Lilith stood at the edge of the crater, her gaze somber and unblinking as she took in the sight before her. There was her friend, her once lively, irreverent, and magnetic companion, Lervea—now reduced to silence as she sat alone, clutching that medallion as if it held the fragments of her very soul. The crater was vast and desolate, a scar carved deep into the fabric of hell itself, with fissures emanating outward, each crack filled with a dim, flickering light that pulsed like the final gasps of life lost here. It was this very same crater where her children had been lost. The ashen winds whipped around them, thick with a bitterness that stung her senses, while swirls of black and grey hellfire twisted in ghostly tendrils above, casting eerie, fractured shadows that crawled over the scorched ground.
Lervea's sixteen-meter figure was stark against this backdrop, her silhouette sharp, a broken but unyielding shard in this hellscape. She held the medallion close, her fingers wrapped so tightly around it that Lilith imagined it might splinter into pieces from sheer force. It was the same one she'd always kept on her—a simple, yet beautiful emblem that had endured countless ages by Lervea's side. Lilith knew it as well as she knew her friend's laugh, her reckless grin, and the warmth she would always feel in her presence. The Lervea of old had been vibrant, mischievous, and far from the cold, godlike figure many revered or feared. She'd had her faults—she was boisterous, sarcastic, sometimes outright rude. But to Lilith, she'd also been deeply endearing. Their bond had been something rare, something not easily understood by those outside it. And though that closeness felt like a memory from another life, Lilith knew that the feeling was still there, pulsing quietly beneath layers of pain and time.
Lilith's gaze drifted upwards, where the hellfire clouds swirled and churned, their thick billows shifting between shades of obsidian and slate, woven through with veins of dull crimson. Jarati floated above in lazy arcs, their spectral forms flickering in and out as if they too were unsure of whether to remain in this darkened realm. The four-winged spiders drifted through the ashen haze, their iridescent carapaces catching fragments of purple light that broke through the clouds. Their delicate, glass-like shells seemed ethereal against the dreary landscape, a small but vibrant glimpse of beauty amid the devastation. Lilith watched as one spider flitted near Lervea, its wings creating a soft hum, before it drifted away, sensing the despair radiating from her friend like heat from a dying fire.
And then, a strangled cough broke the silence. Lilith's head snapped back to Lervea as her friend doubled over, expelling a torrent of black and gold blood that splattered across the ground, staining the dark soil with shimmering streaks. Lilith's eyes widened, shock flooding her as she rushed forward. In all the years she'd known Lervea, she had never seen her like this. The sight of that rich, metallic blood was an anomaly—a twisted, surreal picture of something that was supposed to be invincible now showing signs of weakness.
"Lervea!" she cried, appearing beside her friend, her eyes alight with a mixture of worry and disbelief. "What's wrong with you? I know for a fact you weren't injured by the realm artifact, so then…why?"
Her gaze traveled downward, and she felt her breath catch as she saw the cracks spider-webbing across Lervea's chest. It was as if her friend's very skin had transformed into fragile porcelain, and someone had taken a hammer to it, leaving deep fissures that leaked blood. Lilith stared, her mind racing. Lervea's four eyes—once so filled with warmth or humor in their private moments—now met hers with that same disconcerting, bestial indifference, even as her own body betrayed her.
And then, without a word, as effortlessly as a shadow slipping into darkness, Lervea disappeared.
Lilith's outstretched hand fell, empty, as she let out a small sigh of frustration. It was just like her—vanishing as soon as things grew vulnerable, slipping into the vastness of hell or the folds of time as if she could evade reality itself. That was the thing about Lervea. She could be injured, torn down, beaten—but she never deteriorated. Other cultivators dealt with lingering scars, with sequelae that left their bodies weaker, their spirits strained. Not Lervea. Once she survived the initial trauma, she would emerge whole, her body renewing as if even the concept of damage couldn't lay a claim on her. She'd come out of it pristine, unburdened, as if nothing could leave a mark on her existence. Well at least eventually, but the injuries never got worse than they did when she first got them.
Lilith's thoughts drifted, memories flooding in with sharp clarity. A younger Lervea flashed in her mind—a Lervea with that mischievous grin, one who would laugh and tease, who would wrap her arm around Lilith's shoulders and laugh at the universe itself, as if she could bend it to her will. She recalled the times Lervea would appear at her doorstep unannounced, a bottle of hell's finest in one hand, and some toy or object in the other, daring Lilith to join her in another reckless escapade. Or the times they lived together rolling around in the bed and having fun and playing games.
