The taste of freedom is nothing like I imagined it would be after five thousand years—it tastes like fear.
I can see it in their eyes as they watch me move through the sanctuary, the way they flinch when my armor shifts, how conversations die when I enter a room. Even Caleif, who tries so hard to act normal, can't quite hide the tension in her shoulders when I'm near.
Three weeks since my return, and I'm starting to understand that coming home was the easy part. Learning how to live here again—that's the real challenge.
"You're brooding again," Lucifer observes from across the common room, not looking up from the ancient tome he's studying. "It's becoming a rather persistent habit."
I grunt in response, my attention focused on the delicate task before me—attempting to pour coffee without crushing the ceramic mug. My enhanced strength makes everything feel fragile, breakable. Like the people around me.
"Perhaps you'd benefit from some... constructive activity," he continues, finally glancing up. "Sitting here radiating existential angst isn't particularly productive."
"What do you suggest?" I ask, setting the intact mug down with careful precision. "The Guardians have made it clear I'm not welcome at the academy. My students scatter when they see me coming. And every time I try to reconnect with the work I used to do, I end up wanting to tear something apart."
"Ah," Lucifer's perfect smile spreads across his face. "And there's the crux of it. You're trying to go back to who you were instead of accepting who you've become."
The crimson energy beneath my skin pulses in response to my irritation. "And who have I become, exactly? A walking weapon? A monster wearing my old face?"
"You've become someone who survived the unsurvivable," he says, closing his book with a decisive snap. "Someone who refused to break when breaking would have been easier. Someone who came back from Hell itself with their core intact."
I laugh, the sound harsh and metallic. "Core intact? Lucifer, I hear voices that aren't there. I have flashbacks that make me attack my own friends. Last night I woke up with my claws embedded in the wall because I dreamed I was still fighting."
"All perfectly normal responses to extraordinary trauma," he replies with infuriating calm. "The question isn't whether you've changed—of course you have. The question is what you're going to do with what you've become."
Before I can respond, the air in the room shifts, reality bending in a way that makes my enhanced senses scream warnings. A portal tears open near the far wall, its edges crackling with the kind of authority that once would have made me hesitate.
Three Guardians step through, their luminous forms blazing with barely contained power. I recognize the lead figure—the same cosmic bureaucrat who stripped my abilities all those months ago.
"Kamen Driscol," it intones, its voice like distant thunder. "You will come with us. Immediately."
I don't move from my chair, though every instinct screams at me to either flee or fight. "Will I? That's interesting. I don't recall agreeing to go anywhere with you."
"Your agreement is not required," another Guardian states. "Your unauthorized departure from the Pit of Judgment constitutes a violation of cosmic law. You will return for proper containment."
The coffee mug explodes in my grip, ceramic shards mixing with the dark liquid as my control slips. The rage that's never far from the surface surges upward, and I have to fight to keep the armor from fully manifesting.
"Containment," I repeat, my voice dropping to the growl that makes reality itself seem to vibrate. "Is that what you're calling it now?"
Lucifer rises smoothly from his chair, positioning himself between me and the Guardians with casual grace. "Gentlemen," he says, his tone perfectly pleasant despite the tension crackling through the air. "Perhaps we could discuss this like civilized beings? No need for threats or ultimatums."
"This does not concern you, Morningstar," the lead Guardian snaps. "Stand aside."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Lucifer replies, his perfect smile taking on a sharp edge. "You see, Kamen is a guest in my realm's sanctuary. Threatening him is, by extension, threatening me."
The temperature in the room drops several degrees as cosmic forces align in opposition. I can feel the buildup of power, the way reality strains under the pressure of conflicting authorities.
And suddenly, I'm tired of it all. Tired of being a pawn in cosmic games. Tired of beings with too much power deciding my fate without my input.
I stand, my full height now towering over everyone in the room as the armor flows across my skin in response to my rising anger. "Enough."
The single word carries the weight of five thousand years of undefeated combat, and every being in the room takes an involuntary step backward.
"You want to contain me?" I continue, my voice building in intensity. "You want to lock me away because I represent something you can't control? Then come and try. But understand this—I'm not the same being you threw into Hell. I'm not going quietly. And I'm done pretending to respect authority I never agreed to accept."
The lead Guardian's form flickers with what might be uncertainty. "You cannot simply reject cosmic law. There are consequences—"
"Consequences?" I laugh, the sound echoing with harmonics that shouldn't exist in normal space. "I spent five thousand years learning about consequences. I learned what happens when cosmic authorities decide someone is inconvenient. I learned what happens when power is used to silence rather than serve."
I take a step forward, and reality ripples around me like disturbed water. "Most importantly, I learned what happens when you try to break something that refuses to stay broken."
The Guardians exchange glances—those ripples of light and intention that pass for communication among their kind. I can sense their uncertainty, their fear of what I've become.
"The Pit was supposed to break me," I continue, taking another step. "Turn me into either a weapon you could control or a broken shell you could discard. Instead, it forged me into something new. Something that doesn't fit into your neat categories of acceptable and unacceptable power."
"Your transformation is an abomination," one Guardian states, trying to regain the initiative. "A violation of natural law that threatens the stability of all realms."
"Natural law?" I flex my claws, crimson energy dancing between them. "There's nothing natural about throwing someone into Hell for five thousand years. There's nothing lawful about stripping someone's power because you disagree with how they use it."
The armor completes its manifestation, transforming me into the nightmare figure that dominated the Pit for millennia. Spikes extend from my joints, my eyes blaze with hellfire, and the very air around me seems to burn with unleashed potential.
