Breakthrough

Deluded Mission

Levi

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It feels strange to be awoken by silence—an eerie kind of silence, after what I can only guess was a long, restless nap. My legs are still numb, tingling as if they’ve forgotten how to move, and the weight in my chest feels heavier than the iron skies outside. Another day—or whatever counts as a day here—of the same endless cycle. Waiting.

In the Underworld, we don’t feel tired or hungry. We don’t feel much of anything, really. But I still take time to rest, to escape the constant clang of chains, the stench of decay, and the ceaseless murmurs of the damned. Even if it’s all a lie, pretending to need sleep is the closest thing to peace I can find.

I want to tell myself that this is a fresh start, a new beginning, but there is no beginning here. No end. Time is seamless. Days blur into nights, or perhaps they never change at all. Everything feels like I’m trapped in a cursed loop, circling the same hollow existence, over and over.

I peel the worn blanket from my chest and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet hit the cold floor, and I stand, moving toward the window beside my bed. Beyond the glass is the same sight as always—the black sea, its surface rippling sluggishly under a perpetual twilight.

I inhale deeply, hoping for the scent of fresh air, but nothing greets me. The air here is stale, lifeless. Even the sensation of breathing feels artificial, like everything else in this wretched place.

With a flick of my fingers, a cup of tea appears on the windowsill. I lift it to my lips, letting the steam graze my face. It tastes of nothing, bland and insipid. I swallow it down anyway, forcing it past the lump in my throat, then wave my hand to make it vanish.

A long black coat materializes, floating through the air before draping itself over my shoulders as I head for the door. I don’t bother buttoning it. The chill is meaningless. The cold doesn’t touch us here. Nothing does.

---

The familiar sounds greet me the moment I step into the grand hall—heavy footfalls, the clash of metal against stone, the low murmurs of voices. Daemons, Cambions, and Sinners like me fill the space, seated at long tables piled with food that no one truly needs or desires. Slaves dart between the tables, silent and efficient, serving the assembled masses.

I make my way toward the Sinners' section, the farthest from the head table, when an oppressive hush falls over the hall. Every head turns, and I do too, just in time to see him.

Killian.

He strides into the hall, flanked by the other Nephilims. His black turtleneck clings to his frame, tucked neatly into leather pants adorned with a spiked belt. A long coat rests on his broad shoulders, its hem swaying with every step of his heeled boots against the marble floor. He walks with the cold precision of someone who knows he’s the most dangerous being in the room.

Killian, head of the Nephilims—second only to the Devils in rank. His presence is like a weight pressing down on the air, and I can’t help but slump into my seat as if gravity itself has grown stronger. My eyes dart to my plate, already filled with tasteless meat and fruit, but I barely register it.

I force myself to eat, the texture of the meat rubbery, the wine as flavorless as water. Still, I swallow it, desperate for something to anchor me in this empty world.

Then I feel it—his gaze.

I glance up and meet Killian’s eyes. They are bright blue, set against inky black sclera, and they hold me in place like chains. For a moment, the Underworld falls away, and all I can see is him. My breath catches in my throat, and my pulse quickens. It’s the first time I’ve felt anything in so long—fear, curiosity, something more dangerous. I break the connection, forcing myself to look away.

---

A sudden crash pulls me back to reality.

Aiden, Killian’s second-in-command, has a Sinner pinned to the table. Blood drips from the man’s forehead as shattered glass scatters across the floor. Aiden’s grip tightens around the Sinner’s collar, his red eyes blazing with fury.

“I didn’t steal it! I swear!” the man stammers, blood bubbling at his lips. “Someone gave it to me—please—”

Aiden silences him with a brutal punch, the sound of breaking bones echoing through the hall. The Sinner’s wrist is exposed, the word Underworld carved into his skin—the same word etched into mine.

Aiden turns to Killian, who watches from his seat with disinterest. “What do you want me to do with this thief?”

Killian rises, his face impassive, and strides toward the exit without a word. His indifference is more chilling than any command. Aiden smirks, turning back to the Sinner.

“You heard him,” Aiden sneers. “You’re mine.”

With one swift motion, Aiden’s hand plunges into the man’s abdomen. The Sinner screams, writhing in agony as blood spills onto the table. Aiden twists his arm, the sound of tearing flesh nauseatingly loud.

I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles white. I want to look away, but I can’t. The Sinner’s screams fade into wet, choking gasps, and Aiden pulls his bloodied hand free.

“This is what happens when you steal from the Quest Palace,” Aiden announces, his voice cold. “Anyone else want to try?”

The hall remains silent as the Cambions drag the broken man away, leaving a trail of blood behind. As they pass me, a silver coin slips from the Sinner’s pocket, rolling across the floor until it stops at my feet.

The coin disintegrates into ash, its words burning into my palm.

I have the mission.

And Killian saw everything.

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