith – saints she conspicuously lacked.

The divine metamorphosis couldn’t be halted, merely paused. Yahweh’s ascension to tier sixteen would shatter realities – Blue Star’s stability mattered little when this small illusory world would rupture first.

Observing the Tier One Sacred Pool’s renewed purification cycle brought grim satisfaction. Upgraded systems could now handle twice Earth’s population without strain.

Her awareness shifted as Michael approached. The Grand Sanctuary doors parted.

From the Divine Throne’s shadowed recesses, where only divine robes shimmered faintly, an eternal gaze fixed upon the entering seraphim’s golden radiance.