But there had been one exception—a moment Lilith had thought was long buried.
______________
Lilith stretched luxuriously under the silken sheets, feeling the numen-infused fabric pulse gently, washing over her with warmth and comfort. The blankets, crafted by Paimon, her close friend and a skilled artisan from the Circle of Lust, held an almost spellbinding quality. Each thread was imbued with numen that seemed to resonate with her soul, offering a sensation both calming and invigorating, like a heartbeat of gentle fire tracing along her skin. Paimon, half-spider and known throughout the circles for her impeccable fashion, was a young yet highly influential figure, the head of her own corporation—a feat in Hell's cutthroat society. But despite her grand status, her connection with Lilith remained genuine, and Lilith treasured the comforts her friend's craft brought her.
As she rolled over, she collided with another form nestled close beside her, a figure as stunning as her own if not even more so. Lervea lay there, still half-lost in sleep, her silver hair spilling across the pillow, shimmering with black at the edges like shadows seeping into moonlight. Her figure was forged in strength and femininity, both powerful and soft in a paradox that Lilith found endlessly fascinating. Lervea's curves were ample, yet her form wasn't excessively made for allure alone; there was a grounded, formidable presence to her, as if her body was as unyielding as the mountains themselves. Her skin, beneath Lilith's fingers, had an unusual texture, something between flesh and polished stone—flexible yet somehow resilient. And her wings, oh, those wings—they caught the faint morning light filtering through the silk-draped windows, scattering rainbow patterns across the dimly lit room. Meanwhile, her tail, dark and absorbing all light, curled in a languid arc around her, ending near her hips in a way that drew Lilith's eye without fail. That tail, especially when it rested just so, hugging her curves, seemed almost to radiate gravity, tugging at Lilith's gaze like a silent demand.
"Hmmm, you're awake?" Lervea's voice came as a soft, sleepy murmur, her eyes cracking open with a hint of that timeless, sharp intelligence Lilith found both familiar and endlessly alluring.
"Mmm… maybe," Lilith replied, voice low as she watched Lervea rise from the bed, allowing Lilith an unobstructed view of her in all her glory. Her muscles moved beneath her skin with a quiet power, a strength tempered by an undeniable elegance. Lilith's gaze lingered, her appreciation verging on adoration as she took in the contrast of Lervea's hair, her skin, her aura—a being of opposites, of light and shadow, a paradox made perfect in flesh.
Lervea's lips quirked in amusement as she glanced back over her shoulder, meeting Lilith's stare with a playful lilt in her voice. "Lilith, you do know I can see you, right?"
Lilith felt her cheeks heat, a rare blush. "How exactly?" she replied with a small huff, covering her embarrassment. "You don't have eyes on the back of your head, and you're not using any technique. How in the seven Hells do four front-facing eyes give you a 360-degree view?" She stood, slipping out from under the covers, and sidled up behind Lervea, wrapping her arms around her waist.
Lervea laughed, a rich, melodious sound, as she twisted to look at Lilith, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "It's just the way it works, nothing more, nothing less. Though I seem to remember last night you liked certain…aspects of my vision quite a lot," she teased, her voice soft and intimate. She shot Lilith a roguish grin that held no small amount of wicked satisfaction. "Let's just say I can… see exactly where I'm needed."
"Oh, Satan, I can't with you," Lilith muttered, rolling her eyes and detaching herself with a smirk as she turned away. She barely made it a step before Lervea's hands slipped around her waist, lifting her effortlessly. She couldn't hold back the small thrill that ran down her spine as Lervea's soft breath tickled her ear.
"Why so prickly, Lilith?" Lervea murmured, her voice a playful purr. "You are always like this you only get soft when it's right before, during, or after we've had our way with one another. It's almost adorable."
Lilith tried to wriggle free, feeling the intensity of her own emotions surge—a demon of Pride didn't simply submit. Her life, her status, her every action was a controlled performance of strength and poise. And yet, sometimes, especially with Lervea, she found a curious enjoyment in letting herself be vulnerable, in allowing the walls she'd so carefully crafted to slip, if only a little. But she'd never admit that to Lervea, who seemed all too aware of it anyway.
Managing to slip from her grasp with an almost theatrical huff, she turned back to face her friend, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. "Why do you keep changing your size?" Lilith asked, genuinely curious. "When we met a couple thousand years ago, you were about five meters tall, and now you're steadily getting taller. You like being this big all the time?"
