Samael wanders through the flaming corridors of hell, his chains clanking against the cracked stone floor, echoing like an eternal lament. The air is thick with sulfur and distant screams, a familiar atmosphere that soothes him in his infernal monotony. He absorbs the surrounding chaos, but something makes him stop abruptly—an anomaly, light as a cool breeze amidst the oppressive heat.
There, materializing in an unstable portal, a child emerges. No more than ten years old, with large, innocent eyes, dressed in simple clothes soiled with mortal earth. She looks around, confused, without the terror that usually accompanies condemned souls.
Samael extends a claw, not to touch her, but to probe deeper into the child's aura, tracing invisible patterns in the air that reveal fragments of her final journey. Images flash through his mind: a circle of flickering candles in a dark forest, chants murmured by hooded figures, and the cold glint of a sacrificial blade.
The child, bound and confused, her cry muffled by the ritual that sent her here prematurely. It was a sacrifice—the only way an innocent soul could be dragged to hell, forced through cosmic barriers by black magic and evil intentions. But even so, it was unusual; such rituals rarely worked without consequences, and pure souls like this one tended to be claimed by higher powers before reaching the abyss.
His eyes narrow, the emptiness in his chest now mingled with a dull rage—not for the child, but for the audacity of the mortals who dared to interfere with the balance.
"A ritual... of course. Someone in the world above offered you as currency in a foolish bargain."
The child blinks again, tears beginning to well up in their eyes as they recall flashes of terror.
"I... I remember people singing. They said it was for a god or something. But I just wanted to go home."
Samael growls softly, the chains on his body agitating as if alive, responding to his growing irritation.
"Idiotic mortals, always thinking they can bargain with darkness without paying the price. Your sacrifice brought you here, but your purity... it doesn't belong here. That's an insult."
He pauses, his curiosity now tempered with a decision. The demon knows he must act—investigate those responsible, perhaps even claim those corrupted souls for himself. But for now, the child remains there, an anomaly that could be the key to something greater, something that would fill his void in unpredictable ways.
The other Kytons notice the child and approach to claim her. The clinking of Samael's chains ceased abruptly. The air, previously heavy with the Kytons' aggression, suddenly became dense, laden with the scent of funereal flowers and the weight of an ancient authority.
From the deepest shadows, where fire dares not burn, Lilith emerges. Her beauty is a sharp knife, and her eyes carry the knowledge of ages before the fall.
The Kytons, who had previously defied Samael, immediately prostrate themselves, their chains dragging on the ground in a sign of submission.
Samael feels the weight on his own shoulders. As his superior and progenitor of many secrets of the abyss, Lilith's will is a law he cannot simply break with brute force.
Lilith stops a few steps away, looking at the child with a cold, elegant curiosity. The contrast is absolute: the sovereign of hell and the fragment of mortal innocence.
Lilith: "Samael," (she says, and her voice is like silk on wounded skin.) "I sense a conflict in your chains. They cry out for order, but your eyes... your eyes seek something that does not exist here."
He takes a step back, but does not move completely away from the child. His hands are clenched, the metal of his gauntlets creaking.
Samael: "Lady. This soul was brought here by a mortal error. A ritualistic sacrifice that violated the boundaries."
Lilith: (She tilts her head, a faint smile playing on her lips) "The universe is made of mistakes, my servant. But this 'little light' in my kingdom... she is irritating. Like a grain of sand in a perfect eye."
She extends a long, pale finger toward the child. The girl, paralyzed by Lilith's terrifying magnetism, cannot even cry.
Lilith: "The Kytons want her for the feast of pain," (Lilith continues, her eyes turning to Samael with an intensity that makes him falter) "And you, it seems, wish to be her guardian. Tell me, Samael... why should I allow such an anomaly to remain untouched under my dominion? What is this soul worth to you that justifies defying the nature of this place?"
Samael is in an impossible position. Openly disobeying Lilith could mean his own dismantling or a punishment that would make the child's suffering seem like mercy. However, the emptiness in his chest, for a brief moment, was filled by that strange indignation. Then, he does the unthinkable.
The Kytons move in unison around him, as if a single invisible current were pulling them now. The same cruel instinct, the same hook-and-pull dance they always used against their victims, now reflected back on their original creator. Samael doesn't fight their style. He is their style—only older, sharper, more personal.
He extends his right arm in a dry, almost casual movement. One of his spectral chains materializes coiled around his forearm, exactly like the ones the Kytons carry on their shoulders and wrists. The tip ends in a flaming hook, dripping embers that evaporate before touching the cracked ground.
The first Kyton reacts instinctively: it throws its own chain toward Samael, a perfect arc of living iron.
Samael doesn't dodge. He just pulls—the same gesture the demon would make. His spectral hook intercepts the enemy current in mid-air, catching it with a metallic snap that echoes like a broken bell. Then he twists his wrist and pulls forcefully.
The Kyton is ripped from the ground, flying straight toward Samael like a puppet with its strings cut and tied to another hand. Mid-flight, Samael spins his body in a movement identical to that used by Kytons to whip their prey: shoulders down, hips twisted, force concentrated at the tip of the hook.
