Heaven, Hell, and Earth

Chapter 67

Alastor's eyes fluttered open, the dim light of the room gradually coming into focus. He attempted to move, but a sharp pain shot through his leg, causing him to wince. Panic surged within him as he realized he was shackled to a cold metal chair, his wrists bound tightly, rendering him immobile.

He scanned the grim surroundings. The walls were damp and dark, and the air was thick with a sense of foreboding. To his right, he noticed Angel slumped against the wall, also shackled, but unconscious. Concern for his friend surged, but Alastor quickly pushed it aside, focusing on the immediate threat.

A low chuckle echoed through the chamber, and Alastor's gaze snapped to the source. Striker stood there, a smug grin plastered across his face, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the wall. Verosicka lingered nearby, her expression a mix of amusement and disdain.

"Well, well, well." Striker drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. "Look who finally decided to wake up. The great Alastor, brought low by a mere syringe. How the mighty have fallen."

Alastor glared at him, anger simmering just beneath the surface, though he masked it with a smile.

"You think this is a victory for you? Just wait til I get out of this!"

Striker's laughter rang out, harsh and cruel.

"Just like your dear old dad, Beelzebub. Always thinking you're above everyone else, but look at you now."

Alastor's jaw tightened at the mention of his father.

"Don't you dare compare me to him. I may share his blood, but I am not him."

Striker stepped closer, his expression shifting from amusement to disgust.

"You look just like him, you know. Blue bloods like your father always take over everything, never caring who gets hurt or dies in the process. Just another parasite feeding off the weak."

Alastor's eyes narrowed, a flicker of defiance igniting within him.

"And yet, despite all of that, you spent centuries working for him. Waiting on him hand and foot, coming to his beck and call, even cleaning up after his serpents and pigs. Tell me, did you wipe his ass too?"

Striker's grin faltered for a moment, replaced by a flash of irritation.

"You think you know me? You think you can just throw insults and expect them to stick? I've done what I had to do to survive in this world, Alastor. You can only imagine what I had to endure!"

"And here we go." Alastor tsked. "The tragic backstory and Freudian excuse. This makes it the 200th- No 300th, one I've heard in my lifetime. Listen, Striker, whatever my so-called father did to you, it had nothing to do with me. I probably wasn't even born yet. Beelzebub has no love for me at all. I was conceived by accident, through rape, and he's had no contact with me ever. So this revenge-by-proxy game of yours is completely pointless."

Striker's expression darkened, the smugness fading as Alastor's words cut deep. For a moment, silence enveloped the room, the tension palpable. Verosicka shifted uncomfortably, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

"You think that makes you special?" Striker spat, his voice low and dangerous. "It doesn't change the fact that you're still a product of that monster. You carry his blood, his legacy. You're just as much a parasite as he is."

"Well, it takes one to know one, as they say."

In a sudden burst of aggression, Striker lunged forward, his fist connecting with Alastor's face with a sickening thud. The impact reverberated through the room, and for a fleeting moment, Alastor's world spun. Pain blossomed across his cheek, but instead of crumpling under the blow, he threw his head back and laughed, a sound that rang defiantly in the oppressive silence.