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"Changing my size?" Lervea's eyes widened, and a puzzled expression crossed her face before she chuckled, realization dawning. "Oh, you mean me growing. No, this is just… me, I guess." She shrugged, utterly nonchalant.
Lilith's eyes narrowed as her mind raced. "Wait, are you one of those races that grow endlessly over time, like a lobster?" she pressed, her curiosity piqued.
Lervea laughed, waving off the idea with a dismissive hand. "Oh no, we cap out eventually. It's nothing like that," she replied with an almost casual indifference. But Lilith's mind seized on the revelation, her thoughts whirling as something monumental clicked into place.
"Lervea…" Her voice grew urgent, her eyes fixed on her friend. "How old are you?"
Lervea blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then, as if realizing something, she pressed a hand to her forehead, feigning exaggerated offense. "Lilith! Have you never learned that it's rude to ask a woman her age?" she teased, her tone light and airy.
But Lilith wasn't in the mood for jest. "No, I'm serious, Lervea," she said, her voice dropping to a low, intense tone that left no room for mischief.
Lervea tilted her head thoughtfully before finally giving in. "Alright, alright. Let's see… I think I'm somewhere over a million years old by now. Actually, Lilith, you're older than me!" She flashed her a grin, as if that fact were as ordinary as the sunrise.
But Lilith couldn't hide her astonishment. Her mind reeled. In all of creation, life was finite until one reached the ninth layer of cultivation, where existence and lifespan became intertwined with power. Only then could a being's natural lifespan be disregarded, extending indefinitely. It was known as the Rule of Nines, a natural limit in their world. Similar to the nine shackles and the nine stacks of wards and the nine meridian grades. But before that, lifespans varied drastically. Darkling demons, her own people, boasted an unusually long natural lifespan of around 30,000 years without cultivating—a point of pride, as theirs was one of the longest known. Deluvian dragons and Lumines, beings of pure energy, each lived roughly 200,000 years even without cultivation. And yet, here stood Lervea, over a million years old, still growing, still vibrant, as if age held no dominion over her at all. The reason Lilith could be considered a younger demon was because she evolved fast enough to keep her youth alongside her cultivation level. She was technically considered a teen in her current body even though she was nearly two million years old. Even though two million years was beyond base darkling lifespan.
Lilith's mind whirled with implications. There was simply no way she could be so young and so powerful without cultivation, and certainly not still physically maturing. For beings with souls, biological immortality was impossible without cultivation; eventually, even the sturdiest soul would wither. And yet here was Lervea, not only possessing a soul but thriving in defiance of all known limits. Which meant…
"You… You're still not fully grown," Lilith murmured, her voice thick with awe as her thoughts clicked into place. It was inconceivable. Was she some sort of experiment? There was no way no one had ever heard of the Tyrannius before!
As the soft, early light filtered through the intricately woven silken curtains, casting a delicate, warm glow across the room. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering over the rare ornaments and treasures Lilith had collected—crystals from the Abyssal Sea, chalices encrusted with flame-forged rubies, and old scrolls with ancient demonic scripts that had long since faded. The room was a careful mixture of luxury and power, an extension of her pride, her dominion. Yet here, in this quiet morning light, her gaze wasn't on her possessions but on Lervea, whose presence seemed to eclipse everything else.
"Lervea, where do you come from, actually?" Lilith asked, her tone soft yet edged with a curiosity she rarely allowed herself to voice. Their friendship had been filled with unspoken understandings, a delicate dance of respecting boundaries, especially where the mysteries of their pasts were concerned. But today, that curiosity bloomed into words, coaxed by the knowledge Lervea had allowed her.
Her friend tilted her head, expression thoughtful as she contemplated the question. "In relation to here?" Her voice, usually so light-hearted, softened with a hint of melancholy. "To tell you the truth, I have no idea." The admission hung in the air, simple yet profound, and Lilith felt an unexpected ache bloom in her chest, imagining Lervea, who had always seemed larger than life, wandering through existence without any real sense of origin.
As Lervea moved, her gaze fell to a small bundle of clothes on the floor. They'd been discarded hastily the night before, their passion too urgent to spare much attention to details. She bent down to retrieve her medallion, delicately unwrapping it from the fabric. The medallion, its surface dark and glossy like polished obsidian, seemed to pulse faintly in the light. It was a symbol Lervea never parted with, worn close to her at all times. The polished edges and intricate carvings of a man a beast and a universe were reminiscent of some ancient craft Lilith couldn't place, though she suspected it held a significance beyond what she could see. While the symbols themselves were nothing to extraordinary something could be said for it's durability.
