Did he die today, yesterday, or perhaps tomorrow?
Once, he was an ordinary human. Now — the Lord of Hell who had overthrown Lucifer himself.
Thousands of years of battles, countless sacrifices, an army of the fallen… and in the end — silence.
They called him the Lord. He was glorified and feared.
But upon the ruins of victory, he remained alone. With a crown in his hands, yet utterly alone.
Thus begins — or perhaps ends — the story of a demon who dared to become human once more.
———————
In the depths of Hell, where no living thing belongs, stretched the boundless desert of Samadhi. Once barren, it was now strewn with heaps of twisted bodies, soaked in the iron stench of blood.
Only recently, these bodies had been an army of merciless devils, instilling unrestrained terror in the heart of anyone who crossed their path.
Now everything had frozen. Only time continued its funeral rite.
Amid the sea of corpses, at the epicenter of the slaughter, a lone male silhouette knelt.
Saturated with an aura of grief, he resembled a shattered statue.
A face smeared with blood and ash showed no emotion. Only a torn black mantle fluttered in the scorching wind. His lifeless gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where ranks of his fallen comrades stretched to the very edge of sight. The bodies had merged into a single dark mass, and all he could do was watch as the relentless sand formed new dunes, burying the traces of a desperate battle.
A transparent drop rolled down his dust-covered cheek.
He was known by the title "Lord." He was glorified and feared. His name alone could force devils to fall prostrate in reverence, and monsters to flee with their tails tucked.
But how did it all end?
Not long ago, his legions had marched across the desert of Samadhi. Every soldier burned with bloodlust. The savage aura of the army was ready to soar to the heavens and devour anything the enemy might throw at them. Their target was Lucifer's army — just as mighty and feral.
The Fallen Archangel had ruled Hell since the dawn of existence, the embodiment of power, an unattainable summit. No one would have dared to challenge him.
No one — except their Lord.
Only madmen followed him. They understood that survival was nearly impossible, yet they still charged into battle. A life for a life — a fair exchange. A life for two — an obvious profit.
For them, it was an honor to give their lives for the glory and ideals of their Lord.
And they gave them. They gave their bodies, their blood and sweat, their hearts and souls. They gave him everything.
And all of them fell.
Only the Lord remained fighting. Alone against countless legions. Like a whirlwind, he tore through the battlefield — fearless and merciless. Relentless, like death incarnate.
Thousands of commanders fell by his hand. Dozens of generals lost their heads. He personally overthrew Lucifer. Wrenched victory from his tenacious grasp! And as proof, he held the black serrated crown, whose sharp spikes, like fangs, bit into his skin, leaving bloody wounds.
Yes, he had achieved his goal. But at what cost?
His loyal army. His comrades-in-arms. All dead. They fought for him and his ideals — but what did they receive in return? Only burial without graves.
For three days now, the Lord had remained kneeling. He pondered: Why did I start all this? Why did I gather countless armies? Why did I send them to certain death? Why did I cling to this meaningless existence for thousands of years?
Yes, this was Hell. Yes, murder was routine here, and mercy did not exist. Existence itself here was synonymous with the words "pain," "despair," and "fear."
But… was the goal worth such sacrifices?
Lost in memories, the Lord sank into the furthest corners of his mind.
He remembered how he first appeared in Hell, still green by the standards of this merciless place. Like everyone else, he began on the first layer. He was a simple mortal. Weak. Helpless. He could never have imagined that he would one day bring all of Hell to its knees.
That time was agonizing. Back then, death seemed like a beautiful dream. He could only dream of escaping endless agony.
Every step on Hell's surface felt like walking on shattered glass. With every breath, flames burst into his lungs, inflicting unimaginable pain upon an already burned body. Thirst and hunger became his faithful companions.
And worst of all — loneliness. For a thousand miles around him, there was not a single soul.
At that time, he simply walked, not knowing how long, why, or where — only to find something, without knowing what.
He walked, sifting through fragments of happy moments from his past life. A life that had ended abruptly. Was he sinful? Perhaps. But he did not believe he deserved such suffering.
He walked, mindlessly repeating three words: "Grey," "Bella," and "Mom." Only these three names kept him from losing his sanity entirely. They became an obsessive mantra, an anchor in a sea of madness.
Endless days of pain and loneliness dulled all his senses. Driven only by instinct, he turned into a soulless puppet. Without purpose, without hope, accompanied by three names.
