Flames licked the church tower. The bell that once called the faithful to prayer now clanged discordantly, half shattered by war hammers. The city streets were filled with hooded shadows, their faces masked with strange symbols painted in blood. The satanic cult descended without mercy.
Inside the basilica the priests stood in rows, crosses raised; their prayers dissolved into ragged screams. When the great wooden doors burst inward, the red glow of torches lit an altar smudged with smoke. Swords dark with black flame swung, cutting down bodies kneeling before the sacred statue. Blood sprayed, staining murals of Christ.
In Rome, hundreds of nuns were hunted through narrow alleys. Their screams were drowned by the cult's ritual chant, a hiss like thousands of whispers. Crosses were overturned, statues toppled, bodies nailed to church doors as a warning. The stench of brimstone, blood, and incense mixed into a haze that choked any breath.
The war did not stop at one city. From Europe to Latin America, church bells pealed not for mass but as alarm. Streets became rivers of red, altars turned into slaughter tables. Surviving priests were forced to watch their flocks mutilated while cultists mocked the interrupted prayers that tore through the air.
On open fields, thousands of Catholics formed lines, bearing great crosses and reciting battle prayers. They held swords, spears, even crude firearms. But every assault answered with dark power: human-shaped shadows crawling across the ground, slicing the legs of soldiers, dragging them into the void.
Night after night the flames consumed the world. Crosses that once stood proud atop towers now lay charred, collapsed in blood-slicked earth. There was no safe place—neither the grand cathedral nor the small village chapel. This was not merely a battle. It was a baptism of the world in blood and fire.
The city no longer breathed as a city. Streets once full of prayer became vast trenches flowing with human blood. Every narrow lane, every corridor, even the sewers ran deep and red.
The satanic cult danced among the blaze, bodies glazed in fresh blood. They tore open the bellies of wounded soldiers, spilled entrails onto the ground, dipping their hands into them as if into holy water. Screams shattered the air; no one dared stop. They fought no longer to win — they fought to drown the world.
At the central cathedral the altar had become a pool of blood. Fallen priests writhed there, their blood filling the marble basin. Statues of Mary and Christ stood frozen, their surfaces smeared red, their stone eyes seeming to weep blood from hairline cracks.
Roofs burned and collapsed into the streets. Burning bodies tumbled, enlarging the red sea below. Warhorses, wounded, screamed, bucked, then were stabbed to their deaths. There was no sound louder than the chorus of child wails, women's screams, and the hysterical laughter of the dark worshipers.
On the high ground, the faithful tried to hold. They planted a great cross and knelt, praying for a miracle. But no miracle came. Only arrows of fire rained down, striking bodies, turning prayers to ash. The cross toppled, sunk into blood that rose to cover knees, then waists.
That night the city drowned— not in water, but in blood. Rivers and seas nearby ran crimson, carrying limbs, eyeless heads, hands clinging to crosses, torches guttering in the current. The stench of corruption hung heavy, clinging to skin, as if hell itself had crawled to the surface.
The cult roared. Churches fell. The city that had once thrummed with prayer became an open grave the sky would not look upon.
Above that grave, two voices cut through the shrieks. From the half-standing tower, a high priest of the Catholic Church stood, white robe soaked with blood, a golden cross raised high. His voice cracked but brimmed with fanatic flame.
Children of God! Fear not! The blood you spill today will open Heaven's gates for us all! Crush the devil worshipers! Cut them down until none remains!
His cry echoed, igniting the last strength of the living. They charged with prayers on their lips, swords in hand, eyes burning with despair.
But from the ruins of the basilica rose an answer no less thunderous. The high priest of the satanic cult stood atop the inverted altar, his body tattooed with ritual markings that glowed red. In his right hand he held a human skull filled with fresh blood.
We are the promised darkness! Their God is dead, and tonight the earth becomes our kingdom! Destroy their tongues of prayer! Let this world drown in the blood of those who betrayed the devil!