As Lervea leaned down, her form stretching with her movement, Lilith's eyes caught something that shouldn't have been there—a faint scar on her side, a thin, silvery line that marred her otherwise flawless skin. The mark wasn't there a moment ago; she was certain of it. And more than that, she recognized it.
The memory surged up from deep within her mind—the first time she'd met Lervea, who had, at the time, taken the form of a peculiar six-legged bunny. They'd shared an unusual encounter, and Lilith had noticed a scratch on the creature's side, and she had fed it a pill and the bunny or Lervea instinctively healed it. That same scratch, that oddly shaped scar… it was right there, etched faintly into Lervea's skin.
"Lervea?!" The alarm in Lilith's voice broke the stillness of the morning. "What happened to you? You've never scarred before. And this scar—it wasn't there before." She reached out, fingers hovering close to the mark, drawn by both concern and a strange fascination. But just before she could make contact, Lervea's hand shot out, capturing her wrist in a gentle yet firm grip.
"Please… don't touch that," Lervea murmured, her voice thick with a vulnerability Lilith had never heard before. Her eyes softened, almost haunted, and her fingers clenched around the medallion as though holding onto it for strength. "It's not the same as the others. It's… difficult to explain, and I don't want to talk about it. It isn't about you—it's just… it's not something casual to speak about, okay?"
Lilith's hand fell away, a quiet understanding settling between them. She noticed how tightly Lervea clung to the medallion, her fingers whitening under the pressure. Whatever this scar meant, it was tied to something far deeper than a mere wound, something that rattled even the steadfast Lervea.
"…Okay," Lilith whispered, the single word carrying a weight of unspoken support and slight shame. But no sooner had she spoken it than Lervea's demeanor shifted, the intensity melting away as a playful grin broke across her face. She leapt forward, catching Lilith off guard, and smothered her with a flurry of kisses, her laughter bright and carefree.
"It's fine, it's fine! I'm sorry for getting so serious," she laughed, her lips grazing Lilith's cheeks, her forehead, her jaw, in a playful barrage of affection. The sudden shift had Lilith giggling, half-heartedly attempting to push her away, but Lervea only held her closer, glomping her as if to erase the solemnity of the moment with sheer joy.
"Lervea!" Lilith gasped between laughs, her initial shock giving way to warmth as she surrendered to her friend's embrace. But as her laughter subsided, she couldn't help but glance back at the scar. And to her surprise, it was gone, as though it had never been there in the first place. The skin was smooth, unmarked, and flawless, with no trace of the blemish she'd seen only moments before.
___________
Lilith stood atop her palace balcony, her gaze sweeping across the vast, ever-twisting realm of Hell below. Shadows danced beneath the dim, throbbing lights that hung like cursed stars, casting an eerie, otherworldly glow over the chaotic landscape. Demons of every form and size scurried below, some caught in labor, others indulging in endless feasts, a few locked in combat as old as time itself. Their powers flared briefly, then faded, barely leaving an imprint on the vastness of Hell.
Palaces sprawled in every direction, extravagant monuments to ambition and desire, rising like towers of vanity. Crimson and gold banners rippled in the heat, shimmering illusions of wealth and power that were, in the end, hollow. It was a world of constant change and yet eternal stagnation. Opulent halls filled with nothing but emptiness; alliances forged only to be broken; promises turned to ash long before they could be fulfilled.
Lilith's gaze lingered on the gilded towers, the gardens of flame and ash, the rivers of molten metal that wound like veins through the hellish domain. Her thoughts drifted to the countless beings here, trapped by their own ambitions, their endless cycles of love and hatred, of betrayal and war. Demons forged in the fires of Hell, each one fierce and unyielding, yet bound by invisible chains, cursed to live out the same twisted stories over and over again. Was even she twisted by them?
A bitter taste filled her mouth as the weight of it all settled within her, a strange, weary ache that only seemed to grow the longer she watched. Hell was alive, pulsing with an energy all its own, yet it was a life marked by emptiness, by power without purpose. Here, even the grandest dreams felt small, swallowed by the vast expanse of suffering and chaos.
And all she could say, as her gaze traced the burning horizon, was a quiet question that felt as old as Hell itself, a question cast into the darkened air with a sigh.
"Satan, is it worth it?"