Chapter 1- Genesis.
The throne of hell was never meant for a human—except one. Betrayed by his kind. Forgotten by the Fortuna's.
He is hell-bent on revenge as his name fades from life itself. He is neither human nor Fortuna. He is something else.
Every fibre of his body reshaping into the divine and the damned.
Slave. Thrall. General. Vizier. Each step soaked in lies and sharpened by deceit, till he claimed the throne himself.
He was called the bringer of death. But no… this man was death's vessel.
Now, he wielded the chains of eternity.
Hell's fire bent to his will, and even the undead dared not whisper his name.
Glowing fire possessed his eyes, his face bathed in bitter satisfaction.
His voice sent chills down the spine of hell at once
"It is time."
Far away from scorching hell. Beneath a sun still warm. Sky still blue.
A boy walked home from school — unaware of the journey, unaware of the darkness waiting to unfold.
Damon.
His hair was a dark inky storm, thick yet soft‑looking even from afar, with strands daring to defy gravity. It framed a face strikingly sharp for his seventeen years, demanding a second look. Dark blue highlights, like threads of blue woven through the midnight, threaded through his hair. Beneath heavy brows, his eyes blazed — a fierce, unnatural sapphire. They held the depth of a sky at dusk, a flicker of something ancient and burdened behind their youthful intensity.
He was a boy in a black school uniform, walking without a clue of the turn of events about to occur.
"I'm a year older — so I'm seventeen now."
"Ohh, yeah. I gotta go see Mom at the hospital."
"I don't think I've seen—"
WHACK.
A banana smacked him clean in the head, a sudden, jarring halt to the mundane.
"I've been around school looking for your ass!" she yelled, heaving for breath, wiping sweat from her brow.
Natsuki.
Her style was sharp, athletic, and entirely hers. She was gorgeous, undeniably so — the striking kind that thrived in motion. Her light purple eyes, bright and competitive, mirrored the fierce focus of an athlete. Her body was toned, built for speed and power yet attractive, every movement carrying the rhythm of someone who lived in motion.
Damon handed her a napkin, secretly fascinated by her beauty, by the way she moved, by the way her presence seemed to cut through the ordinary.
"Didn't you hear me? Where have you been?" she asked, her voice sharp but softened by the sweat of effort.
"Ohh, I'm sorry. I was at band practice." He looked away, his voice quieter now. "I was just thinking about you. I haven't seen you in a while."
"Yeah, me too. I've been occupied with basketball classes."
"What are you doing?" he asked, confused, as she aggressively tore through his bag.
"There it is." She pulled out the paper, her tone serious. "I'm looking for your test results. Wanna compare them to mine." She sat at the nearest bench, her posture competitive, her eyes glinting.
"You could've just asked," he sighed in mock annoyance, though his lips twitched with amusement.
She smirked, admiration mixing with fierce competition. "Somehow you always seem to beat me, don't ya?"
"You said you were looking for me. Why?"
"Ohh, right. Gotcha something. Never understood your obsession with the guy, but here you go. Happy Birthday."
She handed him the ticket. Hard paper.
Surprised, he took it gently, his fingers brushing the edge as though it were fragile. "Tickets… to the Monster Note Memorabilia Auction. I thought they were sold out!" His smile widened, genuine, unguarded.
She giggled, her voice light. "My mom's friends with the organiser. You'll get to hang out with him the whole time."
"Thank you, Natsuki."
"I'm gonna be late. Gotta go," she said, her tone brisk but her eyes lingering for a moment longer. They bid themselves goodbye.
Arriving home, Damon found a wrapped present on the table — his father's gift. He tore it open.
A ring. Silver. Carved with the family crest.
"A ring… with a Kamon?" He slid it onto his middle finger. It fit perfectly, as though it had been waiting for him.
The laughter lingered, but only for a moment. By the time he reached his street, silence had already returned.
Most of the day blurred. Reading. Gaming. Cake. All celebrated alone. But he was content, or at least he told himself he was.
Clank.
The door slammed behind him as he left for the hospital.
The streets were busy. Parents called their kids in, warning them of a cold. Digital billboards glowed, promising new inventions.
But something felt off. A chill. Cold air he couldn't explain.
"Why's it cold? Even the ring's freezing?" He hid his hands in his sleeves, shivering. "Never trust the weatherman, I guess."
The silver pressed against his skin, heavier than it should be, as if it already knew what was coming.
He pushed the hospital doors open. The smell of antiseptics attacked his throat, sharp and sterile.
His mother lay in bed, sheets pulled to her stomach, her breathing shallow.
Her hair was platinum white, framing a face that bore the unmistakable, gaunt qualities of a long‑sick person. Her eyes, blue like Damon's, were hollow now, pale, drained of the fire they once carried.
Holding the tears was the hardest thing. The absolute hardest thing he'd ever done.
"Mom, how are you feeling?" His voice cracked, concern genuine, raw. "Have you been taking your meds?"
Silence.
"You're still not gonna talk, huh?"
He talked for her. Online chess leagues. Grades. Band practice. All the lies of a normal life.
Then her voice broke through the quiet.
"Do you… have any friends?"
He froze.
"…I have Natsuki," he whispered.
"She's not your friend." Her eyes — hollow, pale — cut into him. "Why would anyone want to be around you?"
He blinked, confusion sharp, stinging. "What are you talking about…?"
She turned away, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I never wanted a child," she said, her voice trembling, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I wanted my body. Beautiful. Like it was in my youth."
He stared down at his arms, the weight of her words pressing against his chest.
"You came along and ruined it. I was a model. People loved me. Now, no one even knows who I am." She sniffled. "You took it all from me. I regret ever having you."
Her hands shot out, clutching his shirt, trembling with rage. "You were the crack in the mirror. Every time I looked at myself, I saw you instead. You were a mistake."
Silence.
He wanted to scream. He couldn't. Silence pressed against him like razors at his throat. Silence was never peace. It was punishment. He didn't move. He just handed her a cup of water.
She slapped it away. Hard.
CRASH.
The glass shattered mid‑air. A shard sliced into his palm. Blood dripped. Slow and steady.
He didn't cry. Didn't flinch.
"Why did you do that?" his voice low, broken.
"Get out. Get out!" she yelled.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The EKG rang.
"Mom… Mom."
No response.
BANG. The door.
His footsteps echoed in the hallways, speeding up, slipping, catching himself. He saw another bald patient, cancer perhaps, the thought lasting less than a second before he pushed forward.
Running.
'Mistake.' 'Regret.' 'You took it all away from me.'
The words echoed while he sprinted, each syllable a blade.
He reached the doctors, breathless, panicked.
"My mother… HELP her!!" The doctors rushed past him.
The EKG beeped, sharp, steady. He lunged forward, but the nurse blocked him. "Stay back," she said firmly.
He obeyed. Zero resistance.
He called his dad — no answer. Texted him — no reply.
The words replayed in his mind. Why would she do that? Why would she say that? Did she really hide her hate for seventeen years?
"Mr. Vale. Mr. Vale. Mr. Vale." The nurse repeated, her voice rising, tapping his shoulder.
He rushed from his seat, his voice trembling. "Is she alright?"
Silence.
Far away, the sky was still blue. But here, silence was the only colour left.