The air was electric.
Lightning coiled at Lucifer's feet, dancing like snakes made of light. The black sword vibrated in his grip—not violently, but with a steady, pulsing hum. It was alive. It responded to his heartbeat. It knew his rage. His pain. His choice.
The soldiers encircling the square stood frozen. Some stared in awe. Others in terror.The jeers were gone. The laughter had died. All that remained was silence—heavy, suffocating.
Lucifer's voice echoed again, low and sharp:
"Leave."
One of the guards stepped back instinctively.
"Wh-who are you…?" another stammered.
Lucifer didn't answer.
His gaze swept over them—piercing, glowing. Then he raised the sword.
For a brief second, the sky itself seemed to hesitate.
Then he moved.
The blade sliced through the rain like a whisper. One swing. Two. Three.
The first man didn't even realize his chest had been opened until he fell. The second crumpled as his spear snapped in half—along with his arm. The third managed to raise a shield, only for it to melt into ash the moment the black edge touched it.
It wasn't just strength.
It was unreason—a distortion of natural law. The blade didn't cut flesh. It devoured it.As if reality itself bent around the sword's will.
The rest of the guards fled.
Lucifer stood in the center of the ruined square, chest heaving.Blood dripped from the blade, but not a drop stained his skin.
Then the voice returned—calm, familiar, cruel:
"Well done… You've tasted what it means to take."
"Now… let's see what was lost."
Lucifer staggered. His knees buckled, and he caught himself with the sword.
Images flickered behind his eyes. Faces. Blurred. Laughing. Crying. A woman with a warm smile. A man's hand patting his head.
And then—gone.
All of it.
He clutched his skull, eyes wide.
"No… what was that… who—?"
But there was no answer.Because the memory was no longer his.It had been traded. Consumed.
And the sword pulsed gently in his hand… as if satisfied.
His breaths grew ragged. The power was overwhelming—but so was the emptiness.
Lucifer forced himself to stand. There was no time to mourn. Not yet.
Alarms rang out in the distance. More guards were coming. The capital wouldn't let a cursed one escape twice.
He looked up at the rain. Then at the street beyond the execution ground.
"I need to move."
He fled into the alleys—barefoot, bleeding, sword in hand.
The city twisted around him like a nightmare. Every corner threatened a patrol. Every rooftop carried shadows.
He kept moving, slipping through market streets now deserted by the storm.No one dared open their doors. The people of the inner city had learned not to involve themselves with the Empire's prey.
A shadow moved ahead. Two guards.They hadn't seen him yet.
Lucifer gripped the sword tighter. The blade whispered.
"Give me their names. Their voices. Let me silence them."
"No," he muttered aloud. "No more trading."
Instead, he ducked into a side path, breathing heavily.
Pain lanced through his chest. His left shoulder was dislocated. He couldn't feel the fingers on his right hand anymore.
But he kept running.
Somewhere in the slums, he collapsed behind a broken wall. His breathing was shallow. The sword rested beside him, its glow fading slowly, as if sleeping.
For the first time, Lucifer allowed himself to think.
He had survived.Killed.Traded away a piece of himself.
And now… he was free.
But what did that mean?
Was he still himself?
Footsteps approached.
Lucifer's eyes snapped open.
A figure was crouching nearby, holding a cloth bundle and a small torch.
She looked young—perhaps fifteen or sixteen—wrapped in a tattered cloak. Mud smeared across her cheek. Her eyes were sharp, cautious.
"You're bleeding," she said simply.
Lucifer didn't respond.
"You're the cursed one, right? The one who lived."
Still nothing.
She knelt and unwrapped her cloth. Inside were bandages, herbs, and a cracked jar of salve.
"I won't ask who you are. Don't care. But you'll die if that shoulder's not fixed."
Lucifer's hand moved slightly toward the sword.
"Relax. I'm not stupid enough to attack someone holding a weapon like that."
She reached forward—slowly—and touched his arm.
Lucifer flinched, but let her work.
"Name's Meira," she said softly. "I live in the shadows. Help people when I can."
Lucifer looked at her, eyes narrowing.
"Why?"
"Because no one else does."
She tightened the last bandage and leaned back.
"You've got that look," she added. "The kind that says you've already lost something important."
Lucifer turned his gaze away.
"It was… my family. I think."
"You think?"
He nodded slowly.The memory was already a haze. Just shapes. Sounds. Warmth… all fading.
Meira didn't press him further.
"Where will you go?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Then come with me. For now."
Lucifer didn't answer. But he didn't refuse either.
The storm outside began to quiet.
In the shadows of the crumbling district, two souls—one cursed, one broken—sat side by side, while the sword beside them pulsed… ever so faintly.