I'm The Devil - Chapter 351

Chapter 351: Favorite Son
Lucifer’s laughter echoed off the walls of the club, drowned a little by the jazz, the clinking glass, the low hum of bodies. Girls laughed in candlelight, eyes bright, fingers tracing the air like they owned the night. Coriel was in his throne‑spot: surrounded, half‑dancing, half‑giggling, a crown of attention. He looked like he was having the best night of his afterlives.

Then everything changed.

Lucifer felt it first — a blade of cold air down his spine, like frost crawling under skin. The music warped; laughter flickered; smiles frozen. The lights dimmed just a shade. The girls around him looked up, shadows shifting.

She entered.

Khaos.

Her steps weren’t loud. The room didn’t announce her. But when she walked in… everything lit sharper. The red glow of the lamps turned darker where she passed, corners pulling in. The girls surrounding Lucifer paused. A hush cut through the booth.

Khaos glided across the floor toward them. Heat rose from the ground, or maybe from her. She didn’t break eye contact with Lucifer. The others didn’t need to see anger — the air tasted it.

One of the girls, emboldened by ego or drink, swallowed her fear and said loud: “And who are you to tell us to leave?”

Khaos stopped. Head tilted. The soft light in the club seemed to flicker. Her eyes glinted. Enough calm anger to split mountains.

The girl’s voice died in her throat. Her body crumbled — dust and ash, gone before anyone could gasp. Wine, perfume, laughter — all cut short.

Khaos looked at the booth. The others around Lucifer had scattered, retreating, startled. She turned, slow, straight into Lucifer’s gaze. The world narrowed, club to booth to these two.

Lucifer, cigarette ember glowing, watched her. No surprise that she came. No fear — only curiosity. Maybe weariness.

Khaos’s voice was low, cold and sharp.

“You come back… from your Father’s knows where or whatever place you were carved out of. And you refuse to greet your wives.”

She paused, eyes cold as obsidian.

“And then you hide out here… with laughter and lust around you… while others wait for you to do what you always say you’ll do.”

Lucifer’s throat tightened. He flicked ash into the tray. The smoke curled up like a defiance.

“It’s not like that,” he said, voice rough, tense. “I was going to come. Just… stuff to handle first.”

He looked away. The embers in his eyes flickered. The room roomed with tension again. Every breath held.

Khaos’s lips pressed thin.

“Handle what, exactly?” she asked, stepping closer. The shadows around them bent. The air smelled of iron and spite.

Lucifer’s voice dropped. “Things… broken promises. Things I need to fix. Not everything is as simple as a throne or a castle in the clouds.” He touched his chest over his heart, something inside trembling. “I can’t just walk away from what I built down here. From who people think I am.”

Her laugh was quiet, and cruel.

“People think.” She pulled closer, so close he could see the truth in her eyes. “And what you think? Have you ever asked? Or is your worth always what others expect?”

Lucifer looked at her. For once no smirk. He sank back in the booth, flicked the cigarette stub out into glowing ash. Silence lingered.

The club’s music restarted slowly, fragile. The girls that had been around edged away, staring, still scared.

Khaos nodded once, sharp. “You fear the throne because it demands more than style, or smoke, or fear. It demands you be more.” Her voice hurt with meaning. She held him with that.

Lucifer stared at her. The flame in his eyes dimmed. He opened his mouth, closed it. Finally, he rubbed his forehead.

“I’m not afraid,” he said, voice low. “I just… I need to know what I’m stepping into.”

Khaos looked at him, inscrutable. Then she turned, fading into the dark, leaving questions echoing more than words.

Lucifer watched her go. The embers of heat cooled in his bones. Coriel still sat there, half‑drunk, half‑awake, confused. Asmodeus flicked a look. Morunuel frowned. Bariel swallowed the rest of his drink.

The club’s pulse came back. The jazz beat rolled over them. But Lucifer’s eyes remained on the door long after she’d left. The night felt different now — heavier, more honest.

He rinsed the glass, cold. Turned to the sins, the kings, the laughter still around.

“The throne can wait,” he said, voice quiet enough for only the nearest to hear. “Because maybe what’s broken first is me..”

No one answered right away. But they heard him.

And outside, the dark sky crackled with things that were waiting.

Elsewhere

The night was quiet in the upper sanctum of the Celestial Spire, far above the stars mortals could see. Soft wind moved through the translucent curtains, carrying faint hymns from the lower planes. Exousia sat by the edge of her open balcony, her thoughts louder than the breeze, eyes scanning constellations that once danced for her father’s will.

The words still echoed.

“One of you will take my place.”

She hadn’t reacted then—not visibly. But inside, the sky had cracked.

A quiet knock came.

Then the door opened without waiting.

Celestia stepped in, casual, light-footed. She always did that—walked like nothing could shake her. Not time. Not prophecy. Not even the end of the world. But something in Exousia’s silence pulled her gaze.

“You’ve been up here for hours,” Celestia said, easing into the room. “What’s wrong?”

Exousia didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers traced the faint edge of the marble railing, as if feeling for something invisible. Then she sighed, slow and deep.

“He said I might be one of the candidates.”

Celestia blinked. “Wait—your father?”

A nod.

“To take the throne.”

Celestia’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, and this time the grin came fast. “That’s… actually kind of cool. Like—what? You’d be a literal goddess. The real thing. Top of the top.”

Exousia turned her head slightly, a faint smile flickering, but it didn’t last.

“It’s not that simple.”

Celestia frowned. “You mean Ariel?”

Exousia shook her head. “Ariel’s not a problem. Neither is Gabriel.”

A pause.

“It’s Michael.”

Celestia’s face grew more serious.

“…And Lucifer.”

The name landed like a stone dropped into still water.

Exousia stood, her voice low now, steady but not without weight. “Lucifer said he doesn’t want it. He said the throne can wait.”

She looked out into the horizon.

“But that doesn’t mean Father will let him go.”

Celestia stayed quiet.

“You know how He is,” Exousia continued. “No matter how far Lucifer runs, how long he stays away, or how much chaos he stirs—He always sees him first. Even before Michael.”

Celestia’s lips parted, then slowly pressed together. Her brow creased—not in doubt, but in memory.

Because she had stood in front of Lucifer once.

Just once.

And she remembered.

Not his power.

Not his charm.

But the pressure. Like standing in the eye of a storm that hadn’t decided if it would destroy the world or cradle it. Her knees had buckled the moment he turned his gaze on her. Not out of fear. Out of instinct. Out of a truth that bones recognized before the mind could reason.

She nodded, slow.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Uncle Lucifer…”

Silence stretched between them.

Exousia finally sat back down, her hands folded, her thoughts clouded.

“If he changes his mind… if he decides to accept it, I don’t think anyone will stop him. Not even Michael.”

Celestia didn’t argue.

She just stepped closer and sat beside her mother.

And together, they stared into the stars.

Waiting. Wondering. Hoping the sky wouldn’t fall too soon.