And then — that encounter. A strange, casual creature, furious and starving, lunged at him with the clear intent to tear him apart. Its vile dark tentacles moved like whips, and its mandible-like mouth dripped with disgusting saliva.
In that very moment, an entire firework of emotions exploded within the young Lord's soul. Fear — sharp, piercing, making blood race faster through his veins. But alongside it came something else — joy. A paradoxical, mad joy at the fact that he was no longer alone. That in this merciless world, something living still existed, even if hostile and grotesque.
That palette of contradictory emotions was so powerful that even now, after millennia of battles and struggle, the memory made the Lord tremble slightly.
For a moment, his lips curved into a faint semblance of a smile — bitter, but still a smile. It was the first emotion he allowed himself to show since the battle ended.
The memories kept spinning…
Years merged into decades, decades turned into centuries, and he was still wandering the first layer. His path became an endless chain of battles with monsters whose appearances could only be described as nightmares, products of deranged minds.
He fought and hid. Did everything to survive.
Hunger never left him for a single moment. Insatiable and burning, it forced him to tear flesh and drink the blood of enemies just to feel alive for an instant.
It was an endless journey where there was no place for mercy. Every strike, every movement was aimed at devouring, destroying, erasing all life from existence.
And so, step by step, drop by drop, the inexperienced youth vanished. In his place, something else was born — a ruthless, cold killer, already worthy of the title Lord.
His body became covered in scars. His eyes, once innocent and full of life, now burned with red fire, revealing his inner essence — the essence of a predator.
In this world, ruled by darkness, death, and pain, there was no place for the weak. Only the strongest survived, and he became the embodiment of that principle. He was ready for anything to sate his insatiable desires, knowing neither fatigue nor mercy.
He finally turned into a predator, consumed by thirst for blood and flesh. He became part of this world, part of Hell and its endless struggle.
This predator desperately repeated:
"GREY, BELLA, MOM"
"Mommy, Grey, Bella"
"Bella, mother, Grey"
"Grey — mom"
"Grey — Bella"
"GREY, GREY, GREY, GREY, GREY, GREY"
And then, after years of wandering, he met another sentient being — just as lost as he himself was.
A humanoid nearly three meters tall. Horns on its head, scales on its limbs. It moved slowly, but every step shook the ground beneath it. Monotonously, stubbornly, it repeated "Pallok," just as he himself muttered "GREY, BELLA, MOM."
This strange call-and-response of pain awakened a spark in his exhausted mind. Inside, beneath layers of rage, pain, and hunger, something long forgotten stirred. He stopped.
Eyes blazing red narrowed — not from anger, but from attention. He watched — for the first time in centuries, simply watched instead of lunging.
Instinct demanded: tear apart, drink blood, absorb strength. But another, quiet shadow inside whispered: wait.
Their gazes met — two flames of madness, two fading memories of what they once had been: human.
At last, unable to restrain his bloodlust, he leapt at the creature. His teeth darted toward the opponent's throat, yet there was something strange in the attack — an almost childish playfulness, a glimmer of curiosity he had not known for an eternity. He did not want to kill immediately. He wanted to understand.
The creature growled, catching his body in massive arms. Dust and fragments of bone flew up around them.
"Grey?" — the rasp escaped almost instinctively, like an echo of pain with no meaning for the one who heard it.
The creature's eyes flashed in response:
"Pallok."
A blow. Another. Their movements were sharp, hungry, bestial — but without hatred. Rather, a desperate attempt to prove to themselves that they were still alive.
The young Lord's needle-like teeth closed on the opponent's shoulder:
"Mom?" — he rasped, loosening his grip for a moment.
"PALLOK!" — thundered in response, almost like a defensive cry.
The Lord recoiled, jerking as if remembering himself.
"Bella…"
"PALLOK, PALLOK, PALLOK!!!" — the creature screamed wildly.
The clash resumed, but now differently. Slower. Rough shoves, attempts to hold rather than kill. As if two beings who had long forgotten what society meant were relearning it. In their battle, something new was born — a glimmer of recognition, an echo of a long-forgotten sense of connection.
After a long struggle, when strength abandoned them both, they lay side by side, breathing heavily and endlessly repeating now four words.
Again and again. Two words. Four names. Two sparks of memory.
