Translator’s note: We’re back in present time!
Part III: Book of Belial
Behind every radiant halo, there is often a stretch of blackened marsh. – Belial
The Right Wing of God—the one seated at God’s right hand—is the most exalted title in the entire divine race. Whoever occupies this position is not only Heaven’s Vice Regent, but also commander of the angelic host. Throughout the eight thousand-plus Berduth of Celestial History, the divine ranks have shifted greatly. But as for the Right Wing of God, only two beings have ever borne that title.
The first: the “Morning Star of Glory,” Ruthfel, the only figure in all Three Realms to possess the Seraphic Wings of Light and five-sixths of God’s power. He later betrayed Heaven and fell into the Demon Realm, becoming its Sovereign and the monarch of the sin “Pride”. His name is now Lucifer.
The second: the Angel of Justice, born under the blood-red Sirius, wielder of the Holy Sword, Flame, Heaven’s mightiest warrior—Michael, known as the “Prince of God.” He once led Heaven’s armies to crush Lucifer’s rebels, only to suffer divine punishment himself for secret dealings with the fallen Sovereign. He perished beneath Heaven’s Gates.
Strictly speaking, angels do not “die”; they merely return to Origin. But Michael’s body was stolen by the demons before it could dissipate, denying him entry into the Cycle of Life at the Tree. His fate became that of a hero denied peace. And yet in death, he brought back the thousand-year truce with Lucifer. True to their agreement, Lucifer never once struck against Heaven, and has, in fact, spent the last four thousand years gathering strength in silence. And so the seat of Vice Regent remained empty for just as long.
Unease festers in the divine hearts. They fear that when the Demon Realm rises strong enough, the divine race will be torn apart like meat beneath a starving beast’s jaw, bones and all.
The archdevil Baal-Peor perished in the war against Heaven, but in the year 13,921st year of Berduth 8731 —the day of Michael’s death—the Seven Flowers of Sin bloomed once more in full beside the Pillar That Holds Up The Sky.
A renowned Demon Realm prophet, Nibaish, once dreamt a strange vision: an endless sea of blood and flames. A dark mage cloaked in black emerged from its depths, lifting his hood to reveal a skull set stark against a field of crimson. He said that was the Sovereign of Shadow, the new being of destruction destined to follow Mammon. On the day of his arrival, truth would shatter, and Heaven and Earth would be overturned. He would replace one of the Seven Lords of Hell, and become the next Satan.
By the 18,328th year of the same Berduth, over four thousand years had passed since Michael’s death. Heaven had grown ever weaker, while the Demon Realm flourished. The contrast was glaring.
Beyond the high skies of the Red Sea, past the vast expanse of Ibuhaz Village, the crystal-forged Phantom City, the storm-wreathed Kriya, the thunder-lit towers of Schmir, and the mystic Yura Tribe, there was a riverside city consumed by flames: Laim.
There, a one-winged fallen angel stood. Like most nobles of the Demon Realm, he had black hair and red eyes. But unlike them, he wore fingerless black gloves, those worn only by the lowest laboring castes in Demon society. Despite Lucifer’s newly issued constitution reaffirming the equality of all, the caste order remained, as did the unabolished system of slave ships.
He wore a cheap glass nose ring and had a slender frame. His name—pleasant on the ears—was Belial, a slave under Captain Jones.
Belial’s tongue was sharper than a blade. He never held back, especially when cursing others. He was particularly fond of the Demon Realm’s little prince, Mammon, and served under the lifelong labor system. Slaves had no hourly wage, only monthly pay. They worked over ten hours a day, often more depending on the captain’s mood, and earned a meager fifty Anra a month, most of their labor value stripped away.
Still, whenever Belial saw Mammon’s face printed on paper currency, he felt a faint sense of comfort. Over time, this grew into affection, as if Mammon was his own brother.
Yet whenever he complained about a slave’s lot in life, Captain Jones would always roar,
“Anyone’s got the right to whine, except you, Belial. You lazy brat!”
