[Location: Somewhere in Hell]

Somewhere... or it's nowhere in hell, a small hut stood out in empty space.

Seven figures were kneeling... or forced to kneel if we go with their faces showing a mix of fear and reluctance.

Each sporting different degrees of injuries, some rudimentary while others quite severe; like one got his armour cracked with blood dripping from his mouth, one looks like his juice is squeezed out till the last drop, two had their chests carved in, one only had his robes in tatters, while the last two where the ones with severe injuries one had his entire arm missing while another had a nasty stumb instead of his leg.

And they are the seven satans, after 'Grayfia' happened to them.

But now each and every one had sweat running down their forehead, not moving an inch... too afraid that they even forced down their regeneration to regenerate in front of the one sitting before them.

The air inside that hut wasn't air. It was pressure. Something so ancient, so heavy, that even the concept of oxygen seemed uninvited here.

The flickering light came from no fire, no torch — just a single floating ember, suspended midair, casting a dull crimson glow that pulsed with each heartbeat in the room.

The source of that heartbeat sat at the far end of the hut.

A shadow. Humanoid in shape, but only barely. It didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't need to. Yet every Satan in the room could feel it — the way reality curved around its existence.

And then, a voice — calm, steady, colder than obsidian submerged in a glacier.

"You lost... to a maid."

The words weren't loud. But the sound of them was enough to make all seven tremble — physically, spiritually, instinctively.

Beelzebub — the one missing an arm — tried to speak first. "L-Lord… we were ambushed—"

"Silence."

The shadow didn't move, yet his tongue felt sliced in half. Beelzebub fell silent, clutching his mouth as if the command itself had physically cut him.

The figure's eyes opened — no, ignited. Two dull red orbs peered from the void, like dying stars remembering what it meant to burn.

"Ambushed… by Grayfia Lucifuge? Who are you trying to fool here? Me? Yourself? Half of Hell witnessed your pathetic 'retreat'... so tell me... was I wrong to choose you all in this endeavour of mine? I 'helped' you all, from putting that 'little girl' to Demon Sleep to killing the pathetic excuse of a king, to giving you that ceremony ritual stripping little princes' power bare... and you can't even handle a... maid."

The silence that followed was unbearable — not because no one spoke, but because the air screamed with it.

Each of the Satans — kings of their own infernal dominions, beings who once commanded armies that could drown worlds — now knelt like chastised children before something far, far older.

The flickering ember overhead pulsed once.

And that single beat was enough to make the room breathe wrong.

The shadow leaned forward — and when it moved, the world seemed to flinch. The wooden floor beneath it creaked, not from weight, but from pressure — like it was struggling to exist under the burden of whatever sat upon it.

"Morningstar," the voice whispered again, this time almost to itself, as if tasting the name. "That bloodline was supposed to be extinct."

None of the Satans dared reply.

Pride, his once-golden armour now dulled with ash and blood, swallowed dryly. Sweat beaded down his temple, trailing over the long scar that marred half his face — a gift from the Silver-Haired Queen herself.

"My lord," Pride finally said, voice low, cautious, the kind one uses when approaching a sleeping beast. "S-She invoked... House Morningstar's Execution Act Arts, Queen Lilith must have left some of her Demonic energy in her, b-but she must have used that reserve up, I swear next time—"

The words 'next time' had barely left Pride's mouth before the shadow tilted its head — and in that single motion, the air ruptured.

Something invisible but absolute struck the ground like a thunderclap muffled by cotton. The hut's walls didn't shake; they simply ceased to exist for a heartbeat — splinters dissolving into the red fog of Hell before reality reluctantly stitched itself back together.

The shockwave ended almost as soon as it began. But its aftertaste lingered — the raw, metallic tang of annihilation still clinging to the back of every throat.

When the silence returned, even the embers dared not flicker.

Pride's head was bent low, his mouth trembling — his tongue half gone, vaporised the moment the word "next" had dared touch it. His body tried to regenerate, but the command was still there, burned into his very soul: don't move.

The shadow exhaled softly. The sound was almost human — almost.

"'Next time,' you said." A faint smile touched the edges of that abyssal tone. "You still think there will be a next time?"

No one dared answer.

The shadow leaned back, and the ember floated lazily closer to him, revealing only the faintest impression of a figure wrapped in layers of whispering black flame. Beneath that veil, hints of pale, ancient flesh gleamed like cracks in dying stone.