Thus began the shared journey of two "highly evolved" predators. They ceased to be mere beasts. They took the first step back — toward themselves, toward humanity.
And that step led them to power. Year after year, century after century, they fought side by side — shoulder to shoulder, claw to claw, name to name. Their names spread throughout all of Hell. They were feared. They were revered.
However, every path has an end.
Now, amid the dead winds of the desert of Samadhi, stood the Lord, holding the crown of absolute dominion over this cursed world. Alone…
He slowly rose from his knees. Silence throbbed in his temples. His legs felt heavy, as if filled with lead, each step echoing with pain — not in his body, but in his heart.
Before him lay Pallok.
His faithful friend, his first general, his instrument of destruction.
The very one who had once spoken his name, awakening him from madness. The one who was there. The one who walked with him to the end.
Pallok's appearance resembled a statue of an ancient demon: dark skin the color of charred iron, a back cut through with massive bone spikes, growths along his arms and chest like frozen drops of lava. But the giant lay dead.
The Lord knelt beside him, gently touching the rough, scaly skin. His forehead pressed against the giant's cold brow.
"Farewell, my first general. Farewell, my friend… Farewell, Pallok…" — his voice trembled. Each word came with effort, — "Rest in peace. I hope that where you have gone, there is no more pain."
The Lord felt his resolve waver. A part of him wanted to remain here, to mourn the fallen, to sink into grief and regret. But another part — selfish and merciless, the one that had carried him through thousands of years of suffering — persistently whispered:
'Do not stumble.'
'Do not look back.'
'Keep moving.'
'You chose your path. And you must not regret it. Death is not an option for us. The opportunity presented itself. You had to seize it. Grab it with both hands and keep moving.'
'We have no time for regrets or mourning. You always knew that the road to our goal was paved with mountains of corpses and sacrifices.'
'We are almost there. Only one last step remains!'
The Lord turned away. His gaze regained its firmness. He knew he had to move forward. He simply could not yield when his goal was so close.
Placing the bloodstained crown upon his head, he turned, preparing to place the final punctuation mark on his journey. He picked up the dagger and the katana, whose blades were now covered in cracks and abrasions from the battle.
For a moment, he paused over Lucifer's mutilated body. Then, without words, without emotion, he shifted his weight and slowly crushed the face beneath his heel. The sand accepted the blood, as it had countless times before.
The Lord crossed several dunes. The scorching wind lifted dust around him, but his stride remained steady.
Here, in the midst of dead sands, grew a tree the size of a bonsai. A thick trunk, desiccated yet alive. Branches like flames reached upward, glowing from within with a warm amber fire. It clearly did not belong in the grim setting of Samadhi.
Its presence shattered the very logic of Hell, like a bone piercing through skin.
The Tree of Reincarnation. A tree that sprouted from phoenix flame. A tree that managed to grow the Fruit of Life in the Realm of Death.
In one word — a contradiction.
Its sparse green leaves seemed almost illusory, like mirages above hot sand. They trembled in the dead wind, as if trying to cling to a world that rejected their existence.
On the highest branch swayed a single fruit — plum-sized, smooth, glowing with a soft golden radiance from within. A barely perceptible aroma emanated from it, warm and LIVING, a single breath of which made demonic hearts beat faster.
All of Hell trembled because of this fruit. It destroyed millions. It became the cause of Lucifer's fall.
The fruit was not the goal — it was the key. And it had reached full maturity.
The Lord raised his hand. The broken katana cracked in his fingers as he drew it across the branch. One smooth motion — and the coveted fruit fell into his palm.
His fingers trembled. His voice broke, turning hoarse with excitement and insatiable greed:
"Bella, Mom, I don't know what will happen next. I did everything I could! I entrust everything else to fate. I hope I will be able to meet you again…"
Then his voice changed once more, becoming ringing, filled with authority and power:
"By the authority granted to me by the Biblical Hell. I, GREY, known as the Lord, the current full rightful owner of dimension 169 563 271 458, hereby declare my immediate resignation and depart for reincarnation!"
The black crown flared with brilliant light. The entire dimension trembled.
Without hesitation, the Lord greedily swallowed the fruit.
With one decisive motion, he plunged the broken katana into his heart, and the dagger between his eyes. And… in the blink of an eye, he vanished from the blood-soaked desert, leaving only the echo of his final word, carrying across the boundless Samadhi.