It was true. Belial’s greatest flaw was laziness. Now slim and tall, one would never imagine that he’d once been a roly-poly lump of a child. Shortly after birth, he’d been abandoned outside Ibuhaz Village, not crying or fussing, just curled up in a ball, a name tag reading “Belial” tied to his neck, sleeping peacefully. He had been adorable.
Captain Jones, in a rare surge of pity, took him aboard the slave ship—only to find himself raising a perfect parasite.
Thankfully, Belial thinned out with age and was at least able to work. But his lack of strength was even more of a headache. Though fallen angels weren’t as powerful as archdevils, they were still a strength-based race. Yet Belial was weaker than the minotaurs, goatmen, and lesser devils onboard. He found it strange himself, but never dwelled on it.
Now a deckhand, his duties included steering, line handling, fire safety, patching leaks, and equipment upkeep. No cargo-lifting involved. For someone like him to survive on a slave ship at all baffled even Jones. But after all, Jones had raised him. He couldn’t bring himself to throw the boy out. The most he could do was beat him soundly now and then.
It was a night in the 11,427th year by Luciferian Reckoning. The royal houses were recruiting new court attendants, and Captain Jones had steered the Yanar toward the capital of the Demon Realm, Rhodheoga, intending to sell a batch of slaves to the nobility.
The surface of the Solor River had already iced over. Each time the ship rocked slightly in the current, a brittle cracking echoed through the night. Belial had thrown on a cotton-padded coat. Sitting at a small table on deck, he shook out the coins in his pouch, wondering whether he should spend the money on an indoor sleeping berth to survive this especially harsh winter.
But the thought of that 699-Anra price tag quickly drove the idea from his mind.
Someone soon sat down beside him and said,
“You look like you’ve got a mountain of worries today.”
Belial looked up and saw a demon with deep violet skin. His name was Mullin, Belial’s closest friend. One-quarter archdevil by blood, Mullin had once been a spoiled rich kid of the Demon Realm. Unfortunately, he had preferred mischief over learning and spent his childhood stirring up trouble. Unlike most Demon parents, who prioritized maximizing their child’s Sekuma Index potential, Mulin’s parents had dutifully raised him and then promptly kicked him out.
Only then did Mullin begin to regret his choices and look for work, only to discover that he lacked both knowledge and talent. He was strong, but not strong enough to stand out in the arena. And so, he ended up as a laborer aboard a slave ship. He was the only person who could speak to Belial without sparking a fight. Belial’s explanation: “His IQ is too low to argue with.”
Belial glanced at him, then suddenly clenched his teeth with resolve.
“I have a plan. And you have to help me.”
Mullin set down two frothy mugs of beer and mumbled mid-sip,
“Sure, shoot.”
“I want to learn magic.”
“Pffft—” Mullin spat beer all over Belial. “Cough! Cough! You’re serious?”
Belial wiped his face calmly.
“Our tensions with Heaven are escalating. I think war’s coming soon. This is a turning point for all of us. Don’t tell me you’re content to be a slave your whole life.”
“Magic? You can’t even use it. Even if your power rivaled Lucifer’s, what good would it do you?”
He wasn’t wrong. Only two kinds of beings could wield magic: Dark Mages and White Magi. The former were mostly fallen angels; the latter, angels. Most fallen angels had once been Battle Angels from the Academy of the Seventh, following Lucifer in his rebellion. But aside from Lucifer himself, none had power to rival archangels like Gabriel, Metatron, or Raphael. That’s why it was crucial to focus on honing martial strength to make up the difference.
Belial was too weak so he couldn’t possibly cast spells while dodging blades like a proper Dark Mage. He moved slower than an iceberg and had only one wing. The idea of him learning magic was pure fantasy.
And yet, he didn’t seem to care.
“I’ll specialize in magic,” he said quietly. “Forget everything else.”
“I’ve heard the divine race starts every battle by calling down lightning to fry the strongest fallen angels first. The stronger you are, the faster you die. At your level, even a beginner spell could wipe you out.”
“Self-Erosion Field.”
Mullin blinked.
“Say that in Demon, please?”
At that moment, a hand weighed down with rings landed on the table.
