The astral expanse stretched in silence. Stars blinked faintly like dying lanterns, veiled behind rivers of violet smoke. Somewhere in that infinite canvas, two figures floated face-to-face.
One was a towering devil, draped in a skin that looked like obsidian cracked with lava. He had wings like sharpened ribs and a spine of jagged chains that floated free of his back, writhing as if they had a will of their own.
"I am Lucifer, The Spine and Martial of Hell, The One who rots Fate," the devil's voice shook the void. "And you will bow before me. You will pay for slaughtering over a centillion of my brothers."
The other figure was almost casual. A man in a detective's coat, golden hair shimmering faintly against the starlight. His posture was loose, almost lazy, as if this wasn't the end of worlds but an evening stroll. He smirked.
"Bow? To you? What a boring hobby, demanding people kneel." He reached into his coat, pulled out a crumpled comic book, and flipped a page without even looking at Lucifer. "You're talking like a tax collector. Dreadful career choice."
Lucifer's wings rattled, chains lashing in fury. "Mock me, mortal, and I will collapse your existence into a grain of dust!"
A void blossomed around him. Blackholes, dozens at first, then hundreds, spinning and groaning.
They merged together like oil, forming a single sphere that swallowed light, sound, and time itself. Its size was beyond measure, dragging whole clusters of stars into nothingness. Lucifer hurled it at the detective.
The golden-haired man floated calmly, flipping another page of his comic. "Lovely handwriting. Though I think you exaggerate your punctuation and lines too much, dear author."
The Blackhole pulled him in, tearing at the fabric of his coat. His hair whipped, his body warped, but his eyes remained half-lidded, careless. When his hand reached the event horizon—the point of no return. He sighed as if inconvenienced.
He touched it.
The void screamed. The concept of gravity, of infinite hunger, caught fire. Flames invisible and colorless burned through it until the entire Blackhole collapsed into ash.
Before dissolving, it devoured a multiverse nearby, snuffing out billions of galaxies like candle flames.
Lucifer's grin faltered. The detective snapped the comic shut. "I must say, that was an impressive throw. Very theatrical. Shame it's so fragile when you scratch it."
Lucifer snarled, his chains tearing the stars apart. "Then face fate!"
The devil's hands twisted. The detective's form warped instantly, bones shrank, golden hair fell away. A chicken that was fat, awkward, absurd now floated in the void, wings flapping uselessly.
Lucifer laughed, a horrible echo. "The mighty killer of my kin, reduced to dinner."
The chicken coughed. Its beak opened wide, and from its throat erupted a torrent of flame, not red, not blue, but a color unnamed, none seen before, burning with impossible frequency. It scorched the void, slicing through dimensions like blades. Lucifer staggered back, his flesh bubbling.
"What… flame is this!?" he roared.
The chicken tilted its head, clucked once, then released another wave. Lucifer tried to absorb it, sucking the fire into his ribs and spine.
For a moment, it worked. Then the fire burned harder inside him, eating from marrow outward. He screamed.
"Cute trick," the chicken clucked. Then the form snapped back into the golden-haired detective, coat fluttering like nothing had happened. His eyes glowed with mischief. "Now you've got heartburn. Want some water?"
Lucifer lunged, claws swiping, chains snapping like serpents. The detective twisted mid-air, slipping past strikes, answering with bursts of that impossible flame.
Every kick and punch he threw carried casual precision, like a man knocking dust off his shoes.
At one point Lucifer crushed him through an asteroid, but the detective emerged dusting himself off, muttering, "That's one suit ruined. I liked this one."
The fight raged on. Flame against fate, claws against smirks. Until, at last, Lucifer faltered, chains shattered, wings melted. The detective caught him by the jaw, whispering close, voice cold now:
"You wanted me to bow. Here's my bow."
He ignited one final flame, brighter than any star, and shoved it down Lucifer's throat.
The devil's body cracked, split, then burst into cinders. The chains writhed, then fell limp, dissolving into dust.
Silence returned.
