His world had shattered.
His hopes had shattered.
All he could sense was death—pure, suffocating death—as Lucifer began to approach, his demonic smile widening with every step.
Luke stuttered, trembling.
"W-What... what is happening? Why is this all happening like this?
Where am I?!"
Lucifer stood before him now, towering. Luke's tiny body trembled, shivering with fear.
The surroundings began to emit a deep crimson hue—warm, but not the comforting kind. It was the warmth of blood.
His blood.
Amidst Luke's confusion, his mind went blank once more.
And then—Lucifer's voice reverberated through the air like a crashing wave of chaos.
"STAND UP.
STAND UP AND FACE MY WRATH!"
Before Luke could respond, a monstrous kick came flying toward him. He barely managed to dodge as it collided with the throne behind, shattering it into bone and dust. Human skulls—once used as grim decorations—went flying in all directions.
The adrenaline surged. Fight or flight.
Luke chose flight.
He stumbled, panic ruling his limbs as he bolted. But mid-run, his legs gave out, and his face hit the ground. Hard.
And then… the aura returned. Crushing. Unbearable. Lucifer was no longer behind him.
He was in front.
The demon grabbed Luke by the hair, lifting his head like a ragdoll.
"STAND UP."
With that, Lucifer tossed him aside like trash. Luke tumbled through rubble, coughing, shaking. Still, he stood—barely—and tried to flee once again.
But Lucifer was there. Again.
That imposing, nightmarish figure—unstoppable.
Luke backed away in fear…
And then, his hand touched something. Something familiar.
A feeling he had felt once before.
And there it was.
A single sword, thrust deep into the ground, bathed in eerie, dim light.
His heartbeat quickened. As his fingers wrapped around the hilt, strange glowing red markings began etching themselves into the ground beneath him. The designs spiraled like a cursed halo, coiling around his feet.
But this time… it felt different.
He could lift it.
He wasn't choosing the blade.
The blade was choosing him.
He was the chosen one.
At that moment, a cold breath brushed his neck. Luke turned.
Lucifer. Inches from his face. Grinning.
Luke didn't think.
He moved.
Steel flashed.
And the only words Lucifer could whisper—before the embodiment of darkness vanished—were:
"Well done, young Morningstar."
As Luke's grip loosened, the blade slipped from his hand and fell to the ground with a hollow thud. The suffocating darkness around him twisted unnaturally—and then vanished.
Silence.
White serenity enveloped him.
Everything around was blank, as if he were trapped in the eye of a snowstorm.
He collapsed to his knees. The ground beneath was soft… cold. Snow.
And lying just ahead of him—a human skull.
A strange sigil burned at its center, carved deep into the bone. It glowed, flickering with crimson fire—burning, yet not consuming. As if keeping the skull alive.
The cold bit into Luke's skin, seeping into his bones. His body began to freeze, his breath shallow.
But the sigil… it radiated warmth.
Drawn to it, Luke used the last of his strength to crawl forward, hand trembling as he reached for the skull's blazing symbol.
Just before his fingers touched it—
A blinding flash of light swallowed his vision.
His body slumped.
And then—