[Shazam] Ch: 112 [Satan's Revival]

[One Hundred Hell Years Later]

A hundred years passed in Hell with the strange speed of a nightmare that never quite ended.

John had spent that century judging souls, refining Infernal Judgment, training until entire pocket dimensions collapsed around him over and over again, and finding time for dates, sex, arguments, and quiet moments with Maze whenever neither of them felt like pretending they did not care. He even helped Maze unlock more demonic power and taught her new magic.

Hell had remained stable on the surface, which was impressive considering what it was, yet John had never mistaken stability for loyalty.

There had been no major rebellion for a hundred years.

That did not mean the higher demons had surrendered.

They had just learned patience.

Armies were gathered in forgotten provinces. Blood sacrifices were redirected through old tunnels. Contracts were forged beneath false names while weapons were moved through sectors where lesser demons assumed nobody important was watching. Meetings took place in sealed chambers, where wards older than human civilization were cast, and the participants convinced themselves that John Mason could not see beyond them.

The throne had watched every step.

John knew who had signed each agreement, whose soldiers were changing positions, and which infernal houses were quietly stockpiling enough supplies to survive a long war. He knew the rebellion had been growing for decades, and he knew the demons behind it had finally decided they had gathered enough power to challenge him.

Well, those poor bastards have no idea who they are up against.

Far beneath the oldest borders of Hell, below regions where even ancient demons avoided wandering alone, the Sepulcher of the First Star waited in silence.

The chamber had once been a prison built around a force too dangerous to kill. Its ceiling rose high into darkness, supported by pillars carved from black stone and the fossilized remains of creatures that had lived before mankind understood fire. Rivers of thick red blood flowed through channels cut into the floor, feeding a ritual circle large enough to swallow a city block.

Asteroth stood at the center of it.

The Arch-Duke looked almost regal beneath the chamber's crimson light. Dark armor covered his body from neck to heel, while a long cloak dragged behind him across the blood-slick stone. His face was sharp and handsome in the way dangerous things often were, though his eyes carried the cold focus of someone who had ruined kingdoms for entertainment.

Asteroth had built his reputation through sacrifices so vast that even Hell remembered them. He had once come close to overthrowing the High Council through blood rites and political manipulation, only for the council to survive by drowning his rebellion beneath the corpses of his followers. That failure had never weakened his ambition. It had only taught him to wait longer before striking again.

Across from him stood Abaddon the Destroyer, a brutal Hell Lord wrapped in heavy black armor scarred by a thousand battles. He carried a massive axe across his back, and the weapon had been forged from the bones of dead angels, damned kings, and things that no longer had names. Vast armies of damned soldiers, infernal beasts, and warborn monsters answered to him, which made him one of the few demons in Hell capable of turning a political uprising into an actual war.

Ran Va Daath watched from beside a broken pillar, her expression unreadable beneath a hood made from stitched monster hide. She was the sovereign of the Pit and the exiled matriarch of Masak Mavdil, where every discarded monster, failed experiment, and unstable horror eventually found its way. The armies under her command were not disciplined in the way Abaddon's soldiers were disciplined. They were hungry, half-mad, and viciously loyal because she had given them a place when every other ruler had tried to erase them.

Belphegor sat in a cracked stone chair near the chamber wall, looking so bored that it was almost insulting. His form drifted between a thin man with hollow eyes, a horned shadow beneath rotting robes, and something much larger that seemed to breathe beneath the darkness. He was one of Hell's tier-one archdevils, a creature who understood decay better than most understood violence.

Belphegor could destroy an army without lifting a hand. He only needed time, exhaustion, greed, and enough whispers to make soldiers forget why they were fighting.

Mammon arrived surrounded by wealth.

Gold coins flowed around his boots like water, while rings, crowns, cursed relics, weapons, contracts, and jewels floated in a slow orbit behind him. He ruled a massive sovereign layer of Hell where mortals and lesser demons were exploited until every desire became debt and every debt became ownership.

Mammon did not care about revenge. He cared about profit, and John's rule had created limits that offended him more deeply than any insult ever could.

Baal Berith stood beside Mammon with several black parchments hovering near his hands. The infernal minister wore long robes covered in moving red script, and every word written across the fabric shifted whenever someone in the chamber spoke a lie. He maintained the dark bureaucracy of Hell, overseeing contracts, pacts, ownership disputes, soul transfers, and every legal trap that kept weaker demons chained to stronger ones.

Baal Berith rarely raised a weapon. He preferred making sure everyone else had already signed away the right to use theirs.

Beelzebub arrived last among the great lords.

The chamber filled with flies before his body appeared. Millions of them crawled across the walls, formed clouds near the ceiling, and gathered in thick swarms around the blood channels. When they finally settled, they shaped themselves into a tall and distorted figure with insect wings, yellow eyes, and a face that shifted between a rotting skull and something far more monstrous.

Beelzebub had hated Lucifer Morningstar for ages.

He saw Lucifer's indifference as hypocrisy, especially when the Morningstar still expected obedience from every demon beneath him. John, taking the throne as Lucifer's proxy, had made that hatred burn hotter. In Beelzebub's eyes, a human ruling Hell was an insult that deserved to be corrected through war.

Neron the Usurper waited near the chamber entrance with an easy smile that never touched his eyes.

He looked nearly human compared to the others, dressed in a dark suit with silver buttons, black gloves, and polished shoes. His appearance fooled no one. Neron was known as the King of Hate because he specialized in making people destroy themselves through bargains that appeared fair until the final price came due.

Before John arrived in Hell, Neron had planned to claim Lucifer's empty throne through contracts, blackmail, and carefully placed assassinations. He had spent centuries preparing for that moment, only to watch a human champion walk into the underworld and take everything he had wanted.

