Codename:Lucifer

Prolouge

Rain poured relentlessly down the terrain, the sound almost resembles gunshots as it hit the roof of an orphanage standing alone in a clearing. The surroundings are of that of a dense forest, the grass are wet, ground muddy.

A figure is slumped against a tree, their clothes covered in blood, both new and dry, and mud. They sat motionlessly as they get soaked with the wind picking and the rain getting harsher, it made them cold. The person only let out a small sigh, they gripped the sheathed katana as if to make them believe they are still breathing, alive even though they have died a few times.

A never ending cycle of transmigration, a never ending cycle of suffering, of bloodshed they have been. Happiness was a fleeting thing for them, they feel cold. Their shoes, their pants, their bloody white shirt, slowly soaked, they feel cold but have been long accustomed to such things.

Even with the sound of harsh rain, they could hear footsteps even if its far away, they can sense someone. An adult, too heavy for it to be a female, a male. Their hair clinging to their face, their face was red from the cold, the dried blood slowly falling off their face and onto the already ruined shirt. They could sense the unknown male coming nearer, they could hide, they could disappear, they could use the sound of harsh rain to masked their footsteps yet why can't they just stood up and leave?

They pulled the weapon close to their chest, hugging it like how a child would hug their stuff animal, for safety? For comfort? The presence was coming closer. Water dropping onto their head from the tree's leaves and branches, the water running down their face. Maybe if they just close their eyes and pretend to be a corpse-foolish. The person coming near them would check if they were dead, check for their pulse, the droplet of water stopped falling.

They opened their eyes to see a man-they can't see his face that was shrouded in darkness, holding an umbrella over their head. He was dressed like a priest, he seemed familliar, have you seen him somewhere? A look alike? A character? Novel? Mangga? Manwha? He was dressed like a priest, he was speaking to them.

They couldn't make out nor understand a single word this priest is saying, you don't speak an ounce of korean. Dull eyes looking at the man's face that is shrouded in darkness blankly before they noticed his outstretched hand towards them. Their mind running a mile as they stared at the man's hand, will the man kill them? End their suffering? Will they finally die peacefully? Sacrificed to an unknown god or gods?

Gods who have abandoned their begging, their pleading for a miracle, to free them from their suffering but everything went unheard of the deities who had abandoned an outsider that never belonged to their universe, never one of their creation. They might die, they might live, they have nothing to lose anyway, and with a single exhale of breath.. they took his hand. It was warm and dry, a contrast to their cold and wet one.

. . . .

Everything was hazy after that, your senses are all fuzzy. You were out of it, when you come to, you were in a room laying on a bed. The cot and sheets was thin, the bed was rickity, pushed beside a wall in an empty room. You're wet and ruined clothes were replaced by pants and a shirt, the material was a old yet wearable.

(H/C) hair was a bit damp yet almost dry at the same time, the skin of your neck-from below the ear down to from where your neck and shoulder meet, itches. It has been years-decades, and yet you still feel the way how the demon carved his name under your skin. You can still remember clawing at it, everytime you looked at a mirror, everytime you see the japanese written on your skin, it feels as if its mocking you. Telling you that no matter how hard you scratch, clawed, rip, you can never get rid of it as it merely heals into unblemished skin with the carved name still intact. You gave up on it.