The upgraded ghouls lunged – twisted tal fusing with regenerated muscle, white-spiral eyes burning with cold intelligence. Faster. Stronger. Smarter.
Lucifer t the first with an open palm. Not a block. An embrace.
CRACK.
The ghoul’s reinforced skull imploded like rotten fruit under a hydraulic press. Bone shards and grey matter sprayed the one behind it. Before the second could react, Lucifer’s other hand shot out, fingers piercing its chestplate like wet paper. He yanked.
RRIIIPPP.
A spine, still dripping with wires and hydraulic fluid, ca free. He swung it like a whip. The third ghoul, leaping from the ceiling, was bisected mid-air. Entrails rained down.
Malakov’s smirk vanished. "Impossible..."
Lucifer didn’t stop. He flowed. A pirouette turned into a shin kick that shattered a ghoul’s knee backwards. As it fell, he stomped on its head – SPLUTCH – reducing it to paste. Two more ca from the flanks, coordinated. Claws aid for his neck, fangs for his thigh.
>
Quest: Legacy of the First Fang
Objective: Locate the Progenitor’s Lost Artifacts (1/7 Located: Crimson Grimoire)
Reward: ??? / ??? / ???
Artifacts Remaining: 7
The notification burned behind Lucifer’s eyes like embers. He didn’t need reminders. The hunger in his blood, the pull from the book Malakov clutched like a shield... it was the sa. His legacy. His power. Stolen. Perverted.
The charging ghouls were inches away.
Lucifer inhaled.
The air itself scread.
Blood erupted. Not just from the fresh corpses. From the walls. From the floor. From the shattered pipes spraying steam and rust. Every drop of spilled fluid – crimson, black, oily – answered the call. It coalesced around Lucifer in a swirling maelstrom, hardening instantly into jagged, obsidian-sharp armor plates that clamped over his forearms, shins, and torso with a sound like grinding bones.
The ghouls’ claws screeched against the blood-armor, sparks flying. Their fangs snapped on empty air as Lucifer moved through them. Not dodging. Phasing. A blur of crimson and shadow.
He reappeared behind the pair. His armored fists shot out. Not punches. Spears. Ford from solidified blood extending from his knuckles.
SHLICK! SHLICK!
Both fists punched through reinforced chests and out their backs, clutching still-beating, mutated hearts. He ripped them free, dripping black ichor, and crushed them in his grip. POP. POP. The ghouls collapsed, holes gaping where their hearts used to be.
Malakov stumbled back, his polished boots slipping on gore. He fumbled with the Crimson Grimoire. "N-No! Contain him! GHOULUS MAXIMA!" His voice cracked. He slamd his palm onto an open page.
The ground heaved. The remaining corpses, the shattered pieces, the pools of blood – they surged together. Flesh lted, bones snapped and reforged, tal scraps fused. A monstrous thing began to rise – ten feet tall, three ghoul heads screaming from a trunk-like neck, four arms ending in buzzsaw blades, legs like hydraulic pistons.
Lucifer watched it form, his blood-armor dripping. He didn’t attack. He waited. His crimson eyes fixed not on the abomination, but on the book in Malakov’s shaking hands.
The Ghoulus Maxima roared, a sound that shook dust from the ceiling. It charged, buzzsaw arms whirling, a wall of screaming death.
Lucifer finally moved. He didn’t run. He walked towards it. Fast. Unnaturally fast. His steps left afterimages.
The first buzzsaw arm swung down, capable of shearing steel. Lucifer raised his blood-armored forearm.
CLANG-SHRIEEEEK!
The saw blade sparked, shrieked, and shattered against the hardened blood. Shrapnel sprayed. Before the monster could react, Lucifer’s other hand shot forward. Not a fist. An open palm, pressed flat against the creature’s central chest.
"Enough."
His voice was low. Final.
The glyphs on his blood armor flared – ancient, complex symbols of circles within triangles, etched in burning crimson light. The sa symbols pulsed faintly on the Crimson Grimoire in Malakov’s grip, responding.
The Ghoulus Maxima froze. Its screams died in its throats. The white-spiral eyes widened, then... changed. The spirals dissolved, replaced by pure, abject terror as they reflected the burning glyphs on Lucifer’s palm. It recognized the source. The Progenitor’s touch.
Lucifer’s hand didn’t push. It sank.