Azazel stood farther back in the chamber, his towering body made from black smoke, shifting flesh, and shadow. Dozens of red eyes opened and closed across him in uneven patterns while mouths formed through the darkness.

Lady Blaze stood at his side.

She had recovered nearly seventy percent of her former strength during the last century. Her ruined territory had started rebuilding beneath her command, and several old battalions had returned after realizing she was far more dangerous alive than they had expected. The golden cracks left by John's Living Lightning still moved beneath her skin, especially when she called on too much power, yet she had learned how to hide the pain behind a colder, more careful expression.

Her hatred for John had only grown over the century.

At the far end of the Sepulcher stood the reason every one of them had come.

A circular prison gate covered the wall like a dead sun. Chains crossed its surface in layers, each one carved with symbols from Heaven and Hell. Darkness moved behind those chains, slow and patient, pressing against the seal with the weight of something that had once ruled the abyss.

The First of the Fallen waited there.

He had been cast out of Heaven before Lucifer Morningstar ever rebelled against the Presence. He had ruled Hell before Lucifer arrived, and he had ruled it again when Lucifer abandoned the throne. He had always considered himself the rightful king of the underworld, and when Lucifer placed John Mason in power as his proxy, the First lost everything.

Lucifer's authority had sealed him in the lowest level of Hell.

For a century, the great demons had been weakening that prison through blood sacrifices and demonic magic.

Asteroth looked around the chamber before speaking, allowing the silence to settle over everyone gathered there.

"We have spent one hundred years preparing for this moment," he said. "John Mason has turned Hell into his private kingdom, and every day he sits on that throne becomes another insult to everything this realm has ever been."

Mammon gave a low laugh as gold rolled between his fingers. "You speak about insult because your blood rites have drained half your treasury. You wouldn't be so eager for war if your coffers were still full."

Asteroth's eyes glowed red. "Your treasury will become useless once John decides he no longer needs sovereign layers beneath his authority."

Mammon smiled slowly. "That human has not touched my layer in one hundred years because he understands value. He has no interest in disrupting a system that produces results."

Baal Berith adjusted one of the floating parchments and spoke without looking up. "John has not touched your layer because you have obeyed every regulation delivered from the throne sector. Please do not mistake temporary obedience for freedom."

Mammon's smile faded slightly.

Abaddon stepped forward, and the ground cracked beneath his boots. "Enough talking. My armies are ready. Ran Va Daath has her beasts. Beelzebub has his swarm. Asteroth has his blood rite. We have enough force to bury the throne sector beneath ten thousand legions."

Ran Va Daath looked toward him with an expression that held no warmth. "Your armies are loud, Abaddon. Loud armies die first when they fight a ruler who sees every corridor, every gate, and every hidden tunnel in Hell."

Abaddon's hand moved toward the axe across his back. "Then your monsters can lead the attack."

"They will," Ran Va Daath replied calmly. "They will tear apart everything that comes near them, then feast on whatever survives."

Blaze stepped forward, her red eyes fixed on the ancient prison gate. "Foolish creatures, don't forget the reason we have gathered here. Rushing in blindly right now will only result in death." She pointed a finger at the gate and shot a bolt of dark magic. "Only with the help of the first do we stand a chance to face that monster."

The gate shattered like glass.

A massive storm of demonic energy burst from the broken seal and flooded the Sepulcher. Black smoke rolled across the floor while red lightning tore through the ceiling, forcing several demons to shield their eyes.

Then the First of the Fallen, also known as Satan, walked out.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wrapped in a torn red cloak. His horns curved above wild black hair, while rage burned in his eyes as he stared at the army gathered before him.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Satan lifted one hand.

A thousand demons who used to be humans screamed as their souls ripped free from their bodies. The souls twisted through the storm and rushed toward him, vanishing into his chest one after another. Their empty bodies collapsed across the blood-covered floor.

Power surged through Satan's body as he absorbed the last soul.

Then he threw back his head and released a guttural roar of rage.

Reality cracked around him.

Jagged fractures spread through the air while the chamber shook beneath his fury. Every demon lowered their head.

The First of the Fallen had returned.

..

[Meanwhile... John's castle]

Far from them, John watched everything through a massive magical screen inside the throne room.

Maze sat on his lap with both arms resting around his neck, her dark hair falling over one shoulder as she studied the images floating before them. A hundred years had changed her in ways she still refused to discuss.

She still enjoyed violence and threatened John's clones when they commented on their relationship. However, she learned how to sit next to someone without feeling trapped and ask for affection without making every conversation a challenge. She realized that having peace does not mean being weak.

And after all these years, she fell in love with John and really cares about him, even outside their sex marathons. Her capacity to learn to love and experience human emotions helped her develop the soul she desperately wanted. It was still in a very early stage, and she still has a long way to go.

Maze leaned closer to John’s ear and whispered, "She looks very fuckable. Should we crash their little party and ravish her?"

John grabbed her right boob and gave a nice squeeze, "Nah, you're enough for me. I'm gonna capture that bitch, and you can have as much fun as you want with her."

Maze licked his earlobe while enjoying his hand on her tit. "Mhmm~ What about Satan? He won't be easy to kill. He went toe to toe against Lucifer eons ago and still survived."

John grinned as a spark of dark red lightning flashed in his eyes. "We'll just see about that." Then he turned his face toward her and looked into her eyes. Their faces were so close that they could feel each other's breath. "Besides, I ain't Lucifer. I won't show any mercy."

Maze's pussy got wet just from his cold eyes and that confidence in his voice. She leaned in and kissed him softly. For the first time, she didn't rush to ride him; instead chose to have patience. 

She pulled back and whispered against his lips, "Shall we go and fuck 'em up?"