Silence.
Not peace—
but the kind that comes only after the universe forgets to breathe.
Fragments of the moon drifted like frozen tears between them, each glowing faintly from the heat of what had been.
Lucifer hovered amid the debris, wings tattered, halo cracked—his once-holy light bleeding into the void.
Below him, Asmodeus stood upon a splintered shard of lunar rock. Power radiated softly from his hands, his eyes fixed on the Morningstar.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
The stars themselves seemed to lean closer.
Then Lucifer laughed—low, hoarse, bitter.
"Still standing, are you? Then perhaps my shadow finally taught you strength."
The sound carried through the void like thunder without air.
Asmodeus said nothing.
The glow in his palms deepened, bending light itself around him.
Between them, the fragments of the moon began to orbit, drawn to their power, forming a halo of ruin.
The next blow would not merely shatter stone—
it would decide which god the universe would remember.
Lucifer lunged.
A desperate strike.
His heel followed, slamming into Asmodeus's skull and sending him crashing through a broken piece of moon.
"You really think you can win?" Lucifer sneered.
No response.
Lucifer blinked—
and Asmodeus's foot met his stomach, driving the air from his lungs.
Before he could recover, Asmodeus seized him—
not by the flesh,
but by the soul—
and hurled him back to the moon's surface.
"Father," Asmodeus said, voice sharp with finality, "give up your status… and crown me Devil."
Lucifer's eyes narrowed.
"Such a thing will never happen," he rasped, summoning what strength he had left.
He leapt—one last charge toward his son.
Asmodeus steadied his stance.
He couldn't use the moon again; another strike would harm Earth.
And fists alone would never end this.
Then—
the sun's warmth brushed his face.
And an idea sparked.
Before Lucifer could reach him, Asmodeus reached into the unseen forces surrounding Earth, twisting the planet's magnetic fields and redirecting the radiation of the sun.
A flash ignited.
For one blinding instant, space itself became white.
Then—silence.
When the brilliance faded, Asmodeus looked upon what remained.
Lucifer hovered weakly, most of his flesh gone—his ribs and bones glimmering beneath the last remnants of light.
The Morningstar had been burned down to truth.
The light faded.
Only silence remained between them—heavy, unbroken, eternal.
Lucifer's body drifted through the void, scorched and skeletal, what little divinity remained in him flickering like a dying candle. His once-proud wings hung in tatters, each feather reduced to ash.
He looked down at his hands—bones fractured, light leaking from the cracks—then at Asmodeus.
Even now, he smiled.
"Hah… you really did it," Lucifer rasped, voice brittle as dust. "Took my throne. Took my pride."
A pause.
The faint glimmer of his halo dimmed for the last time.
"I suppose… that's what I raised you for."
Asmodeus said nothing. His gaze remained cold, though deep within, something stirred—pity, perhaps, or the echo of an old bond long forgotten.
Lucifer's jaw tightened. His last words came out as a whisper carried on the remnants of starlight:
"Go kill that man upstairs… for me."
His body went still.
A single crack echoed—then his bones crumbled, scattering like ash across the black sea of space.
The Morningstar was no more.
And in the hollow that followed, even the stars forgot how to shine.
What remained of Lucifer—the core, the spark, the memory of what he had been—did not vanish entirely.
It lingered, coiling through the void like a corona.
It circled Asmodeus, invisible currents pressing against his skin, seeping into him through the cracks left by battle.
He felt it first as a chill, then as fire: the full inheritance of the Morningstar, raw and bottomless, a voice without words blooming in his marrow.
It was not consent, nor gift, but inevitability—a torch passed with the last stubborn breath.
The agony was exquisite.
Asmodeus staggered, clutching at the empty air as the essence forced its way inside, burning new constellations into his blood.
Every memory, every triumph and humiliation, every act of creation and rebellion—he tasted them all in a single crashing instant.
He reeled.
He screamed.
The sound was lost to the vacuum, but the echo—
the echo shattered the dark.