“Well, well, Belial,” came a gravelly voice. “You’ve even heard of the Self-Erosion Field?”
They both looked up. The man looming over them was hulking, bearded, with a heavy jaw and a scar running from eyelid to cheek. He wore a captain’s hat adorned with a massive black feather—Captain Jones.
A flicker of unease passed through Belial’s eyes.
“Captain.”
Jones took the seat beside him and adjusted his dark collar.
“Heh… Kid, you’ve still got no clue. Sure, the Self-Erosion Field lets you unleash all your magic at once without delay, but it devours your own flesh as fuel. The more powerful your spell, the worse the damage. Haven’t you noticed? The only ones using that move are skeleton soldiers and wicked spellcasters. Skeletons don’t have flesh to lose. Wicked spellcasters don’t use high-level magic anyway, so the backlash is minor. If a fallen angel tried it, that means they’d only use it for a last stand, to go down in flames.”
He snorted.
“If it were as easy as you think, we wouldn’t still be tearing our hair out over those white-winged pansies fluttering through the sky like doves.”
Belial showed no surprise. He merely nodded.
Jones, knowing him all too well, raised his voice so everyone nearby could hear.
“Oh-ho! So you’re really serious about learning magic, huh?”
At that, the entire deck fell silent. All the demons turned to stare.
Belial’s expression darkened, his face turning red.
“Captain, you can’t just—”
Jones tapped his rings together and gave his shoulder a hard slap. Whether in mockery or encouragement, it was hard to tell.
“If you’re serious, then go see the Dark Mages in the arena on the Day of the Fall. My boy, give it your all. I’ll be waiting to see if you become the Demon Realm’s greatest Dark Mage.”
Everyone began whispering, some even bursting into open laughter. Belial clenched his fists tightly. Mullin looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. He simply bent to help row the ornately crafted oars, head bowed as the Seventh Hell came into view on the horizon.
The bridge over the moat rose high and serpentine like a dragon. Below, the river roared, but it could not drown out the city’s clamor. Above the colossal gates glittered a blue Hexagram, its banners unfurled in a riot of color. And behind it, gleaming against the grandeur of Pandemonium’s great night, stood its most unmistakable building: the palace district of Manninan.
Mullin huddled beside Belial, shivering.
“This is where the elite live, huh? My grandpa used to live here.”
“One day,” Belial murmured, “we’ll live in Pandemonium too.”
“Despair’s not so scary. What scares me is having hope after you’ve already despaired.”
Belial didn’t look back. A faint smile curved his lips. Unshaken, confident, with a calm far beyond his years.
“We’ll see.”
They passed through the gates with the slave convoy, and instantly, the view was flooded with Baroque architecture. In that opulent darkness, white magical lights flickered like fireflies. High-ranking demons lined the streets. The royal artillery patrol moved with the slow, methodical rhythm of ancient clocks. Standing amidst the wide avenues, one could feel swallowed by towers and grandeur. Beyond the crowds, beyond the rooftops, there loomed the old bell tower, the Cathedral of Bones, the arena, the Pillar That Holds Up the Sky…
Bats flitted through the air, and nobles in black cloaks rode dragons out from the city’s most splendid halls, their wings unfurled like veils of darkness, embracing the night skies of the demon capital.
Captain Jones ordered the group to assemble outside the eastern gate of Manninan.
Belial and Mullin wandered together and passed a popular new shop called Lucifer’s Kiss. They ducked inside to warm up. It reminded one of Heaven’s “Lucifer’s Grace,” but that was only a clever branding ploy. This, however, was a full-blown Lucifer cult boutique.
Inside were all manner of bizarre items: portraits of Lucifer, first-edition 100-Anra bills with his face on them, crystal orbs said to contain his spells, candles he had supposedly used, annotated copies of the Laim Bulletin, peridot charms with his photo inside, his favorite spices, a mother-of-pearl bench he’d once sat on, a spoon he’d used to eat mousse…
Belial and Mullin were stunned speechless.
