The adrenaline from the confrontation had been a fleeting warmth, a ghost of power that had momentarily masked the gnawing truth of his new condition. Now, as the pig-demon and his hulking companion merged back into the listless throng, the cold returned, and with it, the screaming demands of the flesh he was imprisoned in.
Thirst.
It was no longer a simple dryness in his throat. It had become a physical entity, a rasping creature with claws of sandpaper, tearing at his larynx with every breath. The headache, which had been a dull, distant thunder, now pulsed in sync with his frantic heartbeat, each throb a hammer blow against his skull. Every nerve ending seemed to cry out for water.
At the edge of his hearing, beyond the coughing and muttering of the slum, was a faint, rhythmic sound. *Drip… drip… drip…*
It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
Ignoring the stares that followed him, a mixture of fear, curiosity, and contempt, Lucifer began to walk. He moved with a stiff, deliberate gait, placing one bare foot in front of the other in the slick, sucking mud. The journey took him away from the relative open space of the bonfire and deeper into the labyrinth of his own ruined palace.
He passed through what had once been the Gallery of Whispers, a hall lined with statues that would animate and recount the secret histories of conquered worlds to him alone. Now, the statues were decapitated, limbless torsos defaced with crude symbols. Their plinths served as foundations for sagging lean-tos made of stretched, cured skins he didn't care to identify. From within one of these hovels, a low, wet sobbing could be heard—the sound of a being who had lost more than just its power.
He forced himself not to look, not to connect the majestic memory with the squalid reality. Pity was a weakness he could not afford. His focus narrowed to two things: the relentless *drip… drip… drip* and the treacherous ground beneath his feet.
The sound grew louder, echoing with a damp hollowness. It led him down a short, debris-strewn flight of stairs into a smaller, enclosed courtyard. He stopped at the threshold, and a fresh wave of cold fury washed over him, so potent it almost made him forget his thirst.
This had been the Court of Lethe.
In the center, a fountain sculpted in the form of a seven-headed hydra had once spouted the waters of oblivion, shimmering with an ethereal, silvery light. Its waters could wash away the memories of gods, a potent tool he had used to reforge alliances and erase transgressions. The air here had once been cool, smelling of ozone and forgotten dreams.
The hydra was still there, but it was a caricature of its former glory. Three of its heads had been smashed off, the broken necks of marble weeping green-black slime. The basin was choked with filth, refuse, and stagnant, brown water. The source of the life-giving drip was not the fountain itself, but a rusted iron pipe that had ruptured in the wall behind it. From this gash, a slow, steady trickle of water oozed down the grimy stone, collecting in a shallow, scummy pool at the fountain's base.
This was it. The source of his salvation. A pool of liquid filth.
He could see things floating in it. Bits of mold, strands of some unidentifiable fibrous material, and a faint, oily sheen on the surface. The smell was of rot and mildew.
Pride, the sin that had defined him, the glorious rebellion that had carved his name into eternity, rose up in a choking wave. He, Lucifer Morningstar, who had once drunk nectar from the skulls of vanquished archons, was being commanded by his own traitorous body to kneel and drink from a puddle. It was a humiliation more profound than any defeat in battle.
He stood there for a long time, locked in a silent war with himself. The thirst was a physical torment, a fire in his veins. But the revulsion was a metaphysical one, an offense to the very core of his being. To drink this was to accept his fall. It was to admit, finally and completely, that he was no longer a god. He was just an animal.
*Drip… drip… drip…*
The sound was a relentless, mocking metronome, counting down the seconds until his body betrayed his will entirely and collapsed.
*Survive.*
The thought was not his own. It was the primal command of the flesh. *Survive now. Pride is a luxury for the living.*
With a shudder that wracked his entire frame, he surrendered.
He fell to his knees in the cold mud, the sharp edges of broken tiles digging into his skin. The act of kneeling, something he had not done in a million years, felt like a physical breaking. He crawled the last few feet to the edge of the scummy pool. He could see his own reflection wavering on the surface: a gaunt, haunted specter with hollow eyes and matted hair. A monster born of weakness.
