Flashback — 13 Years Earlier | Hell
The sky bled ash. Red clouds churned like infected wounds over the jagged horizon, flickering with heat lightning and distant firestorms. Smoke wound through the air like snakes, crawling between scorched stone and bone-littered plains. The smell of sulfur and burning rot soaked the air, sharp enough to sear the throat with every breath.
Kael stood alone at the edge of a dead battlefield.
He was smaller back then—his frame lean, wiry, and untested. Barely more than a child by Hell's standards. His eyes still held a glint of something unbroken, something searching. But his hands… they were already stained.
Blood coated his claws. Thick. Warm. Fresh.
Around him lay the corpses of lesser demons, their twisted bodies sprawled like discarded dolls. Some had been ripped open. Others crushed. Most had looks of disbelief frozen on their faces—slaughtered by something that didn't look old enough to fight, let alone win.
Kael's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. His whole body trembled—not from fear, but the aftershock of brutality. His knuckles ached. His claws twitched. Each movement made him wince, not just from exhaustion, but from the growing ache of his own injuries.
He hadn't fully learned to regenerate yet. The wounds were healing, but slowly. His ribs burned. His shoulders throbbed.
And yet, he was still standing.
A roar echoed across the canyon, deep and guttural—too resonant to be anything lesser. Kael turned toward the sound slowly. A shadow shifted in the distance, just beyond the smoke. Heavy footfalls cracked the crust of the earth. Something massive was approaching.
Something old.
Something angry.
He should've run.
He didn't.
Instead, he knelt and picked up a jagged shard of stone, sharp and black with dried blood. Without hesitation, he drew it across his forearm. The skin split open easily. Pain shot up his limb. His blood hissed as it hit the air, reacting with the cursed atmosphere like acid.
He watched it for a moment. His breath slowed.
"Heal slower this time," he whispered to himself.
He was learning. Training himself. Forcing control where there was none. Every drop of blood was a test.
The demon arrived.
It stepped from the smoke like a walking nightmare—eight feet of muscle, horns jagged like broken swords, teeth long enough to pierce through armor. Its skin was cracked obsidian, its eyes like dying embers.
Kael didn't blink.
He charged first.
The demon roared and lunged. It was fast—far faster than it should've been—but Kael was already inside its reach, sliding low beneath a clawed swipe. His elbow drove into the beast's gut, followed by a hook that cracked its jaw sideways. It stumbled, howling.
Kael didn't stop.
He leapt, claws digging into its chest, biting deep. The demon flailed, slamming him into a rock, hard enough to snap bone—but Kael held on.
A claw tore across his chest, peeling skin and muscle.
He screamed—but didn't fall.
Instead, he bit into the demon's throat, tearing free a chunk of flesh. Black blood sprayed the ground. The beast tried to roar again, but it choked on its own voice.
Kael dropped down, spun low, and drove his claws into its knee. The leg buckled. The demon collapsed, writhing in agony.
It didn't last long after that.
By the time it stopped moving, Kael stood over it—trembling, panting, soaked in blood that wasn't his. His hands twitched. His body steamed in the heat.
And then… slowly, his wounds began to close.
His flesh stitched itself back together, bones snapping into place.
It hurt like hell.
But he stood through it.
He stared at the demon's corpse for a long time.
Then, without a word, he began dragging the bodies away—clearing the field. Not out of pity. Not respect. He knew the scavengers in Hell—knew what came when the vultures caught a scent.
He didn't want noise.
He wanted sleep.
He buried the bodies.
That night, he laid his head against the cooling carcass of the demon he'd killed and whispered one truth to himself:
"I will not die here."
And in the distance, Hell roared on.
Present Day – Late Summer | Beachfront
Waves lapped the shore in slow, lazy rhythm. Children laughed in the distance. Music played from a tinny radio. The sky stretched wide and cloudless above the coast.
Michael sat barefoot in a plastic chair, his toes buried in warm sand.
He didn't look like a killer. Or a demon. Just a man watching the ocean, a duffel bag beside him, his black hoodie hanging over the back of the seat.
He stared out toward the horizon, eyes narrowed.
The waves kept rolling.
A breeze brushed his face, and with it, a memory—of smoke, and claws, and blood-soaked stone.
Michael muttered to himself, "It's time."
He stood.
Later That Night – City Street
The building ahead was all polished glass and steel columns, clean and towering above the quiet sidewalk. Streetlamps hummed. Traffic whispered by in the distance.
Michael stood beneath the glow of a lamp, phone pressed to his ear.
"I'm here," he said.
A voice crackled back through the speaker—distant, familiar.
But Michael's attention was already on the doors ahead.
Another chapter was beginning.
And this time… he would write it his way.