Sylvia planted her feet. Her sword trembled in her hands—not from fear, but from strain. Every breath burned her lungs, every step screamed for her to fall back… and she refused.
Lucifer tilted Excalibur slightly, testing its weight.
"So," he said calmly, "this is what loyalty looks like."
Holy light bled into shadow along the blade's edge.
Sylvia raised her sword anyway.
Rocky tried to move, to shout, but her back blocked his path. She didn't look at him. She didn't need to.
"I won't let you touch him," she said, voice raw but unbroken.
For the first time, Lucifer's smile faded.
Excalibur roared.
The clash was instant—steel against legend. Sylvia was hurled backward, boots carving trenches into the ground, but she did not fall. Her sword screamed as it absorbed the impact, sparks and fractured light exploding between them.
Lucifer stepped forward.
Once.
Twice.
Each step felt like judgment.
Sylvia coughed blood, forced herself upright, and raised her blade again.
Behind her, Rocky clenched his fists.
And somewhere—far deeper than pain, fear, or logic—Rush felt it.
Something snapped.
They always stand in front of something.
Lucifer had seen it across eras, worlds, cycles that burned and reset like faulty scripts. Mortals shielding mortals. Weak steel raised against inevitability. The same pose. The same defiance. The same futility.
And yet—
She is still standing.
Excalibur hummed in his grasp, responding to intent rather than motion. The blade recognized him now. No hesitation. No resistance. It knew its king.
Sylvia's stance was imperfect. Her breathing uneven. Blood stained the corner of her lips.
But her will—
Lucifer's eyes narrowed.
Annoying.
He had broken gods with less effort. Erased concepts for daring to exist beside him. Torture had always been efficient. Sylvia's screams had been… educational. Rocky's weakness had spilled from her lips eventually. They always did.
And yet Rocky had not stayed broken.
Lucifer glanced past her.
The boy was unconscious—but the air around him shifted.
A presence.
Not divine. Not demonic.
Something adaptive.
Lucifer felt it then. Not fear. Not concern.
Interest.
"So that's it," Lucifer thought.
"Not resilience. Not rage."
Imitation.
The aura emerging from Rocky was crude but alarming—copying Risha's skills not through blessing or contract, but understanding. As if his existence itself rejected limitation.
Lucifer tightened his grip.
"This changes nothing," he told himself.
He stepped forward.
Sylvia moved instantly, intercepting the blow meant to end Rocky's story. Their swords met again—hers screaming in protest, Excalibur singing in triumph.
She was pushed back.
Still standing.
Lucifer felt something he had not felt in centuries.
Pressure.
Not from her.
From behind her.
The aura around Rocky surged again—thicker now, sharper. Responding. Learning.
Lucifer's wings flared slightly, shadows stretching across the battlefield.
"So," he murmured aloud, voice low, reverent, dangerous.
"You are not a king."
He raised Excalibur, light and abyss spiraling along its edge.
"You are a problem."
And problems—
Lucifer smiled.
—were meant to be erased personally.
Lucifer raised his hand, and the battlefield answered.
The sky fractured as countless summoning gates tore open, one after another, stretching from horizon to horizon. From each rift poured monsters without end—demons, warped beasts, fallen entities that should have remained sealed forever.
The ground shook under the weight of their arrival. Some crawled, some flew, some simply appeared, already standing, already waiting.
They did not attack.
They awaited command.
Lucifer stood at the center of it all, Excalibur resting against his shoulder, its light twisted into something cruel. His expression remained calm, almost bored, as if this display required no effort at all.
"This," he said coldly, "is the difference between a summoner who survives… and one who rules."
The monsters surged forward like a living tide, swallowing the battlefield in darkness.
Lucifer's gaze swept across the battlefield, calm as ever.
"You dare stand before me?" he called, his voice carrying like steel over the endless horde. "Pathetic creatures, forged in shadow and blood… you exist only because I allow it!"
A ripple of awareness passed through the monsters. Though they were bound to him, the tone of his words struck a chord, awakening their primal instincts.
"You are weak," Lucifer continued, pacing slowly. "You stumble, you fail, you fight for scraps, and yet here you are—facing true power, your master. Do you know your purpose? No! You do not! You are expendable!"
The monsters shivered. At first, a subtle shift, barely noticeable. Then a growl, low and resonant, spreading across the horde. Eyes glowed brighter, claws dug deeper, wings beat harder.
Lucifer smiled faintly. "Yes… feel it. Anger, frustration, hunger. Let it consume you. Rage is power, and today, you will wield it for me!"
With that, the monsters surged forward, not mindless, but fueled by a new intensity. Each movement more violent, every attack sharper, more feral. The battlefield became a storm of claws, teeth, and wings, all perfectly under Lucifer's control—but now imbued with fury of their own making.
Even the air trembled. Even the stone groaned.
Lucifer's calm voice cut through the chaos. "This is your purpose. Channel it. Kill. Destroy. Serve. And do it with fire in your hearts, or die in weakness."
The horde roared as one.
The endless monsters were no longer just obedient—they were enraged, lethal, and unstoppable.
And in the center of it all, Lucifer stood, Excalibur ready, observing the chaos with the satisfaction of a true master at work.