Like a hot knife through rotten butter, his armored hand plunged wrist-deep into the monster’s fused chest. There was no resistance. Only the wet, tearing sound of flesh, tal, and bone parting before raw, ancestral authority. He closed his fist inside the creature.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickeningly loud. The entire Ghoulus Maxima convulsed. Its heads snapped back, mouths open in silent screams. Then, from the inside out, it began to disintegrate. Not lting. Not burning. Unraveling. Flesh turned to ash. tal rusted instantly to powder. Bone crumbled like dry chalk. In seconds, the towering abomination collapsed into a heap of grey, lifeless dust at Lucifer’s feet. No blood. No ss. Just annihilation.
Malakov stared, his face bone-white. The polished veneer was gone, replaced by raw, animal panic. He clutched the Crimson Grimoire like a lifeline, but the book was thrumming violently in his hands, the cracked red cover glowing, trying to pull towards Lucifer.
"You... you’re not just a hybrid..." Malakov whispered, his voice hoarse with terror. "What *are* you?"
Lucifer stepped over the dust pile. His blood-armor dissolved, flowing back into the puddles on the floor. He was spotless again. Only his eyes burned, twin hellfires fixed on Malakov. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The display of absolute dominion over the Grimoire’s creation was answer enough.
Malakov’s nerve broke. He wasn’t a fighter. He was a puppet master who’d just seen his strings cut. With a strangled cry, he turned and ran. Not towards an exit, but towards a dark alcove where a sleek, armored elevator door stood partially open. He dove inside, slamming his hand on the control panel.
"SEAL! SEAL NOW!" he scread into a comms unit.
The heavy doors began grinding shut.
Lucifer didn’t sprint. He appeared. One mont by the dust pile, the next directly in front of the closing elevator doors. He moved with terrifying, unhurried grace. He reached out a hand – not towards Malakov, but towards the book still clutched desperately against the Pri Minister’s chest.
The Crimson Grimoire exploded with light. Runic chains of crimson energy, thick as cables, burst from its pages, lashing out like angry serpents. They weren’t attacking Lucifer. They were binding the book to Malakov, trying to shield it, obeying Malakov’s last, panicked command to protect its wielder.
Lucifer’s fingers closed around the nearest energy chain.
HISS!
Smoke rose where flesh t pure, defensive magic. Malakov, safe behind the nearly closed doors, managed a shaky, triumphant grin. "It’s mine! You can’t—"
Lucifer’s eyes blazed *incandescent.* The glyphs on his skin flared brighter than ever, matching the ones now burning through the Grimoire’s cover from the inside. The runic chains scread. Not a sound, but a psychic shriek that vibrated the very air. The chains didn’t just snap; they shattered into fragnts of fading red light, evaporating like mist under a noon sun.
The elevator doors slamd shut with a final CLANG. Malakov was gone, whisked upwards to safety.
But the Crimson Grimoire wasn’t.
The instant the chains shattered, the book tore itself free from Malakov’s grip with supernatural force. It hovered for a split second in the air before the closing doors, pulsing with frantic, conflicted energy. Then, as if drawn by an irresistible magnet, it shot straight towards Lucifer.
He caught it one-handed.
The mont his skin touched the cracked red leather, the violent thrumming ceased. The angry glow faded. The book beca utterly still. Quiet. Almost... docile. It felt cold and impossibly heavy in his hand, not just physically, but with the weight of millennia and spilled oceans of blood. Ancient power, restless but now recognizing its true master, humd beneath the surface.
Lucifer looked down at the Grimoire. The cover felt familiar, like the echo of a heartbeat he’d always known. He traced a thumb over one of the etched runes. It ward slightly at his touch. No fanfare. No grand absorption. Just possession. Reclamation.
He looked up at the sealed elevator shaft where Malakov had fled. The scent of the man’s terror still hung in the air, sharp and sour. Lucifer’s lips didn’t curl into a snarl or a smirk. His expression remained cold, impassive. The hunt wasn’t over. It had just changed prey.
He tucked the Crimson Grimoire inside his coat, against his chest where it felt... right. The notification in his mind updated silently: Artifacts Remaining: 6.
The chamber was silent except for the dripping of pipes and the faint sizzle of the last few drops of corrupted blood evaporating from the floor. Ash and dust settled. Lucifer turned, his coat swirling around him, and walked towards the ruined exit Malakov’s ghouls had originally used, leaving the charnel house behind. The only sound was the quiet, ominous thrum of ancient power now carried close to the heart of the Progenitor’s heir. The city above, oblivious, awaited the storm.
A/N
Please I’m currently writing an exam so my work will be mid but bear with for just two weeks and I will be back fully.
Thank you 🫶🫶
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