Devil's Prospective
Chapter 1 — The Weight of Darkness
The city burned below, and Naen stood on the jagged cliff overlooking the chaos. Flames licked the sky, their orange glow reflecting off his blackened wings, scorched yet unbroken. He didn't feel triumph. He felt exhaustion, the weight of every choice he had ever made.
Humans screamed, a mixture of terror and hope, running through streets he had both protected and condemned. The smaller demons under his command skirmished with soldiers trying to contain the fire, their claws slashing and fangs biting, yet every victory felt hollow.
He inhaled slowly. For centuries, this had been his life — fight, survive, guide, punish. Every step he took left footprints of sorrow, every command reshaped destinies. And yet the questions never left him.
Why is it that darkness must always be evil? Why must the light always win?
A memory stirred — centuries ago, when his wings were golden, when he still walked among angels in the Hall of Origin. He had asked one question too many, and it had cost him everything. His fall had been silent, swift, absolute. He remembered the cold weight of rejection, the moment the Light's judgment passed through him like a knife of absence, stripping him of certainty, stripping him of belonging.
Now, here he was. Neither angel nor human, not even fully demon — just Naen, the name whispered in fear and superstition.
Below, a soldier charged recklessly toward the demon vanguard, sword ablaze. Naen's eyes narrowed. Without thinking, he leapt, wings folding, landing in the middle of the fray. Shadows erupted around him, tangling with fire. The soldier screamed as claws pierced armor, yet Naen did not rejoice. He caught the dying human's gaze — wide, terrified, pleading — and felt the old familiar ache.
Do they fear me, or the truth I carry?
The skirmish ended almost as quickly as it began. He turned away from the aftermath, stepping over debris and corpses alike. His blackened wings dragged behind him, each feather a testament to battles fought, lives ruined, lives spared.
He remembered another time — a young mortal who had called him a savior, though others feared him. The boy had asked why the Devil, whom everyone cursed, had protected him from raiders. Naen had only smiled, the weight of his loneliness pressing on his chest. Because sometimes survival is more important than blame.
The wind shifted, carrying ash and the faint scent of blood. He paused, listening to the distant cries, feeling the pulse of the world as it always ran around him, indifferent and cruel.
A small demon tugged at his cloak, whispering about another skirmish at the northern district. Naen exhaled, eyes closing briefly. He had no choice but to move. Survival demanded attention, and responsibility never rested.
Yet in the midst of chaos, a question bubbled up again — relentless, like a stubborn ember that refuses to die:
Why is it that the world fears me, yet depends on me? Why must the side that sees clearly always be punished?
He didn't answer aloud. There was no one to answer him, not truly. The Light, the angels, humans — none could understand. Perhaps no one ever could.
As he flew toward the next battle, wings slicing through smoke, his mind wandered deeper. Memories of betrayals, lost friends, angels who had once called him brother — all returned, each a ghost in the twisted tapestry of his life. He remembered standing in the Hall of Origin, proud yet naive, demanding answers that Heaven refused to give. And he remembered the fall — the quiet, absolute exile that left him alone in the void, learning for the first time what suffering truly meant.
Now, centuries later, nothing had changed. He fought, he suffered, he survived. And still the questions followed him, whispered by shadows, carried by the wind, etched into every scar on his body.
Perhaps that is my punishment — to see clearly, to bear the weight of truth while everyone else sleeps in ignorance.
The northern district was aflame as he arrived. Soldiers clashed with demons, buildings crumbling. Naen didn't hesitate. Shadows burst from his wings like waves, sweeping enemies aside. Every strike was precise, yet his mind remained elsewhere, drifting through the labyrinth of his memories and questions.
When the dust settled, he stood alone in the ruined street, the echoes of screams lingering in the air. He touched the scorched earth with one clawed hand, and for a moment, he felt almost human — fragile, tired, burdened.
A single thought formed, persistent and cruel:
I am the Devil. And yet… what is the Devil, if not the sum of all I have endured, all I have seen, and all I have failed to change?
He spread his wings and took flight again. Survival demanded motion. Revenge, peace, understanding — they were all intertwined, inseparable, elusive. He didn't know which he sought most. Perhaps all of them. Perhaps none.
And as the night swallowed the city and the fires burned on, Naen carried his burden alone, a twisted king of shadows, a living question, the Devil who survived because no one else could.