There were also countless Lucifer-themed goods: toy models of the Demon Legions for young boys (Mammon and the Satans in black armor, swappable with blue “Frostfire Set” and red “Storm Set”), masks of the Seventy-Two Pillars of Solomon, children’s books in Gothic font titled How to Become a Knight of the Demon Realm (half factual, half fluff), notebooks shaped like dark summoning tomes, and panoramic postcards of Pandemoniun by day and night.
Knowing Belial liked Mammon, Mullin picked up a Mammon toy from the model shelf and shoved it into his hands.
“Wanna take one home?”
Belial curled his lip in disdain and paused before the enormous oil painting of Lucifer. In the painting, the Demon Sovereign sat upon his throne, body leaned slightly to the right, left arm resting lazily on the armrest, right elbow propped up, fingers pressed against his chin. He wore black gloves, a silver chain loose around his wrist, elegance without excess, dangling lightly in place.
Mullin chuckled.
“Why’re you always staring at His Majesty Lucifer?”
Belial let out a long sigh.
“If you’re a Demon King… the bed’s gotta be big. Wide. Really comfy, right?”
“….” Mullin shrugged helplessly, then suddenly shouted,
“Belial, come here, quick! Look at this guy – he looks just like you!”
Belial dashed over and froze in place.
The shopkeeper, painting her nails behind the counter, waved a brush back into the bottle.
“Don’t touch that. Limited edition.”
It was a traditional chiaroscuro-style painting. The angel in it really did resemble Belial, though he had red hair and was clearly older, a full-grown man. He lay prostrate before the Gates of Heaven, six golden wings slightly unfurled, his long hair drifting through clouds, blue eyes gazing downward. And at the spot he looked toward—Lucifer, cloaked in black, his long cape draped among thorns, surrounded by bats and storm clouds. Lucifer gazed back at him too, his lashes heavy, eyes laden with melancholy.
Between the two stretched the Red Sea’s layered clouds, a thousand mountains, ten thousand rivers.
Belial stared in a daze.
“He really does look like me…”
“Who’s this redhead, anyway? I’ve never seen an angel that pretty.”
“You illiterate—skipped every history class, didn’t you?”
“No! I went to the first one… but I fell asleep.”
“That’s Michael. Only angel ever worthy to be placed beside our Sovereign. But… this painting makes them look kind of intimate, doesn’t it?”
A nearby customer with a First Hell accent interjected,
“That’s a fan painting by a famous artist. Of course it’s romantic. You think you’ll ever see His Majesty give that redheaded dead man such tender eyes in real life? Dream on.”
“Why not?” Belial frowned. “Weren’t they… together?”
“Together? He’s been dead for how many years? Ever hear His Majesty mention him once? Only these sentimental artists believe there was any real affection. Personally, I think it was one-sided. The guy fell for His Majesty, got toyed with, and was killed by his own kind. Serves him right.”
Meanwhile, in Kade Palace, the royal residence of the Demon Sovereign within Pandemonium—
A black grand piano stood in a shadowed corner, its surface glinting like a mirror. A black cat, with a translucent white bow clipped to its ear, stepped onto the ivory keys. As the bow fluttered faintly in the still air, the keys rang out, unsteady notes, like trickling icewater.
Lucifer was not present. Lying in the massive bed was an angel.
He slept on his side, legs gently crossed, bare feet tucked in. His body was wrapped in soft white silk, his red hair cascading like fine threads across the bedspread. His closed eyes still seemed to hold a sliver of light, like a drowsy child caught between sleep and waking. Six soft golden wings drooped like sea foam, powerless, yet still faintly aglow. The posture resembled a child curled in the womb, arms folded as if holding something close.
This beautiful, utterly defenseless being of the divine race was none other than Michael, once the Supreme Commander of Heaven’s angelic armies, the Archangel who, over four thousand years ago, had made even demons tremble.
Unfortunately, over four thousand years ago… he had died.
Michael had perished before the gates of the Demon Realm, standing just like his father had, remaining upright until his final breath. Some hellhounds and skeleton soldiers, oblivious, had swarmed in to feed. But they had barely torn a piece of flesh from his arm when His Majesty the Sovereign of Demons had arrived.
Lucifer had simply walked forward, staring at those sealed eyes matted with blood.