He strikes the demon with the sheer weight of the stolen chain, a downward impact that buries it in the obsidian floor, cracking it into a spiderweb. Chains crumble into black dust. Another Kyton advances down the left flank—the very same flank they always exploit against cornered prey.
Samael doesn't look; he doesn't need to. He simply repeats the movement he's seen thousands of times: left hand open, palm facing outward. A burst of concentrated infernal flames explodes in a short, precise fan—Fireball—amplified to explode on a large scale. The attack obliterates five of the combatants. One of the Kyton retreats, but Samael is already moving.
The air of Hell vibrates with the clanking of chains. He is alone now, standing between the boy and the advancing chaos. The remaining Kytons—half a dozen of them, fresh scars of molten iron marking their twisted forms—circle like hyenas around a solitary prey. Lilith hovers in the background, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and contained fury, her hand still raised as if conducting a symphony of pain.
The child—little Elara—grasps the edge of Samael's black coat, her tiny fingers trembling, but without crying. He looks up at her, with eyes that carry more weight than any soul should. *Why you?*, her silence seems to ask. Samael doesn't answer. He can't. All that remains is the emptiness in his chest, now filled by a determination that burns like the fire he conjures.
"Kill the traitor," Lilith orders, her voice soft as torn silk. "But leave the boy to me."
The Kytons attack in unison, chains whipping the air like living serpents. Two advance from the front, hooks spinning in arcs identical to those Samael would use. He doesn't wait for the impact; he extends his left arm in a dry gesture, palm open. A burst of infernal flames explodes in a short fan—*Flaming Hands* concentrated, golden and black, fueled by the remnants of his fallen grace. The attackers' chains melt in mid-air, dripping molten metal that burns the ground. The demons scream, recoiling with smoking extremities.
But the flanks don't stop. A Kyton emerges from the right, its chain thrown like a noose to ensnare Samael's neck. Its chains emerge from its back, and it uses them to ensnare the chains of another Kyton about to make the same move.
Samael: "Get over here!" (Samael growls, pulling violently.)
Kyton is dragged along, stumbling over its own chains. Samael spins his body in a fluid motion, the kind demons use to drag souls: shoulders down, hips twisted. He lands an upward kick to the enemy's chin, sending it flying against another approaching Kyton. The two collide in a tangle of iron and flesh, rolling across the cracked ground.
Lilith laughs softly, but the sound is now forced, like cracking glass.
Lilith: "For the child?" (she taunts, taking a step forward, the aura of divine malevolence pulsing like a black heart) "How pathetic. You, the Poison of God, reduced to the guardian of an insignificant spark."
Samael ignores the words. He raises his right hand, unleashing a beam of condensed air—*Gust of wind*, invisible but solid, deflecting a chain flying toward the girl. The enemy's hook ricochets with a metallic clang.
He counterattacks instantly: another spectral hook thrown, catching the leg of a distant Kyton, a sharp tug. The demon is knocked down, dragged across the floor like a broken doll to Samael's feet, where a downward stomp crushes its iron mask.
Three remain. They hesitate now, circling more slowly, chains clinking cautiously. Samael feels the weariness—not physical, but of the soul, the price of spells woven from a power that is no longer entirely his. The child squeezes his hand, a light touch that burns more than any flame. "Everything for the child," echoes in his mind, like an oath.
Lilith raises both hands. The air around her distorts, shadows condensing into sharp shapes—not simple spells, but the essence of hell responding to her will. She advances, the Kytons moving with her like extensions of her body.
Lilith: "You fight like them," (she says, almost whispering.) "But I created them. I created you."
Samael smiles—thin, bitter, joyless. He wraps the spectral chain around his forearm, preparing for the next pull. Alone against all, yes. But for her—for the light he doesn't deserve, but won't let go—he will fight until the whole of hell breaks.
And he advances once more, hook raised, ready to pull the whole world if necessary. His escape wasn't easy. He used every trace of his infernal heritage to survive; he arrived on the material plane marked, not only by battle scars, but by the choice he made. His chains, once symbols of his race's pride, were broken; Samael was now without his weapon, without his defining characteristic… Samael feels relieved, but when he realizes this, he thinks to himself:
Samael: (laughing to himself) that I'm beginning to understand the feelings of mortals? But... the child he fought so hard to protect couldn't withstand the return to the mortal world; without a body to return to, she was beginning to die again. Samael began to grieve, a feeling he had only seen in the souls he tortured.
In a moment of pity, to prevent the child from returning to Hell and being hunted by the other Kytons, he absorbed the child's soul, uniting her being with his own. Now, she was another spark that kept him alive, but Samael was not happy about it.
Now, Samael walked the mortal world, an exile from Hell. His new human appearance, his new memories, and the scent of evil that surrounded him were constant reminders of who he was. He projects his Torture Haunting to inflict pain on those who harm the innocent. He is a Kyton Demon, yes, but a broken one, an exile who found his humanity in an attempt to defend something greater.
He still needed allies. Ultimately, a threat far greater than Lilith's fury loomed over the mortal world. He felt it... it was stirring.
Samael: That feeling... it's trying to get out. I need to find those two again! That damned demon and that stupid cat. And I know where to look...