Thousands of followers surged forward, eyes wild; some cut themselves to call power, others leapt into the melee, unafraid of death.
The war exploded anew, more feral than before. Catholic priests blessed spears with holy water, thrusting them into cultists whose bodies burst in light. But for every cultist killed, ten rose in their place, dragging monks and priests to the ground, beheading them, impaling heads upon church fences.
A continent became a field of slaughter. In Rome, the Vatican bell was struck with dead bodies, its peal hoarse as a wail. In Paris, Notre Dame, half-ruined, became a blood-red bastion. In Latin America, ancient churches fell into dark altars where thousands and thousands of faithful and cultists stabbed each other until none stood.
In every city the Catholic high priests proclaimed the final sacrifice: prayers accompanied by blood. They said the world could be saved only by offering their own bodies upon God's altar. And the faithful knelt, plunging knives into their own chests, crying Christ's name.
Meanwhile the satanic high priest demanded the opposite: sacrifice your enemies. Priests' bodies hung inverted from city gates, their blood collected in gigantic bowls, drank together by cultists as a communal rite.
The sky went utterly dark. A red moon hung as if a witness to humanity's madness. Soil could no longer be told from flesh; air was indistinguishable from smoke and blood.
The world was no longer a place for mankind. It had become a colossal altar, where prayer and curse devoured each other and blood became the only language.
Amid the sea of fire and blood heavy steps sounded from the ruined city gate. All eyes turned. From behind black smoke emerged a line of priests in ragged white, faces hollowed but clinging to belief. At their center walked an old man, pale and wrinkled, his eyes dim yet dignified — the Pope, the highest priest of the Catholic Church.
He walked slowly, clutching a golden cross that dimly gleamed beneath the red moon. The clamor fell for a breath, as if the world held its breath. The Pope knelt in a pool of blood up to his knees and, in a hoarse, deep voice, offered a last prayer.
Merciful God… if this world must perish, let us die with Your name upon our lips. Protect Your children from the darkness…
But the prayer never finished. From the cultist throng an ebony arrow flew, a harsh sound as it struck the Pope's skull, passing from temple to temple. His body pitched backward, blood spattering over the cross he clutched.
Silence held for a moment before laughter thundered. Cultists shrieked like beasts, surged to seize the corpse from the weeping priests. The golden cross was crushed; the Pope's head was severed in a single brutal stroke.
They left his body trampled in the mire of blood; his head was set upon a black spear. The satanic high priest himself held it aloft before thousands, his voice rolling like thunder.
Look! Their God is dead with its prophet! From this night there is no Heaven! This world belongs to darkness, and blood is our law!
The Pope's head hung at the city gate, weeping blood onto the earth — a sign that light had gone out. The collapsed crosses lay shadowed; cultists raised their blood-slick weapons and shouted, marking the birth of a new age — the age in which devils were crowned rulers of Earth.
Night remained red, as if celebrating the death of humanity's last prayer.
After the final blaze consumed the old basilica, the world fell silent. No more bell chimes, no more prayers lifted. Catholic churches were ruins, crosses ash, the faithful's blood soaked into the soil.
Upon the wreckage the satanic high priests set up a giant black pulpit. From there their voices rolled across the globe. Millions were forced to gather, kneel, chains around necks and wounds on their bodies.
We are the highest cult, the high priest rasped, his voice vibrating the air. This world recognizes no God but darkness. Hear well: we do not force your choice… but remember, those who do not choose will die here, before everyone.
Cultist troops drew their black swords and leveled spears at the crowd. Children cried, mothers covered their faces, men bowed, teeth chattering against fear.
Choose! an officer priest cried, eyes burning red. Will you die as worshipers of the God who abandoned you… or live with us, become part of the eternal power of darkness?
Those words cut into human hearts. Those who still whispered prayers faltered. They looked to the sky for an answer, but the sky remained red, the moon cold, and no voice descended.
