The throne room of Heaven was silent, vast, and blinding with golden light. Millions of angels bowed in reverence, their wings folded as the sound of eternity echoed in the air. Yet, in the midst of this holy stillness, one figure stood tall, unbent, and unafraid.
Lucifer.
Once the most radiant of the host, his beauty was sharp like a blade. His eyes glimmered with pride, and a smile tugged at his lips—not of joy, but of defiance. He stepped forward, the sound of his footsteps a contrast to the endless hymns around him.
He raised his voice."Today, the chosen one will be created, right? The special creation who will wear the Crown of Creation, chosen by You, the Almighty. But tell me, Father… don't You think I should test him first? To see if he's worthy of such power?"
A murmur spread among the angels. Some gasped in horror, others looked away, for none dared question the Almighty.
And then God's voice filled the throne room—not thunderous, not angry—but steady, absolute."You may test him, Lucifer. But you will not harm him physically. My hand will protect his body. Do as you wish, but remember—power does not come from rebellion. Power comes from Me: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
For the first time, a shadow flickered across Lucifer's perfect face. He tilted his head, amused, though his pride burned at the words."So be it," he whispered. "I don't need to break his body. I will break his soul. I will make his life so miserable that he will curse You to Your face."
And with that, Lucifer's smile widened. It was not a smile of light, but of the darkest intent.
Far below Heaven, the mortal world spun on. In a small, dimly lit hospital room, a cry pierced the night. A mother had given birth to a son. His body was frail, his skin pale, his face twisted in a way that made even the midwives exchange uneasy glances.
To the parents' credit, they smiled through the pain of judgment, whispering, "He is ours, and we love him."
They named him Ernest Acura.
At first, they told themselves his strangeness was nothing. But as Ernest grew, the truth became harder to ignore.
By six, he could not write the alphabet. He stared at letters as if they were locked doors, keys forever lost to him. His teachers shook their heads. "No condition," the doctors said. "He's normal." But Ernest's results proved otherwise.
No matter how hard he tried, he failed. Other children raced ahead, learning with ease. Ernest stumbled over words, numbers, even simple tasks.
His classmates mocked him."Weirdo.""Retard.""Failure."
The labels clung to him like rot. Girls avoided him. Boys laughed behind his back. Even teachers gave up, telling him he would never be anything more.
At home, the weight pressed harder. His father stayed silent, pretending not to notice. But his mother… oh, how bitterness poisoned her heart. Each time Ernest failed, her eyes grew colder. Sometimes she said nothing at all, and that silence cut deeper than words.
For Ernest, home was no refuge. School was no escape. The world itself felt like a cage.
Yet he never hated. He never lashed out. He endured. He prayed, quietly, whispering to God that maybe tomorrow, he'd do better. Maybe one day, he'd find something he could be good at.
But Heaven watched. And so did Hell.
On September 18th, as Ernest's seventeenth birthday passed quietly, Lucifer's laughter echoed through the void. He had watched the boy grow, stumble, and crawl under the weight of failure. He had watched him walk alone, abandoned in silence, mocked in daylight.
Now, the Morning Star smiled in satisfaction.
"One year left," Lucifer murmured. "One year to twist him. One year to make him break. One year to turn the chosen one against the very God who crowned him."
The game had begun.