He closed his eyes, unable to watch his own debasement, and lowered his head. He didn't cup the water in his hands; that felt like a gesture of choice, of control. He plunged his face directly into the pool, his mouth opening like a desperate fish.
The water was the most disgusting thing that had ever passed his lips. It was lukewarm, thick, and tasted of dirt, rust, and decay. He gagged, his throat convulsing, every instinct screaming at him to spit it out. But the deeper, more powerful instinct of his dying cells screamed louder.
He drank. He drank with a desperate, sobbing greed, gulping down the foul liquid until the burning in his throat was quenched, replaced by a sloshing, cold weight in his stomach. He pulled his head back, water and grime dripping from his chin and hair. He coughed, spitting a mouthful of filth onto the ground beside him, but the core of his thirst had been doused.
He remained on his hands and knees, panting, his head hanging low. The relief was immense, but the shame was a poison that spread through him, colder and more potent than the water. He had knelt. He had drunk filth. He had become one of them.
Pushing himself away from the puddle, he retreated to a dark, slightly drier alcove under a collapsed archway. He needed a moment to process this new low. Now that the immediate panic of thirst was gone, he could finally take a true inventory of his prison.
He ran his hands over his own body. It was a horrifying exploration. His skin, once as resilient as divine marble, was soft, yielding. He could feel the sharp, unfamiliar contours of bone beneath it. His ribs were a stark, washboard pattern under his pale flesh. His stomach, now filled with foul water, was a concave hollow. He traced the lines of his abdomen, where defined, powerful muscle had once been. Now, there was just skin and bone. The curse had not just drained his power; it had metabolized his very form, feeding on his divine physicality to sustain his useless life for ten thousand years.
He was a wraith. A shadow of his former self, hollowed out and inhabited by the vulgar needs of a mortal animal.
And now that the thirst was gone, the hunger returned with a vengeance.
The water in his stomach seemed to awaken it, giving it substance. It was no longer a dull ache but a sharp, twisting cramp, a physical clawing from within. It was a more complex, more insidious demand than thirst. Water was simple. Food… food was a resource. A currency. Something to be fought for.
His mind, now clear of the fog of dehydration, began to work. He was a strategist. This slum was his new battlefield, and he needed intelligence. He remained in the shadows of his alcove, making himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, and he listened.
The pathetic conversations of the fallen drifted to him on the foul air.
"...another one went Hollow last night," a raspy voice muttered. "Just stood up, walked into the dark, and didn't come back. The Godfall takes us all, sooner or later."
*Godfall*. So they had a name for the curse. A fittingly dramatic, yet pathetic term for their slow decay.
"It's been ten thousand years since the Master slept," another voice, thin and reedy, replied. "He would have never let this happen. He'd have burned Michael's legions to ash for what they did to us."
Lucifer's heart, his pathetic, mortal heart, gave a painful lurch. *The Master*. They still called him that. Even in this state, they remembered. The memory was a spark of warmth in the icy shame.
"The Master is dead," the first voice grunted dismissively. "Fell with the rest of us. Cursed like us. Don't waste your breath on ghosts. Worry about Malak's boys. They're shaking down the Outer Rings for any scrap of essence they can find."
So, the pig-demon from earlier had a name. Malak. A leader of thugs. A pathetic 'king' in this kingdom of rot. The name was filed away.
The reedy voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "They say it was Michael's Kiss that did it. That he didn't just strike down the Master. He *unmade* him. And the poison just… spread."
*Michael's Kiss*. A poetic, sickeningly pious name for the curse that had ruined him. The name of his nemesis was a splash of acid on his raw nerves. The rage he felt was so pure, so absolute, it was almost calming. It was a fixed point in a universe of chaos. *Michael.*
The conversation faded as the speakers shuffled away, but Lucifer had what he needed. Confirmation of the timeline. A name for the curse. A name for a local tyrant. And the bitter knowledge that his fall was the source of all their suffering. He was not just a victim; he was a plague carrier.
