The Light That Wasn't Mine
The crowd roared around the gauntlet, a sea of praise and spectacle. Light sat poised in his front-row throne, basking in the adoration. Not even in New Babylon, his own city, had he witnessed an event this grand. Cameras flashed. Dignitaries bowed. The people chanted his name like a hymn.
He smiled, waved, and adjusted his posture with regal precision.
Extraordinary, he thought. Whoever this young man is, he must be part of the scheme my father's been weaving.
His mind drifted to the last time he saw Lucifer.
The altar room. Towering windows not stained glass, but dark, oppressive panes that swallowed light. Lucifer stood with his back turned, gazing at a Renaissance painting. He never looked at Light. Never needed to.
"Why are you here, Light?" Lucifer asked, voice calm and stone-like.
"I came to see you, Father," Light replied. "To ask how things are. What the future holds for us."
Lucifer waited. One moment. Then another.
"Only death is in your future, son."
The words landed like a blade.
Light stood silent. "What do you mean by that?"
Lucifer's voice dropped. "Do you think you are the strongest?"
Light scoffed. "If you mean physical strength, then yes. I kill anyone who stands in my way. I am the ultimate specimen of humanity. I am the people's champion."
Lucifer didn't flinch. "You are not."
Light's pride cracked. "Then who is? You? Is this just another reminder of who stands atop the ladder?"
Lucifer said nothing. He simply pointed to a small monitor in the corner.
On the screen:
Breaking news A man who refused the mark, accused of murdering two detectives, has been captured. Sentenced to the Gaulet. Execution scheduled for Wednesday night.
Lucifer turned away. "You've overstayed your welcome. Goodbye."
He never once looked at Light.
That man on the screen is Thomas Stone. There was something about him. Something Lucifer saw that Light didn't. Now, back in the present, Light sat in his Rolls Royce beside his advisor, Arthur.
"Arthur," Light asked, "do you believe we can lose?"
Arthur paused. "Don't underestimate mortals, sir. That would be foolish."
"Why?"
"Because man may be weak in flesh but not in spirit."
Light said nothing. The words lingered.
The ceremony began.
The judges arrived in their royal robes. The executioner stood ready. Thomas was dragged forward, jeered by the crowd. Drinks, food, curses all hurled at him like offerings to a false god.
Light watched with amusement. This is justice, he thought. This is the order.
Then the moment.
Thomas was laid on the gauntlet. The judge raised his hand.
Light's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
The hand dropped.
The blade fell.
And then
Light.
Not his light. Not the artificial glow of power and control.
This was something else.
A platinum brilliance erupted from the stage, blinding, pure, divine. It pierced through the crowd, the cameras, the sky itself. It was true. It was justice. It was not his.
Light shielded his eyes, fighting the radiance.
And in that moment he saw him.
Thomas.
Running.
The crowd didn't see. The cameras didn't catch it.
But Light did.
Without a word, he rose from his seat.
And pursued.