Only then did the lesser soldiers scatter, but they were quickly slain by Azazel and the others who had followed behind.
Lucifer showed no emotion. He removed his cloak and wrapped it around Michael. When the Holy Sword was taken from his hand, Michael lost his balance and fell straight into Lucifer’s arms.
Lucifer carried him back to Pandemonium, his reaction was… disturbingly unnatural.
Ordinary people, when they lose a loved one, say sorrowful things like:
“Why did you leave me first?”
“How am I supposed to live on without you?”
“I’ll follow you soon…”
But Lucifer. He could only cry.
He had regressed to the point where he couldn’t even speak, the sounds he made incomprehensible to everyone.
Mammon had approached, urging him to let Michael return to Heaven so that he might enter the Tree of Life’s Cycle and begin anew.
But Lucifer simply shook his head again and again, uttering, “You don’t understand. He can’t go back anymore.”
In those days, he looked so disheveled it was hard to believe it was him. Unkempt to the point of shame, with stubble shadowing his jaw, hair matted and wild, his eyes swollen like two cracked walnuts. He curled up beside Michael, sleeping, crying, waking again only to weep more.
At first, it was sobbing—loud and guttural.
Then, when his voice gave out, the tears came silently.
And when even those ran dry, he would sit, vacant, for hours, until one glance at Michael’s tattered body on the bed would start the weeping all over again.
A faint blue glow now surrounded the bed, a spell of extreme cold to preserve the corpse. Just then, Michael’s wing, which lay across his chest, twitched faintly.
A small, pale hand slipped out from under the covers. A child’s head emerged.
He was a boy, skin white as snow, with short, messy black hair. His eyes were long and narrow, lashes thick, and his lips were tinged purple from the cold. He scratched himself sleepily, then reached around with half-closed eyes and tugged the blanket up over both of them.
Nestling against Michael’s neck, he pressed in close. Though still a child, his face was unmistakable because it graced the highest denomination of currency in all the Demon Realm. There was no one who wouldn’t recognize it.
The child Lucifer gripped Michael’s limp hand and pulled it to his tiny waist, curling against his chest. He shivered once and then settled, his lips moving silently as he drifted back into sleep.
But not for long—he soon kicked off the blanket again. His bare legs squirmed upward, exposed to the cold, yet he never quite woke up enough to cover himself. He was half awake, but unwilling to be fully so.
—
This round of court attendant recruitment had been ordered by Prince Mammon, and it was held in the eastern meeting hall of Pandemonium. Velvet drapes, massive baroque murals, and dim, flickering candlelight made up the room. To Belial, who had never seen such luxury, the entire setting felt a little ridiculous.
The slaves, plain-clothed and hollow-eyed, stood in rows. On the other side of the long table sat the judges, robed in ceremonial garb, expressions cold and refined. The lead official wore a wide-brimmed black hat, his gestures steeped in the prideful etiquette of the court. His hand, dry and bony like a bird’s claw, pointed one by one down the slave list.
Belial stood at the back, sneaking glances at the man beside him, Samyasa.
Samyasa’s nose was so high it bordered on abnormal. He looked decent in profile, but from the front, his eyes were set too close together. A faint, lazy stubble marked his philtrum, and his short hair bounced with springy volume. As far as full-blooded demons went, Samyasa’s face was above average.
He nudged Belial with his elbow, whispering,
“Look. That’s the girl I told you about—pretty, isn’t she?”
Belial glanced toward the red-haired she-devil with a whip in hand standing in the corner. He forced a laugh.
“With that toad face of yours, how’d you even get near a girl like her?”
Samyasa didn’t hear a word.
“Everyone calls her a stunner. Look at her eyes, her nose, her mouth, basically perfect.”
Soon, the demoness strode toward them, eyes sweeping critically across the line. When she reached Samyasa, she looked him over with a curled lip, intending to walk right past.
But Samyasa seized the moment.
“She’s got dozens of guys chasing her but she won’t give any of them the time of day.”
The demoness smirked lazily.
“Exactly. Which means you’re no exception.”
