Have you ever been told of a man with horns? They say he was tall, with calves for legs, an ugly face, and red skin. People call him the devil.
But that is a lie. The devil isn't some monster far from it. The devil is simply a being with countless stories to tell. Handsome, pleasing to the eye, dressed in a suit and tie.
"Aish…" A man with hair as black as midnight sighed. His crisp suit clung to his frame as he sat alone at the bar. Around him, people danced, laughed, and drank but he kept to himself.
"A shot," he ordered, his deep, velvety voice carrying a strange authority.
The bartender immediately filled his glass, sliding it across the counter with a reverent expression. The man in the suit downed it in one swallow.
"You know, I don't have horns," he muttered, almost to himself. He smirked, then his smile darkened. "Damn those bastards." His curse was heavy, weighted with memory.
It had been long since the Devil began walking the Primordial Realm. Once, he had been a gifted general of the Mother, the next in line to the throne. But he was a Warborn…
He ordered another drink. Gulping it down, he paused, savoring the taste.
"Heaven doesn't have this strength, neither does Hell. I was right, mortals are worth protecting more than the other races." He laughed aloud, but the music of the bar drowned it out.
Then he felt it. A presence.
"Hmm…" he muttered, stroking his chin.
A man in a purple suit stepped through the bar's entrance. A hat shadowed his face, and his very presence was so regal that the mortals inside froze in admiration.
The Devil's aura was no less striking, ferocious, grim, like the shadow of death itself.
Yet the two were different. One radiated calm, regal peace; the other, a storm wrapped in silk.
Humans had grown used to such figures. Since the invasion of the Void beings, people with powers surfaced often. Mortals called them The Shield warriors gifted to protect mankind.
"You may continue," the man in purple said softly. His words were law. Instantly, his aura receded, and the crowd returned to their revelry as if nothing had happened.
"To what do I owe the visit of the Emperor of the Realms?" the man in black asked, smiling thinly. The title he used was no jest, that was truly how gods, devils, and mortals alike named him.
The man in purple smirked. "You haven't changed, brother." He pulled out a chair, sitting beside him. His eyes lingered briefly on the bartender's hostility. "Interesting," he murmured.
"Do you dare drink with me, brother?" the Devil mocked, his smile crooked, almost cruel.
"You know I'll drink with you anytime… Zerathos."
The name itself cracked through the realm like thunder. The Primordial Realm trembled not from their power, but from the weight of the word. Lucifer. A name taboo, feared, cursed.
The bartender's hostility sharpened, his body tensed, ready to strike. Yet the Devil's calm presence restrained him, as though his composure alone shackled others.
Zerathos chuckled. "It surprises me you'd call my name so boldly, Ray. Aren't you afraid your little playground might be destroyed?" His aura coiled around him, heavy, yet contained so masterfully it leaked no further than an inch.
Ray only smirked. "Surprising, isn't it? That this realm itself fears you. The rumors are true you conquered its spirit. And your bartender… a demon from the Netherworld?"
Realms were born with spirits. The day a realm came into existence, so too did its soul. Heaven was different, born of unique circumstances, but the others, Primordial and Netherworld, were not.
"And the Netherworld," Zerathos added with a grin.
He had ruled it once. He had broken its demons, subdued them all, and worn its crown. Yet when he set his sights on the Primordial Realm, the Void sealed its borders, denying him entrance.
He could have forced his way in, but the act would have wounded the realm beyond repair. Instead, he had chosen another path, one that none could have predicted. With a strand of the Mother's hair, a resource beyond measure, he forged a token that defied logic itself. With it, he tricked the realm into allowing his entry.
The cost enraged him. And so, he hunted down the spirit of the Primordial Realm, and gave it a torment it would never forget.
Zerathos refilled his glass and poured another. "Now then," he asked, his tone low, dangerous, "what brings you here, Ray?"