"Mortals always want to attain divinity. It's their nature."
The Imp trudged through the wasteland. Forgotten, broken, dying. Cracked earth stretched for miles, littered with bones, shattered stone, and the remains of twisted civilizations. Their eyes half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion, yet a crooked smile crept across their cracked-lipped mouth. Fractured reflection of a mind unraveling. Madness made flesh.
"But why," they hissed, teeth flashing in the dying sun, "would I let another god run amok?"
Their tail flicked rhythmically, slicing the air like a living metronome. Step. Flick. Step. Flick. The wasteland trembled beneath their weight. Reality warped. Mountains bent, jagged spires toppling like fragile toys, dust curling into chaotic storms. With each rupture, the air screamed, stones cracked, nothing survived untouched.
The Imp had found another victim.
Clutching the badge of the fallen, Elliot, their fingers curled like talons. They snapped. A name shimmered into being above the jagged earth: James.
White hair, dark purple hat, eyes wide with innocence and fear. Hands clenched, trembling, ready to claim godhood.
The Imp's yellow gaze sharpened, fixed, almost liquid in its obsession. Fortress looming ahead, walls black and slick, stained with history, blood, and fear.
'Will this one squirm? Run? Hide?'
Their skin flushed scarlet. Tongue unfurled, long and serpentine, a crimson waterfall curling, licking at the edges of the world. Ready to ensnare, to consume, to dominate. Fingers twitched. Nails scraping stone. Breath quick, raspy, but measured.
They blinked slowly.
Rotten corpses littered the ground — a grotesque path leading to their prey. Limbs bent unnaturally, faces frozen in terror, mouths open in eternal screams. Blood soaked the dirt, turned it sticky, reflective, metallic. Fingers curled in anticipation. Eyes rolled back. Lips quivered into sinister laughter.
They had found him.
James spun, small, brave, trembling. Angels' Light shimmered around him, a halo, a promise. Golden beams piercing the decayed sky, trembling in fear and hope.
"You're a mere child," the Imp snarled, each word dripping venom. "Cursed with the greed of a pig."
Emerald pupils glittered with malicious delight. Saliva dripped from the unnatural tongue, glinting like liquid rubies.
"You want this too?"
The Imp tilted their head. Mocking, amused, hungry. But James did not shrink. He tore his hat from his head. Blood blossomed across pale skin. Defiance, sharp and loud, rang through the air.
"It's mine," James spat.
The Imp's laughter split the air.
"ENCHA—"
The spear struck. Skull shattered. Life extinguished in a crimson spray. James' body crumpled. Limbs bent at wrong angles. The Light flickered, then snuffed. Silence.
The Imp twitched. Fingers clawed at their neck, over and over. Toes curled. Tail whipping in spasms. Lips quivering with rage, pleasure, and madness all tangled together. A pause. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Then the Imp bent, slow, deliberate. Hand retrieved the badge pinned to James's chest. Fingers traced the engraving, memory, essence, power.
"You weren't a child," they muttered. "You were one of them."
Eyes closed briefly.
The air ripped. The Imp vanished. Teleporting. Reality screamed in their wake. Stone shattered. Earth split. Bones scattered like leaves in a storm. Dust and smoke clung to everything.
A moment.
Silence.
Then distant groans, distant screams, distant echoes of what had just happened. The wasteland remembered.
The Imp emerged elsewhere. New place. New eyes. Same hunger. Tail flicking. Fingers twitching. Mind spinning. The world around them bent again — sky cracked, rocks peeled, wind shrieked like madmen in unison.
They wandered. They watched. They waited.
A crow landed nearby. Black eyes glittered. It didn't fly. Didn't move. Just stared. The Imp smiled. Head tilted. The bird's stillness pleased them.
The Imp's tongue flicked. The wasteland bent again. Mountains toppled. Rivers reversed. Bones shifted in the dirt. Every step left chaos, every blink left scars.
A shadow flickered ahead. Something half-visible. Movement. Small heartbeat.
They crouched. Tail coiling. Fingers scraping stone. Licking lips. Mind tick-tick-ticking like a clock gone insane.
The Imp grinned.
And somewhere, far away, the world whispered warnings.
But the Imp did not hear. Did not care. They only saw their prey. Only saw the next badge.
The next name. The next soul to mark, consume, and erase.
The wasteland pulsed with anticipation.