The detective floated there, brushing off his coat, opening his comic again as if nothing happened. He smiled faintly. "Good fight. Terrible ending."
He turned a page. The stars flickered again newly.
" Never saw a superhero wearing underwear on pants before. "
....
Then,
Far somewhere,
The bar smelled of wood smoke and old liquor. Lamps flickered, throwing shadows across scratched tables.
Johan Graham sat slouched on a stool, golden hair shining faintly under the dim light. His coat was unbuttoned, his boots crossed. He lifted a finger without looking up.
"Bottle. The strongest one. Don't cheat me, old man."
The bartender, a hunched figure with a beard like a tumbleweed, slid a dusty bottle down the counter. Johan caught it with one hand, popped the cork with his teeth, and poured straight into his mouth.
"That's better," he muttered.
The door creaked open. Five rough-looking men entered, spurs clinking against the wooden floor. They were tall, shoulders packed in leather, hands resting on their belts like they thought they were the law.
One slapped a bounty paper on the counter beside Johan's drink. His own face stared back from the wrinkled page, name scrawled beneath in big black letters:
"Johan Graham, The Devil Therapist. Bounty: 10 Golds."
Johan swirled his drink, sighed, and raised an eyebrow. "Ten gold? Is that the price of my smile or my bad haircut?"
The leader growled, leaning close. "It's the price of your head."
"Ah," Johan said, tilting his hat lower, "then someone got a discount."
The first punch came quick. Johan didn't move. He just tipped his stool backward, letting the fist sail over him and hit the counter. The stool legs clacked as Johan rocked back forward, his boot rising and smashing the attacker's knee sideways.
"Sit down," Johan said dryly.
The man dropped screaming. Bottles rattled but didn't fall. Johan lifted his glass carefully off the counter and downed another swig.
The other four circled, pulling knives. The cowboy tension thickened, boots scuffing the floor. Johan licked his lips, rolled his shoulders. "Boys, I don't care about your knives. I care about the bar. Touch the bottles, I touch your bones."
One lunged. Johan sidestepped, twisted the man's wrist, and cracked his head against a table. The wood groaned but didn't break. Johan dusted his hands. "See? Furniture still alive. Unlike your jaw."
Two came at once. Johan spun his bottle like a club, catching one across the temple, sending him into a wall. The other swung low.
Johan dropped his hat over the man's face, kneed him in the gut, then reclaimed his hat with a casual flick.
"Hat stays clean. Always."
Only one left. The leader pulled a pistol, grinning. Johan raised his hands, mocking fear. Then he flicked the cork from his empty bottle with such speed it smacked the gunman's forehead. The man blinked, dazed. Johan stepped in and elbowed him across the chin.
The leader collapsed.
Silence. Johan put his stool upright again, sat down, poured himself another drink. He raised his glass at the bartender.
"See? Told you. Bar's safe. Bones broken. All's balanced in the weak heart's sight."
The old man just shook his head, muttering. Johan smirked and took another slow drink.
The door creaked shut behind him, the air outside far harsher than the smoky calm of the bar. Johan lifted his hand to shield his eyes, though the sun still painted his golden hair like fire.
The desert stretched endlessly, dunes shimmering under the blaze. Each gust of hot wind felt like it wanted to peel skin off bone.
He walked a few steps from the porch, boots crunching over sand, his coat trailing dust in the heat. In his hand, he turned a small rune over and over.
It glowed faintly green, humming with a pulse that wasn't natural. The thing seemed alive, or at least breathing in a way objects shouldn't.
Johan squinted at it, lips quirking into a half-smile. "Pretty little thing. They only put ten gold on my head? Tch. Cheap world."
He raised it toward the sunlight. The rune's glow shifted, bending the air around it, like the desert was holding its breath. Johan chuckled, slid it into his pocket, and stretched his arms.
"Better than a compass. Better than a gun." His words dragged out slow, lazy, but his eyes carried that eerie calm, the kind that came before storms.
Then he started walking, not caring where the road led because with the rune, the road itself would come to him.