Light offered no comfort anymore. Instead, it gnawed at her without respite.

  The sky of the underrealm had become a persistent wound that reopened with each moment. Suns flickered unevenly, each burst dimming, their coronas curling inward like petals consumed by frost. A thin, acrid fire stained the heavens, reminiscent of spoiled milk left out in the sun. Angels—those few still soaring—hovered between moments of light, shedding crystalline feathers that shattered before hitting the ground. Each fragment rang once, a silent, unanswered prayer, before dissolving into nothing.

  Fitran moved through this chaos.

  In this space, she felt weightless. The ground—if it could be called ground—swayed beneath her boots like molten glass, unsure whether to bear her or let her fall into the abyss. The collapse of the Dominion had left only echoes: a broken memory of a world that had forgotten who it was. Mountains of charred gold crumbled in on themselves. Rivers of clear flame flowed backward, twisting into the sky. Each pulse of the sky inhaled light and exhaled darkness.

  As she raised her hand, motes of light rushed toward her palm—small, frantic, desperate for acknowledgment. They touched her skin before flinching away, retreating until they disappeared completely.

  “I see you,” she managed, her voice rough from lack of use. The words sliced through the air sharply. “But I don’t trust you.”

  The motes scattered like fleeting whispers of forgotten dreams. Light turned to mist, then the mist faded into a painful void. The horizon shrank, each inch feeling as if the universe itself sought to seal a wound that would never truly mend.

  Above, the sun emitted a piercing cry—not a sound, but a presence. It flared brightly, imploded into a chaotic black hole, then ignited again, each cycle becoming tighter and faster, like the heartbeat of a world in pain. Fitran observed it through the crimson haze of her eyes, feeling the old wound in her chest throb in response, the haunting melody of Beelzebub’s hymn still echoing against her ribs.

  So this was the cost of survival. Not just darkness, but a universe trapped in its own bright obsession.

  He could almost taste it, a bitter tang on his tongue: the essence of divinity turned bad. The once-fertile metaphysical landscape had become predatory, with ethereal vines consuming their own roots. Stars devoured the images that shone in their light. Soon, the brightness would finish its cruel performance, turning against whatever remnants still existed.

  He continued walking, resolute. Each step left a fleeting mark—bridges of sharp light that vanished behind him, leaving no evidence. His cloak absorbed the remnants, weaving soft voidscript along its hem before the letters disappeared.

  A whisper followed him, gentle at first, then sharp enough to cut through the air.

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  “Do you see what your endless desire has created, voidborn?”

  He stopped, frozen in place.

  The horizon cracked open. Light gathered, folded, and emerged into view.

  She was breathtaking—not hideous, but impossibly flawless, almost painful to look at. Her skin shone like polished marble. Her eyes refracted light into a spectrum beyond human comprehension. Wings formed from bent light moved with the precision of a surgeon's knife.

  Lucifer.

  She studied him as an architect would examine an old foundation.

  “You have unmade hunger,” she declared, her voice moving through the light, causing it to resonate. “Thus, this world has learned to consume brilliance instead. Do you understand the rift you’ve created?”

  Fitran’s expression remained as unyielding as stone. “Everything I touch was already broken long before I arrived.”

  Lucifer tilted her head—exactly seventeen degrees, as if divinity were measured with tools. “Yet, you continue in your attempts to mend it. Your emptiness seems to believe healing comes from erasure.” Her eyes blazed; the ground beneath them splintered into sharp angles of light. “Tell me, voidwright—do you long for perfection?”

  He exhaled slowly. The air seemed to bend inward, drawn by the weight of his breath. “What I desire is silence. The universe won’t cease its noise.”

  The sky above them trembled as if their words quickened its destruction. Lucifer looked up. The light radiating from her grew sharper, its edges keen enough to cut through shadows.

  The light began to move—not away from her, but closer. It flowed like blood through unseen veins, enveloping her until the sky faded into bruised gold. The horizon shook, like a creature acknowledging its restraints.

  Fitran recalled Beelzebub's final whisper, the heat in her ear: Every desire culminates in the first light.

  At that time, she didn't believe it. But now, conviction approached her.

  Lucifer's wings fully spread. Each feather of her photon wings split the sky into shards that hung in the air, reflecting thousands of images of Fitran—some bloodless, some blazing with gold, all with empty eyes.

  “Welcome, child of darkness,” she said, her voice almost gentle. “Welcome to the Feast of Light.”

  The world trembled intensely. Every star, every pulse of light turned inward, funneling into the space between them. Fitran reached for Excalibur—but it was gone. Only its shadow remained, faintly etched on her wrist in lines of glowing script. She looked down. The glyph spelled her name in a language older than words.

  Lucifer stepped forward. Beneath her feet, the glass plate shattered, forming a path created with each of her steps. She was not walking toward Fitran. She was inscribing her own presence.

  Fitran's voice lowered to a whisper. “Is this your beauty?”

  Lucifer's laughter was low, melodic, yet terrifying. “No. This is what comes after beauty—an assault on it.”

  She raised her hand. The ocean of light responded, vibrating at the edge of command.

  Fitran understood in that moment. This war was no longer about darkness against light. It was about consumption against reflection. The light that devoured and the emptiness that refused to be fed.

  As she arched her fingers, she felt the glyph on her arm pulse once, like a second heartbeat. Within the wound left by Beelzebub, the Nine Bellies quivered—calm, patient, waiting for the next feast.

  Lucifer's eyes narrowed, capturing the change. “You still believe you can refuse this banquet.”

  “I have rejected every feast served to me,” Fitran replied. “Hunger is the only thing left that is honest.”

  The light surged, and she embraced it with the emptiness coiling in her chest—not as a weapon, but as a mirror. The light crashed in, flowing into the wound, and for a fleeting moment that seemed impossible, the underworld paused.

  Then, the screaming began in earnest.