The candles had burned low in the Church of Leonidus, their wax pooling like small moons on marble. The corridors carried the smell of oil, sweat, and cum—an odor that clung to the walls as if faith itself had a new scent.
Aiden stepped out of the dormitory chamber, his robes clinging to his body. The air was heavy, damp with heat and incense.
The week had been long—seven days since he had taken his new name before the altar, seven days since he had bent knee before the god he did not believe in.
Seven days since he became Lucifer.
He exhaled, feeling the ache of exhaustion deep in his bones. The Church had demanded everything—sermons, blessings, rituals, endless prayers—and yet he gave it willingly. Or perhaps not willingly. Strategically.
His mission was complete. Not the one the system whispered to him—the one only he could hear—but the mission he had crafted for himself.
