In a dark room, someone was watching TV. On that night's program, on channel seven, the old scientist, Dr. Alberto Montalvo, adjusted his glasses as he prepared to explain the theory of the three worlds. The TV cast a soft glow across the room, highlighting the scientist's figure. With a sly grin, he strolled over to a wooden table, a whiteboard behind him.
"Picture this, my friends — the world is like a sandwich. We have the top slice of bread: the physical world, where we all live, with our worldly worries and bills to pay. And underneath, the bottom slice: the astral world, full of those mischievous creatures that love to mess with us — demons, spirits… maybe even your grumpy great-uncle you swore was in another realm."
He paused, letting the idea sink in, then carried on, gesturing with lively hands:
"Now, the filling in this sandwich is the intersection — that's where things get really interesting. When an exorcist — think of it like that special ingredient only your grandma knows how to make — approaches a demon, something magical happens. Or better yet: an intercession. Both become tangible and can interact, as if the top and bottom slices get squished right into the filling."
Dr. Montalvo grabbed a piece of chalk and began sketching on the board, illustrating his theory.
"But listen up! This connection is more fragile than a soufflé recipe. To keep it stable, the exorcist has to use all their senses: sight, hearing, and smell. It's like they're constantly sniffing, listening, and watching to balance this supernatural sandwich. Without that, the filling just spills out and the link disappears — poof! Off goes the demon back to its world, and the exorcist is left here scratching their head, wondering where they messed up."
He turned to the audience, smile even wider.
"So next time you hear a weird noise in the middle of the night, remember the theory of the three worlds. Maybe it's just a mouse… or maybe your cosmic sandwich is about to be served!"
The audience laughed and applauded as he bowed slightly, pleased with his playful, mysterious explanation. The scene slowly dissolved, leaving behind an air of curiosity and wonder.
The sound of the audience faded, replaced by the loud crunch of a snack bag being crushed.
In the darkness of the room, the girl watching TV muttered, annoyed:
"What a pain…"
She dragged herself off the couch, sprawled out in the most careless way possible. With a quick hop, she switched off the TV, the blanket wrapped around her slipping to the floor. Stepping on countless instant noodle wrappers scattered around, she spotted her Spiritual Order dismissal slip, marked with the number twenty-three.
She wore jeans so long they covered her feet, and a T-shirt with a unicorn print. The apartment was so tiny that standing up, she could easily touch the ceiling light.
Raising her arm, she pulled out her smartphone from her pocket.
On the screen, a message sent an hour ago to an anonymous contact:
"Can we meet tomorrow at the park?"
The reply had come in ten minutes earlier:
"Sure… We'll meet by the lake. I'll be with a man. A muscle-bound brute…"
She sighed, reading the message again.
"Enlightened ones…" she scoffed, shaking her head in disdain.
The phone's glow briefly lit up her face, revealing a determination burning in her eyes. There was something about her — something that didn't match the unicorn shirt or the noodle wrappers on the floor.
Something that burned inside her.
Injustice… burning through many hearts, like the feeling that gnawed at Orpheus in the underworld.
But…
In another world, far away in space and time, a portal ripped through the fabric of reality. From that pulsing vortex, Asmael emerged, his feet touching the cursed soil of the Maladomus Wastes — the realm of nightmares. Before him rose the gates of the castle belonging to the vilest of demons: one who looked like an angel, but hid a monster within.
The palace of the golden dragon, Luciel.
Built deep within the abyss, the palace gleamed with tainted gold, like rusted iron, towering over black sands like a lighthouse of corruption. All around it, fruit trees grew heavy with hypnotically glowing golden apples. Scarlet serpents, dozing among the leaves, hissed now and then, as if dreaming of the world's downfall.
There, beneath the shadow of the impossible, Asmael pressed on — and with him, the omen of war.
The demon king crossed the threshold and stepped inside the palace. A long corridor stretched out before him, lined with countless demons — all nobles — kneeling in reverence, forming a path to the grand hall.
Their voices echoed in unison, brimming with fervor:
"ALL HAIL KING ASMAEL!"
A powerful wind erupted from the great hall, rattling pillars, tapestries, and the very garments of those present. The wind roared like a living beast as he strode forward, his red hair swirling around him, his blue suit billowing like a war banner.
He stopped halfway down the corridor, standing firm. Silence fell — thick and expectant.
"My lord…" his voice broke the air, heavy with emotion. "Bezeel is locked in his prison once more! And Romero… he's alive. Our future is secure. But… I beg you!"
The demon dropped to his knees, fists pressed against the cold floor.
"Release my daughter!"
A ragged sigh escaped him, heavy, almost relieved to finally stand here — before the only one who could change everything.
"Excellent, Asmael… But…" His lord's words stirred a crushing anxiety in the demon, who clenched his fists tight. "Release your daughter?" he went on, with cruel calm. "You know… it wasn't just Bezeel's escape. She's the lover of that bastard Azaael — the one who tried to kill us both!"
The demon stayed frozen, eyes locked on the faint breath escaping his lord's lips as he rose from his golden throne. Each step echoed like blades scraping metal — a reminder that even beauty carries death.
"But…"
"I'm not done." The words cut sharp as he strode between his kneeling servants, touching their heads as if they were docile beasts. Despite his infernal nature, a celestial glow radiated from his presence — a light that blinded. "Since you've been an excellent servant and ally…" A faint smile curved his lips. "I'll give her a chance. Two weeks from now, when the Messiah spills chaos across the world… I'll send her out. And if she proves to be a good pawn… she may become my right hand!"
At that moment, he lifted his head. Before him, a figure cloaked in pure white emerged from the shadows. Blonde hair spilled over gentle, serene eyes — almost angelic.
"Thank you! My lord… you don't know how grateful I am!" Asmael gasped, overcome.
"I know," came the soft reply. "Your daughter is your diamond. And you… you've done everything for her. Servants who cherish their bonds… they're the ones I treasure most."
With a subtle gesture, Luciel cupped his chin, lifting him to his feet. Their eyes met — and in that instant, an invisible chain locked into place. The admiration he felt was like a rope, held tight in the king's hands.
Thus ruled Luciel, lord of all demons, king of kings — the one who had promised to devour the world of men and, from its ashes, raise a new reality. A perfect world…
Where only he and his lord, Alum, would hold the reins of destiny.
Poor fool… He truly believed he had everyone tied to his strings. As if, on the branches of a tree, the fruits would never drip poison…
Leaving that chamber, Asmael's lips pressed into a bitter silence. His eyes lifted to the ceiling of the Realm of Nightmares, where light could never reach — and there, where only darkness reigned, he tasted the flavor of contempt.
"I hate this!" he growled through gritted teeth, seething with rage.
And without hesitation, he vanished into a portal.