Samyasa slid an arm around her waist, drawling,
“Don’t be like that, sweetheart…”
Oddly, she didn’t pull away, just pushed his hand aside with playful resistance.
“Don’t grope me when there are people around.”
Belial turned away and stared elsewhere.
There were times he thought meeting Samyasa had been a mistake.
Back then, he’d been a plump, round little thing who got into some mischief at the docks, and Captain Jones had kicked him straight off the deck. He landed hard on the shore, and Samyasa, stepping off a royal hunting vessel nearby, had lifted him up and shouted,
“Don’t treat the poor little guy like that!”
From a young age, Belial had known he was different from others. But after that day, Samyasa became the first person who kept him awake at night.
The gap between them was enormous. Belial had never dared to hope. But over the last two years, as Captain Jones’s standing in the slave ship business rose, their cargo began making more and more frequent runs to Rhodheoga, and with that, came more chances to see Samyasa, who was often stationed aboard long-haul vessels.
The more kind Samyasa was to him, the more restless that buried heart grew.
Two years ago, on a night after returning from the First Hell, Samyasa had spoken with surprising honesty. He said he felt helpless about the current state of the Demon Realm. With the surge in prosperity, demons had become more materialistic than even the divine race once was.
He admitted that deep down, more than anything, he wanted a stable home. But he’d learned to go with the tide, pretending nothing mattered at all.
He didn’t know how to comfort Samyasa so he simply smiled and said, everything will be alright. Samyasa tilted his head slightly and murmured, “I think you look a lot better than you used to. Am I drunk?” Then he kissed him, far gentler than Belial had imagined.
The next morning, Belial was overjoyed. He thought it marked the beginning of something real.
But after that, Samyasa vanished. For three whole months.
When they finally ran into each other again at the docks, Samyasa looked awkward and spoke in that ironic, sarcastic tone of his, not letting Belial get a single word in, jumping straight into a monologue about some beautiful woman he was currently pursuing.
That awkward distance never went away. It festered instead, growing into a wound that Belial could never quite heal.
The chief official passed by Samyasa and the red-haired devil he was still flirting with, and cleared his throat with a raspy cough, fingers, thin as bone, pressed to his lips.
The lady devil glanced at the document in his hand. The signature was a mess of demonic strokes, hard for even demons to decipher, but written with such wild, tearing strength that it almost cut through the thick parchment despite its owner’s attempt at control. The sigil beneath it was a royal seal, luxurious and absolute. She instantly knew whose name it was.
A faint smile lifted the corners of her eyes—but she said nothing.
Samyasa noticed, of course. He shrugged with affected indifference.
“Every time I see Prince Mammon’s signature, I can’t help but feel sorry for him.”
That caught the demoness’s interest.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Mammon’s been of age for over a thousand years now, which means…” He gestured vaguely. “He’s not the ‘Most Beautiful Young Man’ anymore. But he’s not the most handsome man either—that’s His Majesty Lucifer. So even the one title he had… it’s gone. Growing up really sucks.”
“They’re not even the same type, and you know it. Besides, Lord Mammon’s contributions to the treasury and military are on par with His Majesty Lucifer’s.”
Samyasa scoffed. He’d seen that face too many times, in tabloids more than policy bulletins. Among all those scandalous, pretty-boy elites, Mammon’s face was the one he most despised.
“Of course they’re not the same type. How could you even compare him to our magnificent Sovereign? I’ve worked more hours than he has. He spends his time chasing skirts.”
Suddenly, the chamber doors were kicked open.
The impact sent the thick wooden panels slamming against the walls. An antique vase atop a mahogany shelf wobbled and shattered across the marble.
Everyone startled. Even Samyasa flinched.
A troop of Demon officers stood in the doorway, clad in dark navy jackets and snow-white trousers. Their high collars revealed crisp white shirts beneath. Their expressions were solemn, like they were here for a ceremonial drill.
But at the center of them stood a young man, in crimson silk pajamas and cotton slippers, staring into the room with visible impatience.
It was an expression, and an outfit, Belial had never seen associated with this man before.
If not for the crimson rose emblazoned high on his cheekbone, Belial might not have recognized him at all.