"You know," the figure said, almost conversationally, "there was a time when I thought Lucifer was clever. He planned so meticulously, bound his bloodline in seals, scattered the remains of his empire so that even the stars forgot their name. And yet here we are. His maid awakens, his heir breathes again, and my pawns crawl back to me… half-dead."

Greed, shaking violently, tried to raise his head. "We… we didn't expect—"

A single look — no gesture, no sound — stopped him.

"You didn't expect Grayfia Lucifuge to defend what remains of her master's line?" The figure's tone turned to quiet amusement, the kind that made skin crawl. "I expected at least you to learn something after ten centuries of gluttony."

Greed bowed so low his forehead scraped the ground. His blood smeared across the ash. "Forgive me, my lord…"

"Forgive?" The red eyes dimmed, almost tender. "If forgiveness worked in Hell, do you think I'd still be here?"

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the shadow finally moved — rising.

The ember drifted upward with him, revealing the ruin of a throne behind where he'd sat. Not stone, not bone — but the calcified remains of wings. Twelve of them.

Each was pinned to the hut's wall like grotesque trophies.

The Satans' eyes widened, unable to stop themselves.

Those wings were not demonic.

They were angelic.

"I remember when they called me 'The One Who Whispers Knowledge'."

The voice that rolled through the hut wasn't a voice anymore — it was a memory wearing sound, thick and heavy with scorn.

"I remember when I was the only creature in hell... INTRUDERS! EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM... thought they could claim dominion over the pit I carved..."

The pressure thickened again, like molten tar choking the air. The ember flared bright crimson, casting a web of shadows that slithered across the Satans' faces.

Sigh!

The shadow's sigh dragged like a blade across glass—long, slow, patient. It wasn't anger this time. It was something worse. Disinterest.

"You... disappointments. All of you," the voice murmured, not rising above a whisper yet echoing in every direction at once. "You took dominion of my hell, lived like kings...and for what? To be humiliated by a servant."

The air crackled. The Satans felt it in their bones—the temperature didn't rise, but the concept of heat started burning.

Wrath's lips twitched, his bloodshot eyes trembling with the effort to speak. "M–My lord, we—"

"You what?" The ember swelled, turning into a small sun of coalesced blood and flame. "You forgot who taught you sin?"

The seven dropped their heads again, wordless. Even Wrath, whose body was still trying to regenerate after his use of the sin trigger form, was squeezed dry, forced himself to bow deeper, forehead digging into the dirt until the skin split.

The shadow stood fully now. He was tall—absurdly so. Every movement seemed to stretch the dimensions around him, as if Hell itself wasn't meant to contain his shape. When he took a single step forward, the ground beneath the Satans darkened and sank like soft clay under divine weight.

"You know what amuses me the most?" he asked softly. "It's that you think I need you."

His hand—long, thin, and half-dissolved into mist—extended toward the nearest of them: Greed. The gesture was slow, almost gentle.

"Yes, I WANT you to implement my plans to 'merge' 'them'... but need?"

He gently patted Greed's head as his arm formed back in existence, as if praising a pet that had forgotten its tricks.

The moment his fingers brushed Greed's scalp, the demon's body seized. His eyes rolled white as a soundless scream tore through his throat. His veins bulged black and split like fissures, oozing molten sin.

"Need is for mortals," the shadow whispered, pressing his palm a little harder. "You, however… were a convenience."

Greed's body collapsed in on itself. Not burned, not crushed—unmade. The echo of his existence was gone before the others could blink.

The ember dimmed to a lazy pulse again.

But time rewinded itself, and Greed's body was back. Whole again. Kneeling in the same spot. Breathing raggedly, eyes wide and wet with disbelief.

He touched his chest, his face, his arms — everything was there. The other Satans stared, horrified, not because he lived... but because they felt it. His soul had been erased — and then reconstructed.

That kind of power didn't belong in Hell. Not even to Lucifer himself.

The shadow chuckled low, the sound like grinding iron. "See? I am merciful," he said softly, though there wasn't a trace of warmth in it. "You get to live. You get to remember what it feels like to die by my hand. Every. Single. Time."

Greed broke, sobbing openly, hands clawing the dirt. "M-My Lord—thank you! Thank you—!"

The shadow waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting a fly. "Enough. You'll need your tongue for what comes next."

***

Still no answer, Lemon or Not?

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