I lay naked on the crimson moon, laughing like a lunatic, fingers tangled in my white hair as I stared into a horizon that never ended.
There was no reason for my laughter.
Then again—does anything truly need one?
After my mother and I devoured each other, the boundaries of self collapsed. Her memories bled into mine. Mine into hers. Pain became shared, multiplied, meaningless.
But one thing was clear.
She didn't want to exist anymore.
She didn't want to be remembered.
That was why I was here.
"So this is why you wanted to die," I murmured, smiling darkly.
This place—
My mother barely understood it. Her mind had long stopped separating reality from nightmare. But she had a name for it.
The Paradox of Corruption.
A place where the laws of gods, men, and physics unraveled.
A place that felt more real than reality ever did.
I imagined a cigarette.
It appeared.
I imagined a lighter.
Fire bloomed.
Terrifyingly beautiful.
Then I felt it.
An ancient presence—rotted, familiar, honest in its decay. The lord of this paradox. Wherever it moved, the crimson rock beneath me blackened, dissolved, vanished—absorbed.
Strangely, I felt relieved.
As if I had crawled out of it once.
Or it had crawled out of me.
I inhaled deeply.
"Come out," I said. "I could use the company."
Footsteps echoed behind me. Slow. Certain.
"Didn't I once tell you smoking doesn't suit you?"
My mother's voice.
Not hers.
"Bit tasteless to wear her face," I said calmly. "I just devoured her. Or do you want to be next?"
Soft laughter. It sat beside me.
When I looked—
My mother smiled back.
I sighed.
It conjured another cigarette, lit it, took a drag, then passed it to me.
"So?" it asked. "How was it?"
"Lovely," I said honestly.
"You two really are identical," it replied. "In all the wrong ways."
"Drop the face," I muttered. "It's disgusting."
The image cracked.
Black light spilled out—suffocating, absolute—until the face dissolved completely.
What remained wasn't a body.
It was absence.
A void shaped like a grin.
"So you knew," it said, amused.
"I guessed," I replied. "Whatever's been rotting inside me had to be you."
It tilted its head.
"You're not curious?"
"I already know what you are," I said. "What I don't know is why."
It opened its palm. Darkness condensed into a small doll—beautiful, hollow.
"I wasn't created," it said. "I was demanded."
The doll smiled.
"Lilith was a vessel. You know that."
"I won't be your puppet," I said quietly. "Your last one died creating me."
It smirked.
"Harsh. I wasn't the one who begged for corruption. That was her."
The stars above us turned to ash.
"I want an ally," it continued. "Someone who hates this world enough to finish what I started. Heaven. Hell. The mortal realm. Rot them all."
I laughed—broken, sharp.
"And why wouldn't you betray me?"
It watched me carefully.
"Because I am every wish to be free from God's hand," it said.
"And you are what happens when that wish survives."
The doll dissolved.
"You're not my tool, Sammail," it said. "You're what comes after me."
It offered its hand.
Hatred flooded me—not just mine.
The world's.
I took it.
"Someone has to suffer," I said. "And cause suffering."
The moon beneath us turned black.
"Do you accept me?" it asked.
"I do," I said. "But help me cure Sylphia."
"Done."
I hesitated.
"One more thing," I added. "Did my mother and Jester ever—"
The paradox shattered with laughter.
"I'll tell you next time," it said.
"Son of Lilith. And mine."
For reasons I didn't understand—
That didn't feel cold.