The cramping in his stomach became a sharp, insistent pain. Information was not food. He needed sustenance.
His hands, exploring his own grimy form, brushed against the crude silk loincloth he'd fashioned. Tucked into the knot at his hip, something small and hard pressed against his skin. He pulled it free.
It was an obsidian cufflink.
A simple thing, shaped like a seven-pointed star. He had thousands of them. It was a worthless bauble. But as he held it in his palm, it was the last tangible piece of the man he had been. It was perfectly cut, cold to the touch, and unmarred by the decay that had claimed everything else.
It was currency.
He stood up, the cufflink clutched in his hand. He walked back out into the main thoroughfare of the slum, his eyes scanning the hovels. He found what he was looking for: a creature huddled over a small, smoldering brazier, a few pathetic-looking items laid out on a grimy cloth in front of it. A vendor.
The creature was a shriveled thing, its species long lost to the Godfall curse. It had too many joints in its fingers and its eyes were milky white. It watched him approach with blank indifference.
On the cloth were a few chipped blades, a coil of rust-eaten wire, and a small, lumpy pile of what looked like bread. It was dark, almost black, and dotted with patches of pale grey and green mold.
Lucifer stopped before the vendor, the stench from the moldy bread making his stomach churn with a mixture of revulsion and desperate craving. He unclenched his fist, revealing the obsidian cufflink. It glittered even in the dim, oppressive light.
The vendor's milky eyes fixed on it. A flicker of something—greed, perhaps—stirred in their depths.
"I will have your bread," Lucifer said, his voice a low command.
The creature made a dry, clicking sound. It extended one long, multi-jointed finger and pointed at the cufflink, then held up four fingers.
Lucifer's jaw tightened. "Four pieces? For this? This is pure, star-forged obsidian. It is worth more than everything you own."
The vendor simply stared, its four fingers remaining stubbornly aloft. In this world, an object's past glory meant nothing. Its only value was in what it could get you *right now*. A piece of jewelry was less valuable than four meals. It was the brutal, simple economics of survival.
To argue was to reveal his desperation. It was a sign of weakness. With a barely suppressed sneer of contempt, Lucifer tossed the cufflink onto the grimy cloth. It landed with a soft, final clink.
The vendor's hand snatched it up, and it disappeared into a fold of its rags. Then, with agonizing slowness, it picked up four lumps of the moldy bread and pushed them towards him.
Lucifer took them. They were dense, heavy, and slightly damp. He turned without another word and retreated back to his alcove, the jeers and stares of the slum-dwellers feeling like physical blows on his back.
He sat down, his back against the cold stone, and stared at the miserable prize in his hand. This was the first purchase he had made in his new life. He had traded a piece of his former glory, a sliver of his identity, for a handful of refuse.
He lifted a piece to his mouth. The sour, earthy smell of the mold filled his nostrils. He took a bite.
The texture was chewy, dense, and gritty with dirt. The taste was an abomination—acidic, bitter, the flavor of rot. His stomach immediately revolted, heaving in protest. He choked it down, forcing his throat to work, forcing his body to accept the foul offering. He took another bite, and another, eating with a grim, mechanical determination.
It was the taste of defeat. The taste of rock bottom.
He finished the first piece, then the second. The gnawing ache in his stomach began to subside, replaced by a dense, leaden feeling. It wasn't satisfaction. It was just… the absence of pain.
He leaned his head back against the wall, the last two pieces of bread held loosely in his lap. His thirst was quenched. His hunger was abated. For the first time since waking, the basic, animal needs were not screaming for his attention.
And in that quiet, the true Lucifer began to surface.
The cold, calculating rage. The patient, strategic mind. The unbending will that had once challenged the Almighty.
He had fallen. He had been broken, humiliated, and reduced to filth. He had touched the very bottom of the abyss.
Good.
Now, there was nowhere to go but up.