Santana Lux was one of the most powerful men in the world.
His was the story everyone loved— of an underdog, an orphan with nothing to his name, who carved his way to the top to become a force in the world not to be reckoned with. He was the everyman the common folk aspired to be and the shining example of rags to riches Hollywood made movies of. Everyone was suspected of something, but, for the most part, Santana was popular among the public, and his tech company benefited well from it.
Of course, the story they printed about him in magazines and broadcasted in documentaries was a lie. But he had never lied to Lucius. He just never told him the whole truth.
He did grow up in an orphanage, which Lucius knew because they grew up together from practically diapers— at least until a mysterious servant came to pick him up. That servant, Cerbastian, was a part of an equally mysterious cloak-and-dagger cult, and it wasn't until he was in high school that he learned why the cult adopted him.
He was the devil.
At least, they thought he was.
The Lords of Evil Macabre Omens and New Sanctities, or LEMONS for short, were the proprietors of the New World, and they believed Santana was their leader. According to them, he was the Biblical Anti-Christ of revelations; honestly, Santana didn't believe in the Bible or the devil or anything, but if it meant all he had to do to be rich and influential was to participate in a few silly rituals and play along then he was willing.
Did they really have to be so corny, though?
"Bring in the sacrifice!"
Santana rolled his eyes as men in black robes entered the Sanctum, carrying a woman in white above their heads. The four cloaked members at the same long table as him began to chant, and soon the entire room was echoing with Latin. Their high and mighty leader did not chant with them. All he could muster in response to their display of lavish gowns and glorified placeholder-text chanting was an unenthusiastic plop of his shoes up on the table.
"Damn, she's heavy," a voice under the chanting grumbled.
"Don't slow down, I'll trip!" Another voice.
Soon a low clamoring rippled across the underbelly of the chant, until they suddenly broke formation. The united chorus transformed into yelps and hisses as the men in robes tripped on themselves, dropping the woman in white onto the ground. The woman cried out from the fall as she rubbed her backside and complained.
Santana rubbed his temples. These were the assholes responsible for the Satanic Panic back in the days? It seemed like a far stretch— even as the man in red robes beside him stood from his seat and scolded his congregation for their clumsiness.
"You fools! You shame us in front of our lord!" He rebuked them.
"Yeah, yeah," the woman in white grumbled, picking her ear with her pinky. She glanced at him in the corner of her eyes and smirked. "Your flies undone."
The hands of the man in red robes shot down in front of his crotch, finding nothing but the soft velvet of his robes. He furrowed his brows. Roaring at his subordinates, he stomped around the long table after them and sent them back out into the hall to regroup and redo the ritual. He slammed the door behind them then and turned back to Santana with a gracious clasp of his hands.
"My liege. Please forgive them," the man pleaded. "They are still learning. I swear by our kingdom come, they will have it perfected." His voice simmered into a low growl as he glared at the door and the noise beyond it. "Or may you smite them..."
"Mammon," Santana began, leaning as far back in his chair as it would allow. he chose his words carefully. "Do you have any proof of me being the devil?"
