The café was quiet.
Sunlight spilled through the awning stripes, catching dust in the air. Cars rolled by, slow and bored. A dog barked two streets away.
Lucen sat alone at a chipped table outside, wearing a faded hoodie. His coffee had gone cold, bitter before it even touched his tongue. His hands trembled, just slightly.
Last night's fire was still in him.
His cracked phone buzzed once. He scrolled, eyes hollow.
GANG WAR EXPLOSION – DEMON SIGHTED AGAIN?
LUCEN: SAVIOR OR SCOURGE?
He sighed and turned the screen face down.
"I didn't come here to be their devil again…" he whispered.
Someone answered him.
"But maybe the devil is exactly what this world needs."
Lucen's eyes snapped up.
A woman sat across from him without asking. Late twenties. A presence like perfume laced with poison. Smooth skin, elegant cheekbones, confidence in every line of her posture. Her name hadn't been spoken yet, but somehow—he already didn't trust it.
He straightened in his seat.
"Do I know you?" he asked, guarded.
"No." She smiled. "But I know you. Everyone does. They just don't know how important you are yet."
Lucen pushed back his chair.
She grabbed his wrist.
Her hand was soft—but too warm. Not hot. Alive. Like the surface of something buried too deep.
"You're afraid of what you are," she said. Her voice changed. Playful turned to serious. "You shouldn't be. You should own it."
"Let go."
She did—slow, deliberate, smiling as he pulled away.
As he turned to leave, her voice followed him.
"Just remember, Lucen… angels fell too. And no one wept for them either."
---
The apartment stank of sweat and burning cloth.
Lucen didn't care.
He trained without music. No focus. No form. Just motion. Just pain.
His fists cracked against reinforced walls. His telekinesis lifted weights until they warped. His breath came sharp, ash mixing with air. Sweat poured off him. The air shimmered faintly with heat.
The images wouldn't stop.
The gang war. The man who died. Calista's voice. Satan's whisper.
Then came the voice again. Inside. Older than memory.
"How long will you deny what burns inside you?"
Lucen screamed. A blast of raw power surged out.
The entire room shook.
---
Scarne met him in the lair that night.
Lucen had tried to patch the wall.
He failed.
"You're slipping," Scarne said, quiet but firm.
"I'm holding it back."
"You think you are," Scarne stepped closer, arms crossed. "But this is how it starts. Righteous rage. Accidents. Guilt. That cult?" His voice hardened. "They're not praying for your peace. They want your flame to ignite everything again."
Lucen said nothing.
Because he didn't know if Scarne was wrong.
---
The graveyard smelled of wet stone and secrets.
The cult gathered in a wide circle, robes brushing the grass. Candles flickered despite the wind. At the center, a bonfire burned without wood—rising from nothing.
Calista stood before it, arms outstretched.
Her voice sang out into the moonlight.
"Feed him your will. Burn for him. And he will rise."
The flames roared.
Across the city, Lucen dropped his mug.
A wave passed through him—like being struck from the inside. His halo ignited behind him in full, radiant arcs. His veins glowed bright silver. His heart thudded once, too loud.
Then—
He vanished.
He reappeared in the sky, upside down, falling through clouds.
He twisted, stabilized. Floated.
And saw the entire city below.
Like a god.
"This… this isn't right…" he whispered.
But some part of him—
liked it.
---
He sat on black water.
Still. Endless. Cold.
There was no sky. No wind. Only the ocean, and the silence.
From the water, a man rose—slow, smooth. Pale robes. Eyes like galaxies collapsing. Morpheus.
"Your chains are velvet now," the dream god said. "And your cage, golden."
Lucen didn't respond.
"You may soon choose to remain inside."
Lucen's voice was steel.
"I won't fall."
Morpheus looked at him—like a father watching a child lie to himself.
"Even light," he said, "can fall gracefully."
---
END OF CHAPTER 16
---
Up next: Chapter 17 – "Worship and Wrath"