Day by day suffering piled up. Children starved, villages were razed, prayers brought no succor. Slowly the whisper grew: Why is God silent? Why are we left to suffer?
One by one, people gave in. They raised trembling hands and knelt before cult priests, swearing new oaths. Their blood was dripped upon the devil's sigil as proof of devotion. Each oath brought the cultists' cheers, torches flared higher, and the world submerged deeper into darkness.
Those who refused were forced to kneel in the square. Their heads were lopped off one by one, bodies thrown into a river now permanently red. There were no graves, no prayers—only carcasses drifting in blood that never dried.
From generation to generation the hatred toward God swelled. Those who had once prayed with tears now stared skyward with rage. In their hearts a single whisper remained: If God exists, He has betrayed us. And the devil now holds sway.
The world became a massive execution stage. Billions bowed, kissed the earth before the satanic cult, surrendering old faith for survival. Yet among them, thousands still refused. They were bound, driven to torch-lit squares, forced to kneel in pools of dried black blood.
The cult leader raised his black sword to the sky; thousands cheered. But before the blade fell, a hoarse chorus rose from the refusals—voices raw with rage and betrayal.
If God exists… then we vow to kill Him! they cried. He has betrayed us, leaving us in suffering!
This cry was not mere words. It was the scream of shattered souls, an unhealed wound, a rot of hatred. As each head fell, blood spouted high; in those final moments their vows became real.
From the headless bodies a dark mist exhaled—grievance, hatred, despair—coalescing into a black energy that swallowed the air. The heavens shuddered, the earth cracked, and the world slipped further from light.
Cultist followers shrieked with glee. They opened mouths and chests, tore skin to absorb the power. Each breath filled them with the filthy strength born of human hatred.
Their tattoos glowed red; their eyes burned like embers. Power surged within them tenfold, their laughter more hysterical.
See! Even their deaths are offerings for us! the high priest cried. Even their vow to kill God will fuel our dominion!
The square became a pool of fresh blood. Headless corpses piled, severed heads on spears ringed the city like a hellish palisade. From all this the negative energy rose in a vast black fog that formed weeping, screaming faces—cursed visages absorbed into the cultists' flesh. The world grew heavier, as if darkness had sealed every path back.
Earth was not merely ruled by the satanic cult. The Earth itself became a body of darkness.
They no longer worshipped a mere object; offerings became fuel for rites. In every town the marketplace squares turned into reservoirs, veins of pipes assembled like mechanical arteries to carry one substance to a central point: a great reservoir at the heart of the ritual. People said what flowed was not merely liquid but the accumulated burden of humanity—fear, betrayal, sorrow, broken vows—congealed into a thick, heavy matter like night ink.
Cult leaders intoned voiceless mantras, their rites a measured breathing. Millions, then billions, obedient or forced, poured the remainder of their lives into the system. There were no prolonged bloody scenes in the streets—rather, a cold mechanical collection: devices and vessels transforming suffering into energy. Old prayers were stripped of meaning; what remained was currency: life for power, faith for command.
Those vessels pulsed faintly, like a heart learning again to beat. From within, light dimmed to a sheen—not the gushing red, but a dark oil that glimmered like a stormy sea. As the night wore on the rite's tone seeped into every layer of the city; buildings vibrated, well water rippled though no wind blew, and, for a fleeting second, passersby felt as if something listened to their footsteps.
Then the reservoir at the ritual's center was unleashed. The flow did not run like a river; it surged like a wave of energy, slamming across stone floors, seeping into the planet's cracks. When the stream touched the circle of symbols carved into stone, the sigil flared—not reflecting light but swallowing darkness into a new shape. Layers of reality quivered, hairline cracks spidering like old glass.
The world answered with a sound no longer human. A low vibration reached to the bones; clouds thinned, the sky refused its old colors. From the tiny opened seam no human figure emerged first. What came was will: something vast, cold, and seductive — not a face but a shadow shaping meaning in the air. It arrived as a promise—order offered—and as a threat. Its voice was not heard but felt: a pressure on memory, rewriting the word once called hope.