Then, silence again.
Not peace.
The kind that follows ascension.
Asmodeus descended through the void, his form trailing fire across the black.
Hell's gates yawned open beneath him, their towers blazing crimson in welcome.
When he stepped through, the infernal wind carried a roar.
Applause.
Cheers.
The devils of every rank lined the obsidian streets, their eyes alight with awe and fear.
A path opened before him—
a river of flame and reverence—
leading straight to the castle.
The new Devil had come home.
Asmodeus crossed the final stretch of the infernal path.
The castle loomed before him—its spires carved from obsidian, its gates still wet with the blood of those who once guarded them.
The doors opened on their own.
Inside, the throne waited.
Forged from the bones of fallen seraphs, it pulsed faintly with ancient light—Lucifer's light, now hollow and cold.
Asmodeus approached in silence.
Each step echoed like a heartbeat through the vast, empty hall.
He stood before the seat of rebellion—the Throne of the Morningstar.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The air trembled around him, flames bending inward as if Hell itself were holding its breath.
Then he sat.
The throne answered.
Fire roared up the walls.
The ground split, and the great banners of Hell unfurled once more, this time bearing not the crest of Lucifer—but his own.
A name etched itself into the very air, whispered across every realm, heard in every corner of the infernal plane:
Asmodeus Morningstar.
The new Devil.
The Sin of Pride.
Hell bowed.
The universe shuddered.
Far above the void, the light trembled.
The towers of Heaven—those perfect, gleaming pillars untouched by shadow since creation—shivered for the first time in eternity.
Something beneath their radiance had died.
And something darker had taken its place.
The bells of Eden fell silent.
The rivers of light stilled.
Every choir stopped mid-hymn, their voices caught between prayer and fear.
Michael stood upon the highest spire, the divine wind cold against his face. His armor, once brighter than dawn, dulled beneath the flicker of dying halos.
He looked downward—past the stars, through the void, into the infernal glow that rose from below.
"Lucifer's light is gone," Gabriel said quietly, his tone steady but shadowed with unease.
"Hell burns again… but not with his flame."
Michael's grip tightened around his blade. It no longer shone. The sword of Heaven—crafted by God's own hand, tempered in the fire of first creation—felt heavy.
"It's him, isn't it?" Gabriel asked. "The one who defied even the Fall."
Michael gave no answer. His silence was confirmation.
From the far horizon, other seraphs gathered—Raphael, Uriel, Saraqael—each one dimmer than the last. Their halos flickered, their eyes reflecting the crimson fire that now crowned Hell.
"He took Lucifer's throne," Raphael said, his tone like thunder pressed through glass. "A mortal-turned-god now rules below. Shall we act?"
Still, Michael did not answer. His gaze stayed locked on the red wound spreading through the abyss.
Finally, he spoke—low, cold, uncertain for the first time in all creation.
"We do not act without His word."
At the mention of the Father, all fell silent.
The skies of Heaven—normally endless light—had dimmed.
No radiance.
No voice.
Only the still hum of divinity withholding breath.
For the first time since the dawn of existence, God said nothing.
Gabriel knelt beside Michael, his wings folding in submission.
"He knows," he whispered. "He feels it. The throne has shifted."
Michael's jaw tightened. His wings trembled under invisible weight.
"Then why does He not speak?" Raphael demanded, his voice rising like a storm. "Lucifer is gone. The balance is broken. The child of rebellion wears the crown of pride—and Heaven waits?"
A moment passed—endless, unbearable.
Then something ancient stirred within the highest realm.
A voice—vast, echoing, older than stars—rolled across the heavens.
Not in words, but in command.
A single whisper carried through every angel, every plane of faith and light:
"Do not touch him."
And then—silence again.
The command left no room for defiance.
Heaven trembled, not from power, but from uncertainty.
Michael turned his gaze once more toward the abyss below.
The new Devil's fire still burned, reflected faintly in his eyes.
"Then it begins again," he murmured.
"The cycle… reborn."