I'm Not A Demon

Prolouge

     I am a Demon, and I am 666.

          This is what I knew at the very beginning. Demons aren't born, they're made. We're summoned by the God of hell himself, Herobrine. Only brine blood can create Demons powerful enough to serve in his dark realm. With a number such as I mine, I doubt a mortal could even summon me to earth, like my lesser brother and sisters so often are.

     I remember when the Dark Lord first brought me to him. One second there was nothing, but then he created me from the blackness surrounding the edges of the universe. I am 666. I remember opening my eyes to the color red all around me. I could see a blurry figure standing right in front of me. He is my master. The Dark Lord has made me. Looking around, I could see the circle of blood surrounding me. My Lord's blood. Runes are written at my feet, shaping me into what I'm meant to be. My physical form is slowly becoming solid. I am 666, the Dark Lord's number. I'm being made perfect, just what I'm suppose to be. I'm a Demon.

     But then another figure is in my vision. I can feel it's power. It pales in comparison with my Lord, but it's the same blood as my creator. They're arguing. Yelling. Screaming. Fighting. Dark blood sprays. But I'm still trapped. I'm not yet fully real. I'm still just an idea. Helpless.

     That is until I feel drops of blood fly onto my face. It's not my Lord's blood. There's blood around my feet. It's all over the circle of runes keeping me here. No, they're setting me free.

     My weight solidifies on the spot, with half of the runes around me being altered or erased. I stumble forward as a mental noose is suddenly cut away from my mind. I suck in a breath and pant as a battle still rages around me. I'm alive. I'm real. I can see now that I wear black pants and a white shirt. A leather jacket is over the top of my shirt. There's a clip on tie hanging from my neck. I know my hair is black. I know that my eyes are red, the same color of the tattered bat wings and horns that are attached to me. I am 666.

I suddenly realize that it's quiet now. I look up from my kneeling position to see the two figures has stopped fighting. I can clearly see them now. They're both staring at me. The glowing white eyes of my creator, and the golden ones of his son. I can't help but giggle at their expressions. One horrified, one smirking. Soon, I'm full out laughing. The sound is strange and foreign to me. The son flinches and finally moves at my voice. My creator had pushed him away, making him stumble and fall.

"Oh Skybrine......", he drawls, "did you really think could stop me from creating the most powerful Demon in this place?". My creator is talking about me. His son is bleeding and broken on the floor as I stand. "Run Skybrine. And never come back. You are no son to me. Go ahead and die with the mortals if you choose. Know that however far you run, I will always know where you are", Herobrine laughs.

     And that's what Skybrine does. He runs away. He can leave this place. I look around, but I already know where I am, what I am, and what I'm suppose to do.

      But...... I'm not a Demon.

I gasp in pain as I'm thrown against a wall. I hear a snap as one of my wings break. "WHY CAN'T YOU DO AS YOU ARE TOLD!?", the Dark Lord screams at me. I slowly crawl to my knees. "I'm sorry, Lord", I say in my strange voice. "Try again. And don't disappoint me this time", he snaps at me. I only nod my head an close my eyes. I am power. I am 666. I can do what is asked of me. This is what I'm suppose to do.

     In my head, I build a picture. I imagine a made up mortal. They they live in the middle of the woods. One day, they fall down a ravine and break their leg. I now open my eyes. In front of me is a sort of mirror made of air. I can look into it and see a man laying in the ravine, agony written all over his features. This is what I can do. I create things. Traps, monsters, bad luck, but most of all, stories. I can make stories that become reality. I can make the unlikely happen. As I stare into the mirror, I can't help but feel pity for the man. Slowly, my magic starts wandering. I imagine the man's friend who comes looking for him. His friend is a medic. I know these things when I create my stories. I lead the medic to his friend. He's found him! He's-

I'm nocked out of my story as a hand slaps me across the face. It's so hard that I fall back and hit my head on the hard rock. "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE HIM TO DIE!?", Herobrine yells at me. "I-I'm so-s-sorr-y I did-didn't mean-", I stutter, but I'm cut off when the Dark Lord kicks me in the side. "Enough. You are hopeless. You're obviously a defect. You're such a waste of a number", he grumbles before simply leaving me by myself. I slowly sit up with a hand clutched to my side an my wing tucked in.

I'm broken. I can't follow orders like I'm suppose to. My creator sees me as useless. I have no purpose. I'm left with these thoughts as time goes on. Demos are immortal when in the Dark Lord's realm, unless Herobrine himself were to slay one of my kin. I'm stuck here. I can't be summoned to make deals with mortals like other demons can. I'm too 'powerful'.

And what else did I have to do for hundreds of years beside create my stories. I didn't make all of them true. Some weren't even part of this world. But I loved to create them. Soon, I made things that weren't living at all. I named it parcore. I made so much of it in a corner of this hellish dimension. The other demons soon learned to leave me alone. The Dark Lord forgot about me.

I'm a Demon bound to this realm..... but I'm not a Demon.