Chapter Text
The smell of wet earth hung heavy in the air, and the faint breeze did not stir the red-horned demon. An unnatural silence pressed against him, something unsettling and unfamiliar. Sword's world had always been alive with laughter and cheer, yet now only the reluctant crunch of his footsteps broke the stillness.
Before him lay the headstone. Its freshly carved letters spelled out a familiar name that blurred through his tears: "Rocket." The name he'd call out everyday.
"Rocket, that's your gear, right? Nice to meet you! C'mon, let's go out and play!"
"Rocket! Dad told me he was going to be out for a while, so I can hang out at your house for the whole next week!
"Rocket! Guess what? I picked up some new techniques for that move—want to practice some combos?"
"Rocket, one of these days you're going to get caught if you keep sneaking out to see me!"
"Rocket!"
"..."
Tears fell like blood from an open wound, streaming down his face and then splattering onto the black, downturned wings resting on his head.
Sword had always known this day would come, the day that he would stand over the grave of the one who had always been by his side. Yet, no foresight had braced him for this moment. He failed to savor their moments together, and now the weight of regret pressed upon his heart. Petty arguments that he wished he could take back fought against treasured memories that he held on to like fragile threads.
It was cruel to possess eternal youth, while every friend he had ever made fell victim to time's relentless march. At least when his brother died, Rocket had been there to share his grief, to help guide him through the sorrow. But now, even he was gone.
Sword should have found solace in his father's presence, a constant through each and every painful farewell. Yet he felt contempt instead, his anger aimed at the one who should have known to shield him from the fleeting nature of mortal bonds. His father could have hidden him away, protected him from this relentless suffering.
All that, times he'd pleaded to be allowed just a little more time at Rocket's, and every time, his father would give in, when he'd asked for permission to extend his curfew and share a few more drinks with Medkit—now, he wished those moments had never come to pass.
What use was fleeting happiness when their absence promised only endless agony? Why had he let himself love those doomed to depart? Was the warmth of their companionship worth the icy void they left behind?
"Time heals all wounds," Venomshank had said.
But he felt no comfort in the eternity ahead of him. He had forever to move on, forever to grieve, but forever to endure the ache of what he had lost.
Their temporary time together would give him permanent misery. His grieving heart, fractured beyond repair, knew no time together could fill the gaping hole left by their loss.
"Sword," A voice, smooth and commanding, called to him. Sword turned sharply to the sound, his face painted red from the force of his grief, tears streaking his cheeks. A flicker of humiliation crept in, being seen in such a state, though he had been expecting this arrival.
Illumina's presence was a motif of despair. The god was known for exploiting demons' lowest moments, preying on the cracks in their hearts. This was not their first encounter; Illumina had long sought to sway him, using the demon's pain and doubt to coax him into joining his celestial army. But forging a bond with Illumina meant severing the one he held with Venomshank—a deal that would betray the loyalty to his father and friends.
Sword had always resisted. Those he loved had faith in him, and the memories that they had shared had made him unwavering. But now, as grief suffocated him, that resolve started to break.
Illumina stood there, radiant and unyielding.
"I have long waited for this moment," Illumina said calmly. "Are you ready to take my hand?"
Sword's instincts shrieked at him to strike at the god and declare his rejection to the offer in defiance. But there was no strength left in him to fight.
Illumina stepped closer. "Power and strength, wings strong enough to carry you above this pain, every trace of your sorrow erased. All you need to do is follow me. What say you, then? Will you lend your strength to our cause?"
The consequences of surrendering oneself to Illumina were dire, demanding relentless loyalty to the deity. His followers were bound by an unbreakable oath to obey every command without question or delay. To become an emotionless shell, to leave their past life behind.
No sane demon would ever agree to such terms.
But that was the very desire of all of Illumina's followers. Their days had seemed filled with unending misery, so to strip themselves of emotion and abandon the life they once led was exactly what they wanted to achieve. It was right to aspire to earn a place in Illumina's painless world.
Indeed, Illumina was merciful. The Inpherno is filled with violence, injustice, and cruelty. She was to forge this mess into a new world.
Sword sank to his knees. His mouth refused to move, and so the only gesture he could make was a silent bow of his head, which Illumina took for a nod.
For a moment, Illumina just watched, their expression unreadable. Then, he extended his hand. "If that is what you desire," he said, his tone laced with quiet triumph.
Sword hesitated for a moment, his eyes fixed on the hand as if it were both salvation and doom. He reached for it, his fingers trembling as he shook it. In that instant, Illumina's power coursed through him, sharp and unrelenting. Sword screamed as a piercing pain cleaved through his mind, ripping the memories from his soul. He felt them fracture, each one tearing away a piece of himself.
A sudden pang of regret struck his heart. Would erasing them mean losing the only fragments he had left of those he loved? Perhaps immortality was a gift after all—not a curse, but a chance to keep their memory alive, to ensure they were never forgotten. At least, maybe the fact that they were still alive in his heart could be enough. Was it fair to them if he chose to forget?
To forget, to be reborn, would be to erase not just the past, but the very essence of what had shaped him—Sword—into who he was. If it was the memories that made him who he was, who would he be with them gone?
Illumina knew the answer. Sword would be her disciple, wholly his own design, borrowing only bits of flesh with which the Spawn had used to shape a body. Born of his will alone, bound to him in unwavering loyalty. Demons were made anew when they pledged themselves to her.
It was too late. Blood-coated wings arose from his back, meat and skin tearing to allow the passage as they erupted.
His height grew, casting an imposing shadow across the tombstones. His tears hardened and burned into his skin, leaving etchings of Illumina's sigils on his face. His horns were reshaped, swirling into a soft lilac hue that perfectly mirrored the god's own, and twisted into jagged spires. His once vivid eyes turned pale, glowing with an unnatural luminescence that seemed to pierce the darkness.
Illumina watched the transformation with satisfaction. "Rise, Follower," Illumina commanded, Their voice filled with divine authority. "Together, We shall create our own realm and finally rid of this chaos."
Follower stood, his body now a vessel of immense power, but his heart felt empty. As They ascended together, he cast a final glance at the grave below, catching sight of the name etched in stone. "Rocket."
The name lingered in his mind, faint but persistent. And though he could no longer recall the face nor the voice it belonged to, a single tear fell, carving its way down his etched cheek before vanishing into the wind.