Ernest Acura had learned to endure failure, but he never imagined that his failures could make him famous. It started at school when one of his blunders—spilling an entire tray of lunch onto the principal's new carpet—was captured on someone's phone. Within hours, the video was everywhere. Laughter, memes, and comments flooded the halls. "Ernest the Clumsy," they called him, and somehow, he became the center of attention. At first, it was awkward. He avoided the stares, the whispers, the constant jokes. But slowly, he realized people weren't laughing entirely at him—they were noticing him. Not for talent, not for brilliance, not for courage, but for the chaos he seemed to carry everywhere he went. Ernest tried to smile through it. He thought, Maybe this is a chance to matter, even in a dumb way. He became "popular" in the strangest sense: everyone knew him, everyone remembered him, and everyone watched him fail spectacularly. But Lucifer's game was far from over. Fame without respect was a poison, and Ernest was drinking it freely. Then came the decision that would shatter his life. His family had been planning a small outing to the countryside. They trusted Ernest to handle the planning—booking, directions, supplies—because he insisted he could manage it this time. But in his usual distracted, careless way, he misread instructions, double-booked reservations, and sent them down a dangerous, poorly maintained trail. The result was catastrophic—not for Ernest, who had followed the wrong directions from a safe distance, but for his family. The trail led to an unstable area, and a sudden landslide claimed the house they were staying in. His parents perished instantly. Ernest arrived moments later, frantic and devastated, but unharmed himself. Lucifer's invisible laughter crept into Ernest's mind. One year remained, and now the chosen one's suffering had intensified. Not only was he a laughingstock to the world, but he now carried unbearable guilt—responsible for tragedy without any chance to physically protect those he loved. Ernest fell to his knees, shaking, tears streaking his face. "Why... why did I...?" he whispered, but no answer came. The sky above seemed indifferent, and the world felt impossibly cold. Somewhere beyond, Lucifer's invisible whispers promised more suffering to come. In that moment, Ernest Acura realized the cruelest truth: even when he survived, his mistakes could destroy everything he loved.
A year passed like a blur of shadows and silence. Grief hollowed Ernest out, and though the world had already moved on from the "Ernest the Clumsy" memes, he couldn't escape his own reflection. The guilt followed him into every dream, every meal, every breath.
And then, one morning, he woke with a thought that chilled him:
One day left.
The words weren't his, but they echoed inside him as if carved into the walls of his skull. He felt it—like an hourglass almost empty, its last grains sliding into darkness.
That was when Lucifer set his masterpiece in motion.
For months, Ernest had been stumbling through life, penniless, living off odd jobs and charity. But suddenly, opportunities came knocking. A forgotten relative's inheritance appeared. An old friend offered him a stage to "tell his story." A talent scout claimed he could make Ernest famous—truly famous this time, not for failure, but as a redeemed figure. Reporters framed him as a tragic survivor, a man shaped by loss but destined for greatness.
The world that once mocked him began to embrace him. Doors opened. Wealth, influence, even whispers of love came his way. Ernest didn't trust it—at least, not at first. But the warmth of acceptance was so intoxicating after a year of cold loneliness. He almost believed fate had forgiven him.
But it wasn't fate. It was Lucifer's hand, weaving threads of temptation tighter and tighter around him.
On the final night, Ernest stood at the edge of a glowing city skyline, staring at the glittering towers that seemed suddenly within his reach. That was when the air shifted. The lights flickered. And a figure stepped from the darkness—no disguise, no whisper this time.
Lucifer revealed himself.
His form was terrible and beautiful at once: wings of shadow curling against the night, eyes like embers burning through Ernest's soul, a smile that promised both comfort and ruin.
"Ernest," he said softly, almost kindly, "you've suffered enough. I can give you everything you ever wanted. A perfect life. Wealth. Love. Power. No more clumsiness, no more shame. The world will worship you."
The vision flickered before Ernest's eyes—he saw himself adored, respected, whole. His family alive again, laughing around a table that never broke. His chest ached at the sight.
But before he could answer, another presence stirred.
At the far end of the rooftop, an old man appeared—stooped, wrapped in rags, his eyes ancient but steady. He carried nothing but a crooked staff and a crown of strange, tarnished metal that looked as though it had been forged in fire long forgotten.
The old man's voice was rough, yet clear. "You may take the easy life he offers you," he said, nodding at Lucifer. "But you know it is a cage, no matter how gilded. Or…" He raised the crown, its dull glow flickering like a dying flame. "You can take this. The weight will break most men, but for one who endures, it is not death—it is destiny."
Lucifer's smile widened, patient and confident. "Choose wisely, Ernest. One is paradise. The other is madness."
The wind howled between them, and Ernest Acura stood frozen, staring at the two paths: a perfect life in the Devil's hand, or the crown of a ragged stranger that promised only struggle and unknown power.
His final day had come, and with it, his final choice.