The cult's followers did not go mad like in tales; they translated. They felt a new urge, the power to rearrange reality in small circles: ruined fields became fertile, small fortresses strengthened, the fear of others turned into a tool. In the corridors of the human soul, cracks birthed that which had been lost—those whose vows had hardened into energy; some of that energy fused into new manifestations, granting the world powers previously impossible.
Yet the manifestation was not uniform. Its hold grew stronger in places at the cost of subtle losses elsewhere: a city that gained "benefit" lost quiet, the capacity to dream diminished, songs sounded alien. There was a price unaccounted for: a slow collapse of balance, small details of life fading one by one.
Amid fog and emberlight a few still looked to the new sky. Not all bowed. Some waited in the cracks: small people clutching remnants of prayer, fragments of old stories, memories of something called love. They had no weapon but raised words, songs learned in dark rooms, and the courage of a single small flame. That flame did not immediately defy the descending will, but it signaled that within the remade world a chance remained to reverse the tide.
The rite ended; the gate opened. The manifested will stood at the threshold—more symptom than entity to be felled by steel. It awaited worship, confession, covenant. The cult leaders bowed; the world bent to the new rules born of that pact. And in the trembling hush one heavy question remained: was this resurrection truly new, or only a long shadow of what humans once called upon when too exhausted to hope?
From unfathomable depths a ripple crawled through the gate. The sound did more than speak; it filled chests and cracked the walls of thought. Everyone knew the owner of that voice though none had seen his face. It was the summons of hell's prince—Lucifer.
The name hissed in the air, not a mere label but an absolute. The cult's high priest fell to his knees, trembling not with fear but with the grandeur approaching. The voice invited him to step inside, to leave the mortal world and become one of those who no longer knew death.
The gate opened a fraction wider. A strange scent flowed—neither of blood nor smoke but of burnt metal and rotten sweet, an assault to the senses. The high priest moved as if the world had cut its tether. His steps were heavy, accompanied by a silent chant from millions who watched. Each eye bowed, every heart beat in sync.
When he vanished behind the flickering black veil the earth shuddered. No scream, no sobs; only a stillness like the closing of a chapter. Then the ritual circle glowed again—the sign that the high priest had been accepted into hell's hierarchy, lifted to stand eternal at Lucifer's side.
Yet the world could not wait. The cult leaders knew the mass would wander without a guide. So amid fog and torchlight they anointed a new high priest. Young, his voice sharp and full of an unspent fervor, he stood upon the trembling altar and accepted a ritual crown of shattered black metal.
From now on, he declared, there is no religion but this cult. Every prayer, every hymn, every sign not aligned with Lucifer's will shall be treason—and treason has one price: death.
Silence, then the roar of fanatic followers. But in the crowd, ordinary faces lowered in fear, trying to hide the last embers of old faith.
Rules followed without pause. Every home must light a black flame at its door as a sign of loyalty. Every town must give part of its harvest, not to kin but as offering to the gate of hell. Those who refuse will be enemies.
You are no longer free people, he intoned. You are parts of a single body, the body of the cult. You will live, labor, wed, and die beneath Lucifer's name. There is no freedom, only honor in submission.
Followers screamed with fanatic fire. Those newly forced to join felt the chains tighten. They knew there was no escape. Even glancing skyward had become dangerous, a longing for something other than darkness.
That day the world changed officially. No holidays remained, no ceremonies but cult rites. Children learned early that Lucifer was the only light, and all else enemies. Families hiding old prayers were ready to lose everything overnight.
In the cheering crowd some faces stayed blank, eyes unlit by zeal. They bowed deeper, concealing a small tremor in their chests—not the old faith, but a dangerous resolve—that one day, should chance come, these harsh laws would be their reason to resist.