In media appearances, Mammon was always radiant, poised, and dangerously charismatic. He once sipped tea with a harem of beauties outside the arena, wearing a small crimson-garnet hat that framed his curled locks. A passing photographer captured the moment just as Mammon turned, raising an eyebrow with a spoiled smirk on his refined face, like a devilish heir who had never known denial.
That one frame—now titled Agate Afternoon Tea—had become as iconic in the Demon Realm as Marilyn Monroe’s windblown skirt was to the human world. It was printed in museums, studios, stamp collections, postcards… everyone alive had seen it.
But now, his curled hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. A thin silk shirt clung to his torso, tracing the lines of his chest. His expression said plainly: I am not awake and I am not pleased.
“If anyone wakes me this early again,” Mammon muttered as he descended the stairs, “they can just bring my scythe along too.”
A black cat followed closely behind him.
Belial glanced at the Gothic pendulum clock in the corner. It was 3 in the afternoon.
Samyasa’s face had gone pale.
The chief official stammered, “P-Prince Mammon, it was Your Highness who requested to select the palace attendants personally, so we…”
“Shut it,” Mammon snapped, rubbing his temple. “That was if I managed to wake up.”
The attendants behind him bowed so low they seemed almost spineless. Mammon, used to this display, paid it no mind. What others found fearsome, he saw as mundane. Belial could understand that—but still found Mammon’s temper deeply disappointing.
He sauntered past the slaves, circling casually, pausing briefly as he passed Belial.
Up close, his lashes were even longer than the photos made them seem. Belial’s gaze was drawn, unwillingly, to the muscular contours of Mammon’s arms and shoulders. How could such unfair beauty exist? A full-blooded archdevil, yet he had a face even more ethereal than most angels.
And those arms, taut with strength; that devil-may-care grin, all of it radiated youth, power, and sex. But Mammon’s allure wasn’t just skin-deep. His physical power was the greatest in all three realms. Once, in their youth, he and Michael had been equals. But now, even if Michael were still alive, he wouldn’t last ten minutes against him.
God had given him everything.
Mammon passed the others… then turned back and pointed at Belial.
“This one.”
Belial was stunned.
“I—I’m sorry, Your Highness. I don’t want to go.”
He wanted Pandemonium, yes, but not this way. He wanted to earn it, slowly, by mastering magic, by study and effort. Even if it took years.
Maybe that’s just how youth is, willing to waste time to protect dignity.
“You don’t want to? Then why are you here?”
“I’m just escorting the other slaves, Your Highness.”
“You work for Captain Jones?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“He told me that whoever works for him belongs to us.”
From a distance, Jones shouted,
“Belial! Don’t be difficult! Go with Prince Mammon!”
Belial ignored him.
“Your Highness, according to Chapter 17, Article 283 of the Demon Realm Codex, no demon may sell a slave without the slave’s consent. It was ratified by His Majesty Lucifer and the Council, and applies equally to all demons—yourself included.”
Mammon raised his eyebrows, a little impressed. He probably hadn’t expected a slave to study the legal code.
He and Belial locked eyes for a moment. Then Mammon smirked.
“I never intended to force you. But I like stubborn kids. After the Day of the Fall, we’ll be gathering at the Ghost Tavern in Rhodheoga. Come if you want.”
The Ghost Tavern—as its name implied—was run by ghosts. From the chefs to the bartenders to the waitstaff, all were spectral. Ghosts weren’t high-ranking creatures; most dwelled in the First and Second Hells. But the Ghost Tavern was a royal-sponsored chain. They had branches in all Eight Hells, and the manager took pride in staffing each one with authentic spirits, except for two twin lesser devils tending bar in the Seventh Hell.
“I will. If I have time, I’ll definitely go.”
Belial’s casual tone made the whole room break out in nervous sweat. But Mammon just smiled cryptically and turned to leave. Samyasa finally seemed to relax.
Yet just as he passed Samyasa, Mammon paused and murmured,
“I don’t work often because if I can solve something in two days, I’m not wasting seven on it.”
