Hell does not mourn its fallen.
Amid a scorched, lifeless plain, a figure crawled through fading embers. His body was broken—torn by blades, burned by his own failing fire. His wings, weak and tattered, dragged behind him like scraps of a forgotten dream.
He had been despised. Abandoned. Ridiculed even among his own kind. Never feared, never respected. His enemies hadn't slain him out of fear—only to erase an embarrassment.
And yet… he still breathed.
Above him stretched a red sky, starless and empty. No angels came. No demons followed. No one witnessed his end.
No one remembered him.
No one would mourn him.
He coughed dark blood.
"I don't want to disappear…" he whispered, voice shaking with resignation. "I don't want… this to be for nothing…"
With what little strength remained, he reached toward the void. His soul, cracked and fading, trembled under the weight of his final, desperate wish:
Let someone—anyone—inherit what I was.
Let this spark not be lost.
Let something remain.
A faint black spark rose from his chest. It did not shine. It did not explode.
It simply drifted upward…
And vanished.
That same day, on Earth…
A baby was born in silence.
He cried weakly, as if the world had already defeated him with its first breath. No one noticed anything strange. No one felt a shift in the air.
But something else… had been born alongside him.
A spark.
A latent darkness.
A legacy that should not exist.
The weakest being in the universe…
had just inherited a power even Hell had forgotten.