Hell was never meant to be saved.
That was the belief carved into its foundations, whispered by angels and screamed by demons. Hell existed to burn, to rot, to consume itself until nothing remained but ash and laughter. Anyone who believed otherwise was either naïve or already dead.
Aurelian stood at the edge of the Gluttony Ring's highest spire and watched the city breathe.
Below him, Hell pulsed in layers—light stacked atop shadow, indulgence masking desperation, excess hiding fear. Clubs throbbed with sound and color, streets overflowed with demons chasing pleasure hard enough to forget the Extermination that loomed over every year like a blade suspended by faith alone.
The city looked alive.
Aurelian knew better.
Hell was always on the verge of collapse. It simply learned how to postpone it.
He rested one hand against the railing, posture relaxed, eyes steady. He didn't dress like royalty. No crowns. No symbols. Power that announced itself invited resistance. Power that hid survived.
From this height, he could see trade routes intersecting like veins, gang territories forming unstable borders, and the subtle quiet that followed his influence. Deals delayed. Wars avoided. Entire districts spared from becoming battlegrounds.
None of it bore his name.
That was intentional.
"Aurelian."
The voice behind him was warm, rich, carrying the weight of indulgence and authority without effort.
He turned as Beelzebub, Queen of Gluttony, stepped onto the spire balcony. Gold accents gleamed against her form, her presence filling the space like a feast no one could refuse. Where others bowed or trembled, Aurelian simply inclined his head slightly.
"Bee," he greeted.
She joined him at the railing, eyes sweeping over the city with familiarity that came from ruling it. "You always choose the quiet places," she said. "Even when the party's right behind you."
"The party doesn't need me," Aurelian replied. "This does."
Bee smiled, something proud flickering beneath the teasing. "You've been stabilizing the southern districts again."
"Preventing collapse," he corrected. "There's a difference."
She laughed softly. "You were like this even as a child. Watching, calculating. Never hungry for more—just for balance."
Balance.
The word lingered.
Beelzebub had raised him since infancy. She never pretended he was ordinary, but she never forced him to become something monstrous either. In a Ring defined by excess, she taught him restraint. In a court of indulgence, she taught him patience.
She taught him how Hell really worked.
What she never asked—what no one dared to ask—was where he came from.
The truth was dangerous.
Aurelian was born from a union that Hell itself would reject if exposed. Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell. Roo, an entity whispered about in fragmented myths and half-buried fear. Their child was never meant to exist openly.
Lucifer had known that.
And so, when threats gathered, when Heaven's eyes sharpened and Hell's balance trembled, he made a choice that cost him his son.
Aurelian was given away.
Hidden.
Saved.
"Extermination preparations are accelerating," Bee said, her tone shifting. "Heaven's nervous. They don't like how quiet things have been."
"They mistake order for defiance," Aurelian replied. "It's a common flaw."
Bee studied him sidelong. "You're still serious about stopping it."
"Yes."
Not defying Heaven.
Not attacking.
Stopping it.
The Extermination wasn't justice—it was maintenance. Crude, destructive maintenance that only ensured Hell remained unstable. Each purge bred more desperation, more extremism, more violence.
Aurelian believed something radical.
Hell could be governed.
"If Heaven believes Hell can't control itself," he continued, "then we give them proof. Stability. Structure. Accountability."
Bee whistled. "You're talking about peace."
"I'm talking about survival."
Before she could respond, a subtle ripple passed through the sigils embedded along the spire. Aurelian's attention sharpened as information unfolded in silence.
Unauthorized angelic construct.
Pride Ring.
Near a low-level mercenary office.
Bee groaned. "Let me guess. I.M.P.?"
"Yes."
"And something worse?"
"Yes."
Minutes later, the alley was chaos barely restrained.
Blitzø was shouting. Moxxie was panicking. Millie was mid-fight, enjoying herself. The angelic construct loomed over them—cold, precise, designed not for combat but for erasure.
And standing in front of the team was Loona.
Her stance was defensive, teeth bared, eyes locked on the threat. Fear flickered beneath her anger, but she didn't retreat. She never did.
Aurelian stepped into the alley.
The construct reacted instantly—then froze.
Ancient authority overrode divine command. Sigils unraveled. The machine collapsed into ash without a sound.
Silence followed.
Blitzø stared. "Okay. Who the hell are you?"
Loona turned slowly, eyes narrowed, ready to attack if necessary.
Aurelian met her gaze evenly.
He didn't see a guard dog.
He saw someone used to standing alone.
"Someone making sure this city doesn't tear itself apart tonight," he said calmly.
Loona scoffed, arms crossed. "Great. Another guy with a savior complex."
"Hardly," he replied. "Just a preference for fewer bodies."
Something in his tone—quiet, sincere—made her hesitate.
Far away, in a towering palace of stone and expectation, Octavia Goetia sat alone on a balcony, staring into the same crimson sky. She didn't know why, but the silence tonight felt different—like the city was holding its breath.
Aurelian didn't know it yet, but the threads of his life were beginning to tighten.
Between Hell and Heaven.
Between power and compassion.
Between two souls who understood loneliness far too well.
And somewhere above it all, Heaven was beginning to notice something unsettling.
Hell was changing.
And it wasn't screaming while it did.