Millennia in the future, an army marched that would have unsettled even the oldest gods. It did not move like a force of soldiers but like a living tide. Demons walked beside things that refused clean shape or name. Some dragged their bodies across the ground on too many limbs. Others floated, stitched together from shadow and bone, their outlines flickering as if reality could not quite agree on them. Towers of flesh lumbered forward with bells of fused skulls tolling from their frames. Winged horrors blotted the sky in slow, patient spirals, their feathers shedding ash. The air itself felt crowded, thick with pressure, as though the world was being pushed aside to make room for them.
They crossed a barren continent and left nothing intact. Stone crumbled under their steps. Dry seas split open. Whatever remnants of life remained were erased without pause or interest. This was not conquest for resources or territory. It was movement for the sake of annihilation.
At the heart of the war camp stood a command pavilion large enough to dwarf keeps of old. Inside, sprawled across a throne of dark silk and living metal, lay a devilishly handsome man. His skin was pale to the point of translucence, flawless and cold. His eyes, however, ruined the illusion. They were narrow and serpentine, irises coiled with slow, predatory intent. To meet his gaze was to feel something twist in the mind, a creeping suggestion that sanity was negotiable.
Azazel lounged as if bored by the end of worlds. One arm draped over the throne, fingers tapping in idle rhythm. His smile came easily, practiced and sharp.
To his right stood a massive man, swollen with flesh that strained against layers of ornate armor. His bulk suggested indulgence rather than strength, but his small, beady eyes tracked everything with nervous intensity. There was fear in them, and worse, pleasure in the fear of others.
To Azazel's left waited a hooded figure whose robe failed to hide what lay beneath. Exposed flesh writhed in constant motion, muscle and sinew twisting as if trying to escape its own shape. Where a face should have been was a vertical slit, lined with rows of uneven teeth that clicked softly, never quite closing.
Azazel laughed, the sound light and amused, then crooked a finger.
From the shadows emerged the executioner.
It stood nine feet tall, a hulking mass of armored bone. Its exterior was an exoskeleton formed entirely of hardened remains. Arms and legs were layered with fused femurs and spines. Its hands ended in grasping clusters of knuckles and talons. Skulls were set into its chest and shoulders, each frozen in an expression of agony so intense it seemed etched into the air itself.
Inside that cage of bone was a man, or what little remained of one.
The bones had grown through him, piercing muscle, tearing organs aside, weaving themselves into his body until there was no clear boundary between host and armor. Every movement was pain. Every breath scraped against something sharp. His existence was a continuous torment, sustained only by power forced through him and a will that refused, stubbornly, to break.
Lucien had once given Azazel everything. His loyalty. His strength. His future. Years of manipulation and false promises had stripped him of position and purpose until there was nothing left to take but his body. By the time he understood the truth, it was far too late. He had been remade into a weapon.
The army feared him. Even the captains kept their distance. Yet for all his power, he served as Azazel's executioner, dispatched to crush resistance, to make examples, to stain the campaign with terror.
Now, he was being sent to inspect troop formations. A task beneath him.
Lucien bowed as required, bone grinding against bone. He cursed his master in silence, knowing the thought itself was dangerous. He could not disobey. He turned and left the pavilion, each step a reminder of what he had become.
Far away, beyond the reach of the marching tide, a golden chariot hovered above the sky. Its light cut cleanly through the haze of corruption below.
At its center stood a man who radiated authority so complete it bent the space around him. To his right was an old man whose presence felt ancient beyond measure, eyes heavy with memory. To his left stood a beautiful woman with sharp, discerning eyes and an expression stripped of sentiment.
The man spoke quietly. "Allfather, are you sure this is the only way?"
The old man did not hesitate. "Yes. It has come to this."
The woman scoffed softly, arms crossed, unconvinced but silent.
The man in the chariot exhaled, accepting what he already knew. He raised his hand. Fire gathered, coiling into form. A bow of flame materialized, its shape precise and terrible. He drew the string back, and an arrow condensed between his fingers, so dense with power that reality rippled around it. The air screamed. Light fractured.
He released.
The sound was not thunder but something deeper, a rupture that split the sky. Sonic booms followed as the arrow tore across the continent, tearing through distance as if it were thin cloth. It struck the war camp in a heartbeat and drove straight through Lucien's chest.
Bone shattered. Power detonated inward.
Lucien gasped.
He woke in darkness.
Pain exploded behind his eyes, sharp and disorienting. He rolled out of bed and barely made it to the bucket before retching violently. His body shook, sweat soaking into unfamiliar sheets. When it passed, he collapsed back, breathing hard.
"What happened," he whispered.
The pain was gone.
He looked down at himself. No bones protruded from his skin. No weight of armor crushed his spine. His hands were small. Unscarred.
He was back.
Reincarnated three thousand years earlier, in the body of a child who had not yet made any bargains at all.