A young boy, thin with tousled strands of hair, stood upright on an old wooden bench. He lifted his gaze toward a sunless sky—a pale, hollow vault, a broken promise that, nonetheless, was the only thing he had ever known to love: a false heaven.
He liked to gaze at the landscape from this spot—an open, clear glade on a frozen mountain.
In the distance, he saw a desolate, ice-bound forest; beyond it, a city glittered like a dark, somber, and cold crown.
A freezing breath slipped through his brown locks; the youth clenched his teeth as a fierce shiver crept up his nape.
He plunged a hand into his bag and pulled out a pale, white apple, its shape carved by ice—so transparent you could easily make out its seeds.
Munch
He sank his teeth into the apple, biting and savoring the bitter, strange flavor of the rare fruit.
–That's strong…!– he exclaimed.
As he continued eating, he thought how fortunate he was: at last he could stop eating that revolting, tasteless fare that had sustained him throughout his miserable life.
He had lived the best week of his life, indulging in luxuries he hadn't even dared dream of in his filthy existence.
He rose from the rough, cold bench, felt his feet sink into the thick snow, slid a hand into his pocket, and pulled out a letter—one he had read a hundred times.
"Dear inhabitant of the Averno:
We need your body at the front tomorrow. Report before 8:00 PM or your soul will be claimed."
"That request is… stupid, now that I'm just beginning to live the good life," he thought.
The Averno—a frozen world inhabited by demons—was suffering from extreme overpopulation. The economy was booming thanks to their hard work, the very effort that had built this beautiful civilization—but that same effort threatened to bring about its destruction.
A year ago, a mysterious golden letter had arrived at the Demon King's bedside. Its fine paper shimmered with its own inner light. Despite its beauty, it carried only ill tidings: Heaven had decided to harvest the filthy souls of the Averno—after all, they were demons, and any hard work, any effort, even their gold, was unclean.
On December 31st of the 20th century in the human calendar, one hundred angels would descend to slaughter every inhabitant of the Averno, one by one.
The government had no choice but to inform the populace. From that moment on, the Demon King fell into a deep depression, despairing, and tried every unconventional measure to halt the coming extermination.
But after an exhaustive search, every attempt failed, and the government was forced to raise a vast army—even so, they were only delaying the inevitable. The angels were too powerful; their near‑indestructible bodies rendered them immune to demon‑forged weapons. The demons lacked the technology to win.
Name: Luck
Skills: [Bad Omen] [Luck]
Magic Level: 87
Soul: Red
–As always, this thing is crap,– he muttered, eyeing the transparent menu with contempt, hoping for something new—but it remained unchanged.
Everyone had a status—a culmination of their being—but even among demons, his rank was lower than that of an average human.
The only thing that had kept him alive so far was his Luck skill.
"A worthless wretch who steals to stake his life on an insignificant talent—that's me," he thought.
"Hahaha! Since when have I despised myself so… directly?" he thought, wryly.
Luck couldn't help clenching his knuckles in frustration. He was nothing more than cannon fodder for the coming war, and he knew it.
He brushed the snow from his clothes and descended the mountain. The peaks were sharp as canine teeth, but he was used to climbing up and down here.
Soon he arrived at a forest encampment, where a huge crowd stood in line to enter. Luck pulled a red ticket from his pouch—it bore the number 999.
–Last in line, as expected from the only human here,– a blue demon joked. Luck ignored him.
To his left lay the frozen woods; to his right yawned a massive, bottomless canyon—so deep he didn't dare imagine what would happen if he fell. In front of him, demons sat on the snow, some asleep, all waiting their turn to receive equipment.
He lay down beside the others, trying to sleep despite the snow, but…
–NUMBER 999! NUMBER 999!– an imp screamed, his face twisted in rage.
–Shit, they won't even let me sleep?– Luck muttered.
The imp dropped his microphone, and a beam of magic swirled around him. With a snap of his fingers, he transported Luck before a tall, burly figure: Thanatos, the new squad leader. His white mustache and glinting scars exuded authority, and his sword was as wide as a thigh.
Before he knew it, Luck was dressed in a red military uniform, a knife at his side.
"Is… this the best you can give me?" he thought, surveying his meager gear.
–Welcome, scum of the Averno!– Thanatos thundered.
His presence silenced the jests and chatter. Luck stifled a laugh as Thanatos continued:
–If Hell dies, at least we will die with honor. Train your bodies, steel your wills, for at the first strike, everything will change!–
The crowd roared in approval. Luck rested his palm on his knife's hilt—his only weapon.
A demon beside him whimpered:
–What if we die like idiots? My daughters are waiting for me…–
His voice trembled.
"Your daughters… I have nothing left to lose," Luck thought, feeling cold sweat trickle down his back.
–At dawn tomorrow, we will crawl before the angelic host and fight like wild beasts! If we fall, we fall fighting!– Thanatos declared, raising his sword like a banner.
The demons raised their weapons and roared. Luck squinted as the clash of steel and magic shattered the air around him.
A pang of fear pierced his throat as an imp broke through the crowd toward him.
–You! The human who sold me that broken rod?– it snarled.
Luck swallowed. The memory of the con hit him like a punch. He needed the coin for his bread. With a swift motion, he drew his knife.
–Sorry, old friend… but today's not a good day for business.–
In an instant, the imp unleashed a spell—a cone of frozen flame erupted from its hands. Luck dove aside, rolling through the snow as the wind stung his face.
His legs trembled, but he sprang up in two bounds. He wove through the crowd, merging with a group chanting war cries. Every second counted; a single blast would turn him to ash.
He stumbled and fell, plunging into the snow; the imp was lost in the tumult.
He felt the cold metal of his knife against his palm. A flash of white light split the sky: the angels were descending, their wings carving silhouettes through the frozen mist. Luck clenched his fist around his blade.
Pandemonium erupted: demons fleeing, spells crashing, cries and groans echoing. Luck panted.
"This is madness," he thought. "I have to do something… I don't want to die here…"
A nearby demon fell to a lance of holy light. Scarlet blood stained the snow, dripping like sins the earth could not cleanse. Instinctively, Luck crouched, knife raised.
But before he could strike, a figure emerged at his side: a tall man in bronze armor, his gaze serene.
–Come with me… I'll get you out of here if you trust me,– he whispered.
Luck looked up, bewildered. Yet the chaos roared behind him. He inhaled, measured the risk, and nodded.
Together they plunged into the fray, each step carrying them away from the mountain clearing and deeper into the tide of demons and celestial light. Luck felt the tremor of his Luck skill—a promise of escape, or at least another chance.
A blow thundered into his side, and he went to his knees. The man held him steady. Luck groaned, fist tightening around his knife.
"I will survive," he vowed.
An angel's wing brushed his shoulder, lifting him off the ground in a blinding glare. He felt the world slip away as his lungs surrendered to the violence.
–Do not be afraid.–
The extermination had begun.