Ereshka is dying.
The goddess of love.
Ruler of the underworld.
My mistress.
All because she lost the one thing she cherished more than worship, more than fear, more than dominion itself.
Love.
Who would have thought a goddess could be so fragile?
The hierarchy knows. They always do. Power attracts vultures, and weakness turns them rabid. Devils of rank, ancient fiends, and self-acclaimed gods already whisper her name like an inheritance. They gather in shadows, counting favors, sharpening contracts.
Pathetic.
In this universe, everyone is an enemy. Some simply smile longer before they strike.
Her servants are mostly succubi, with a handful of incubi bound beneath them. Creatures of desire, of hunger, of beautiful ruin. And among them, I stand at the top, not by ambition, but by survival.
I am their leader.
I would love to succeed her. Anyone would. But I am not foolish enough to pretend I could hold that throne. To sit there would be to invite annihilation from every corner of existence. Too many rivals. Too many liars wearing the title of god like stolen jewelry.
No. Power without protection is a death sentence.
Worse matters loom ahead.
When Ereshka dies, we will lose everything.
A servant without a master is currency. Property. Meat.
We will be sold, bound, traded through soul contracts that strip identity until only function remains. Best case? Servitude beneath a devil who sees us as tools. Worst case? Eternal experimentation, torment without end.
There is no mercy in transition.
To lose one's master is to lose one's name.
As succubi, we offer desire. Intimacy. Pleasure that burns hotter than reason. But desire is never free. We drain souls instinctively, unintentionally—leaving the weak smiling and empty.
At least they die happy.
Stronger beings last longer. Devils can endure for days. Some even boast about surviving beneath us, as if it were conquest instead of luck.
None of that will matter once she is gone.
We can do nothing but await our fate.
I sit atop the one-hundred-foot statue of Ereshka, carved in obsidian and bone, positioned at her right hand. The only place I am permitted to be. From here, the underworld spreads endlessly beneath me.
The sky bleeds.
Not metaphorically. The clouds have thinned into torn crimson veils, and light seeps through them like open wounds. The air grows dense, heavy enough to press against the lungs. Every breath feels borrowed.
The light is fading.
One would expect portals to rip open by now, demons flooding in, celebrating the collapse of order. But even now, even weakened, Ereshka could still erase a city with a thought.
Even dying, she remains a goddess.
The call comes without sound.
I feel it in my bones.
I rise and descend from the statue, my steps echoing through the vast hall of devotion. Succubi avert their gazes as I pass. Some bow. Some weep openly. Others stare with naked fear.
They know what this summons means.
Ereshka's chambers lie beyond the oldest gates—doors etched with symbols predating language. They open for me alone.
Inside, the air is warm, heavy with incense and something sweeter. Grief, perhaps. Or memory.
The room is ancient. Walls carved from obsidian and ivory, veined with gold that pulses faintly, like a failing heart. The throne at its center is cracked.
Ereshka stands before it.
She looks smaller.
Not diminished, never that, but thinner, as if part of her has already stepped beyond this world. Her crown rests crookedly upon her head.
I kneel.
She approaches slowly, each step deliberate, regal even in decay.
"You have always stood at my right hand," she says softly. "Not because you were the strongest… but because you remembered how to love without demanding it."
My throat tightens. I do not speak.
She cups my face.
Her hands are warm. Still real.
"Do not mourn me yet," she whispers.
Then she pulls me close.
The kiss is sudden.
Not hunger. Not desire.
Finality.
Power surges through me...ancient, overwhelming. Something presses into my abdomen, sinking beneath skin and bone alike. I gasp as warmth blooms, spreading, rooting itself inside me.
I swallow reflexively, instinct screaming that something irrevocable has just occurred.
I do not know what she has given me.
Only that it is alive.
Ereshka smiles.
"Live," she whispers.
Her body dissolves not violently, but gently, unraveling into motes of dim crimson light. Each fragment carries a whisper I cannot fully hear, only feel.
Then the throne shatters.
The underworld screams.
The sky tears open.Thousands of Portals rip into existence across the horizon, jagged wounds spilling smoke, fire, and hunger. Ancient chains snap. Seals collapse. Bells begin to toll—deep, infernal alarms that have not rung in millennia.
The balance is gone.
I stagger to my feet, clutching my abdomen as the warmth intensifies—not pain, but insistence. Whatever she placed within me is binding, weaving itself into my soul.
It is not meant to be removed.
It is meant to be carried.
Eyes turn toward me.
Calculating. Hungry.
I look once more at the empty throne.
"I will remember you," I murmur.
Then I run.
I almost make it.
A binding sigil detonates beneath my feet, flaring blue-black. Chains of authority—not iron, but law—coil around my limbs and slam me to the ground.
Devils emerge from a portal above, armored and severe. One steps forward, eyes glowing with sanctified cruelty.
"A succubus," he says coldly. "Leader, no less."
"You're late," I reply, blood on my teeth. "You missed the funeral."
They do not strike me.
They bind me.
"There's something off about this one".
They take me to the lower abyss, labs carved into stone where creatures are catalogued, broken, repurposed. Sigils burn into my skin, suppressing regeneration. My clothes tear during the struggle, fabric hanging loose, skin exposed to cold air and colder gazes.
The guard assigned to me is lesser. Obedient. Cruel.
"Hey handsome, it's dark in here, I am in need of a companion."
"Succubi always cry eventually," he sneers, leaning close.
I tilt my head.
"I was hoping you'd come closer."
When he does, I reach into his chest and pull.
His soul tears free like wet parchment.
He dies smiling.
Power floods me.
The sigils burn away.
I rise.
I do not walk out.
I destroy the lab.
The surrounding are lit with luminous light, besides me are lab equipments with some sort of liquid, one if which i recognized as dark nectar__ a liquid being tested for regeneration, "something flammable" as I said to my self. I take one if the torches and lit up the nectar, fling it across the lab, slowly but surely it must spread.
Next I damage the structures, starting from the pillars. The seed inside me has somehow heightened my senses and enhanced my strength and regeneration.
Using my bare fist, I knock one down, the ceilings trembles, there are 5 pillars in total.
By the fourth one everything starts to collapse.
Walls rupture. Crystals explode. Alarms scream. As I flee, the ceiling collapses and a black sandstorm rolls in, burning wind, falling stone, screaming sky.
"Holy...." I gasp, then laugh breathlessly. "Of course."
I dive beneath the ribcage of some colossal, long-dead thing as the storm rages overhead.
Alone.
Finally.
I press a trembling hand to my abdomen.
"I will not be owned," I whisper.
"Not by devils. Not by gods."
Something inside me answers.
Far above, the Infinite Stairway shifts.
And the hunt begins.