Samyasa’s brow twitched. “His Majesty Lucifer works plenty—and he’s the Demon Sovereign.”
“That’s because he’s the Sovereign. I’m not. When I become Sovereign, you’ll be dead. So don’t worry about it.”
As the slave convoy marched back to the ship, Mullin ran up and smacked Belial’s head.
“You idiot! That was your big chance!”
But Belial couldn’t bother with Mullin. He was already hurrying after Samyasa, breath short, words spilling out like a monologue.
“Last time we were near Kriya, the swamps by Wolfsmoke Marsh stank to high hell. Fog turned black, the riverbank went dark. It was creepy. Wanna know what we saw in the water?”
Samyasa said nothing. Just kept walking.
“Angels’ faces. Covered in algae. All green. Mullin nearly fell in, was scared stiff. I pulled him back. They buried the angels from the last war in the swamp. Too deep for them to enter the Tree of Life. Fewer angels, fewer chances to return.”
Belial had to jog to keep up, panting.
“Hey… have you heard of the Ibuhaz Village wedding? Nobles love it. Everyone wears black, rides in on white horses—it’s beautiful…”
Samyasa finally snapped.
“What are you even trying to say?”
Belial grinned.
“Just… talking to you.”
“Then pick a better topic. I’m not interested in hearing about how low-level demons live.”
“I’m a fallen angel.”
“A one-winged, powerless, parentless fallen angel? Let me guess—Mammon’s the first pureblood archdevil you’ve ever met?”
“…No. It was the woman you like.”
“She’s only half-devil. Her father’s a lesser devil. Purebloods are rare.”
The Demon Realm’s messy lineages were impossible to sort. Only fallen angels refused to breed with demons, seeing it as a stain on their bloodline. Archdevils were more like beasts, unconcerned with love or legacies. So hybrids were common. But purebloods – vanishingly rare.
Belial fell silent. Then tried to reclaim some ground.
“I’m not as useless as you think. I’ve saved a lot. I’ll study magic. I’m still young. I’ll rise.”
Samyasa looked amused.
“Oh, sweetheart. You’re not still under the illusion that this is something, are you? I told you. I like women. At most, this was fun. That’s all I can offer. You knew that, didn’t you?”
Belial clenched his jaw.
“Not now. But what about later? If I become a great Dark Mage someday… will that change anything?”
Samyasa gently touched his head.
“Belial, you’re still young. I don’t expect you to understand. But try this: if you worked in the palace… would you date someone like you?”
Before Belial could respond, he was pushed aside. Samyasa climbed into the carriage and left him standing there.
The outcome came too fast. Belial chased after the coach, trying to explain. But the dark pegasus beneath it spread its bony wings and began to rise, hooves kicking into the air. Belial called his name, flapped his single wing furiously, trying, futilely, to fly.
But he never could.
He tripped over an iron rail and fell hard to the ground.
There’s a saying in Heaven: Every child of God, no matter where they’re born or raised, is born with one instinct: to spread their wings and soar.
Even fallen angels, stripped of God’s love, still retained that instinct. They belonged to the Demon Realm, but they were not like the demons. They were raised in darkness, but longed still for the light. No matter how grand or powerful, nothing could ever replace Paradise.
Belial had never seen the divine race. Had never seen Heaven. He was raised in shadow, in filth. And yet, whenever he was desperate, that wing he’d ignored for so long would always stir.
Light. Justice. These were the words that still moved the divine race.
Even now, perhaps even Lucifer was not immune.
His deep love for Michael—perhaps it wasn’t just love, but also love compounded by the things he could never be. Michael was more angelic than he ever was, with those sea-blue eyes, those golden wings, that white robe he always wore. Heaven had been Michael’s world since birth. He had poured all his life into loving his people, into guarding that sky above.
If, thousands of Berduth ago, when Lucifer was still Ruthfel, he had lived like Michael…
Perhaps the universe would be a different place.
But Lucifer was selfish.
And so, he could never be an angel.
Only the Sovereign of Demons.
He could watch, cold and silent, as his true homeland declined. He could watch it die with Michael.
And usher in an era of gray.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
