The storm had started early that evening. Black clouds swirled above the city as if the sky itself bore an ancient grudge against the wet streets below. In the Smith family's apartment, the sound of rain was little more than a muffled whisper, drowned beneath the roar of guitars and pounding drums that shook the narrow hallway.
Phil Smith, Lucifer's father, sang with a raw throat, as if he were still on stage before thousands of fans. His long, messy hair—now streaked with gray—fell across his face as he leaned toward the improvised microphone. At his side, Claren Morett Smith, Lucifer's mother, accompanied him on bass, her fingers gliding across the strings with precision and restrained fury. Their band, The Infernum, once modestly famous, now clung to small bars and dim clubs, always chasing a comeback that never came.
For Lucifer—"Lucy," as his family called him—this was routine. Loud music shaking the walls, lyrics screamed in frustration… yet an unspoken silence hung in the house whenever his grandfather's name surfaced.
John Smith.
Ex–soldier. Mercenary. A man of scars and secrets.
Lucy remembered him sitting on the balcony, staring at the horizon as if waiting for ghosts of the past to return and demand payment. His presence had always been unsettling—strong, disciplined, yet shadowed by something unspoken.
John had trained Lucy since childhood, forcing him into martial stances, correcting his movements with calloused hands, drilling into him that discipline was the line between life and death. Yet Lucy had also heard the whispers. To some, John was a decorated veteran. To others, a killer. His mother despised him for stealing Phil's youth, dragging him into the army and away from music. His father stayed silent, torn between the weight of his father's legacy and his own broken dreams.
That night, while his parents played, Lucy sat in his room with a book on criminology open across his lap. He had borrowed it from the school library, fascinated by deduction and investigation. He was lost in thought when it happened.
A burning sensation sparked in his eyes. At first faint, like embers brushing across his vision. He rubbed them, blinked, but the world didn't return to normal.
Threads appeared before him.
Thin, delicate strands of light stretching through the room, weaving connections that shouldn't exist. A bright green thread tied him to his mother, pulsing warmly. A dull gray one linked him to his father, weak and fragile. And when his thoughts turned to his grandfather, a heavy black thread emerged, thick and suffocating, as if it carried the weight of shadows.
Lucy stumbled back, his chest tightening.
"What… what the hell is this?" he whispered, voice trembling.
The threads quivered as if answering him. And with them came flashes—visions forcing themselves into his mind. He saw his grandfather wielding a weapon, his hands stained with blood, eyes cold and merciless. He saw a stranger crying over a woman's corpse, while John stood in the background with a rifle raised.
"No… no, this can't be real!" Lucy cried, clutching his head.
But his grandfather's voice echoed through his memory, rough and unyielding:
"The world isn't fair, kid. Sometimes, you need eyes that can see beyond the obvious."
Lucy's breathing turned ragged. He remembered something he had read days ago: a novel titled The Assassin of Sins, where the main character judged others through the seven deadly sins. A chilling thought gripped him—what if this was the same? What if he had inherited the ability to judge people's souls?
He tried to shut his eyes, tried to sleep, to escape. But when he opened them again, the threads were still there, stubborn, glowing faintly as if they had always existed. Each color whispered a truth. Each connection told a story. And deep down, Lucy knew—terrifyingly—that none of it was a lie.
He didn't understand why or how, but that night, everything changed.
Lucy Smith would never again be an ordinary teenager.
The Judgment of Karma had begun, and he was its vessel.