"So here's what's going to happen," I say, my voice now carrying the authority of someone who has killed gods and refused to bow to cosmic tyranny. "You're going to leave. You're going to return to whatever council sent you. And you're going to deliver a message."
I lean forward, bringing my transformed face level with the lead Guardian's luminous features. "Tell them that Kamen Driscol is no longer playing by their rules. Tell them that the changes I started—the connections between realms, the sharing of knowledge, the democratization of cosmic understanding—will continue, with or without their approval."
"And if we refuse?" the Guardian asks, though its voice lacks conviction.
I smile, and the expression is everything they've learned to fear about what I've become. "Then you'll discover what five thousand years of combat training looks like when applied to cosmic bureaucrats who think authority makes them untouchable."
The silence that follows is pregnant with possibility. I can feel Lucifer's amusement radiating from behind me, his appreciation for the theater of the moment. The Guardians, meanwhile, are calculating odds, measuring their power against what I've become.
Finally, the lead Guardian speaks. "This defiance will not go unanswered. There are forces beyond your comprehension that will not tolerate—"
Suddenly, a radiant white light pierces through the sky, illuminating the surroundings with an ethereal glow. From within this celestial brilliance, a figure gradually takes shape before our eyes. The being exudes an aura of immense power and authority, and its presence is both awe-inspiring and intimidating. "ENOUGH!" the figure's voice booms, resonating through the air like thunder, commanding attention. "Kamen Driscol is to be left alone! He has endured too much for a former human, and he is not to be trifled with. I command you to leave and investigate the ones' responsible for his kidnapping and being force into Hell!" The words echo with an undeniable force, and I exhale in resignation, already anticipating what comes next. "Of course, it's him," I murmur to myself, acknowledging the familiar presence of the Creator, the ancient and omnipotent force that governs all.
The Creator looks at me, "My dear Kamen, I apologize for everything that has happened to you. I was unable to keep an eye on you and everything else that is happening in the world. Please, find it in your— whatever it is now and forgive me."
I stare up at the Creator, my transformed features struggling to process what I'm seeing. After five thousand years of fighting cosmic entities that claimed divine authority, here stands the genuine article—the source from which all other power flows.
And He's... apologizing to me.
"Forgive you?" I repeat, my voice coming out as that familiar growl despite my efforts to sound human. "You're asking me to forgive you?"
The armor pulses beneath my skin, responding to the complex emotions churning through me. Rage at being abandoned. Relief at finally having someone acknowledge the injustice. Confusion at this sudden intervention when I've learned to rely only on myself.
"I don't understand," I continue, my claws flexing involuntarily. "Where were you when they stripped my powers? Where were you when they threw me into Hell? Where were you for five thousand years while I fought for my life every single day?"
The Creator's radiance dims slightly, and I catch something that might be genuine regret in those cosmic features. "Managing a multiverse leaves little time for individual attention, even for those who deserve it most. By the time I realized what had been done to you, the damage was already..." He gestures at my transformed state. "Extensive."
Lucifer clears his throat behind me. "Not to interrupt this touching reunion, but perhaps we could address the more pressing matter?" He indicates the Guardians, who are still hovering uncertainly, caught between their orders and the Creator's direct intervention.
"Yes," the Creator says, His attention turning to the cosmic bureaucrats. His voice takes on an edge that makes reality itself seem to recoil. "You will leave. Immediately. And you will investigate exactly how one of my most promising architects ended up in the Pit of Judgment without my knowledge or consent."
The lead Guardian's luminous form flickers with what I now recognize as fear. "But the cosmic balance—"
"Will be maintained by me, not by cosmic middle management," the Creator cuts him off. "Your authority comes from me. I am revoking it in this matter. Permanently."
The Guardians retreat through their portal without another word, leaving behind only the fading scent of ozone and cosmic authority.
I watch them go, feeling oddly hollow now that the confrontation is over. For weeks, I've been preparing for this moment—ready to tear through cosmic bureaucrats with five thousand years of accumulated rage. Instead, they're dismissed like unruly children.
"That's it?" I ask, turning back to the Creator. "No cosmic trial? No battle for my freedom? They just... leave?"
"Sometimes the simplest solution is the most effective," He replies. "Though I suspect this won't be the end of it. There are forces at work here that go beyond the Guardians' typical jurisdiction."
I study His face, searching for deception or hidden agendas. Five millennia of surviving Hell has made me paranoid about trusting anyone, even divine beings. "What forces?"
"That's what we need to determine," He says. "Your imprisonment wasn't random, Kamen. Someone with significant power wanted you removed from the cosmic equation. The question is who, and why."
The implications send a chill through me despite the hellfire burning in my veins. "You're saying this was planned? That the Guardians were just tools?"
"I'm saying that cosmic architects who challenge the status quo don't typically end up in Hell by accident," He replies grimly. "Especially not ones whose work threatens to fundamentally alter the balance of power between realms."
I look around the sanctuary—at Lucifer, who's listening with calculating interest, at the space where my friends should be but aren't because they're afraid of what I've become. The weight of five thousand years presses down on me, all those battles and transformations suddenly taking on new meaning.
"So what now?" I ask, surprised by how tired I sound. "Do I go back to teaching? Pretend the last five thousand years didn't happen? Try to rebuild what the Guardians destroyed?"
The Creator's expression grows thoughtful. "That depends. What do you want, Kamen? Not what others expect of you, not what cosmic politics demands—what do you actually want?"
It's a question I haven't allowed myself to consider. For five millennia, survival was the only goal. Since returning, I've been focused on processing trauma and avoiding the people I care about. But what do I actually want?
"I want to finish what I started," I say finally, the words feeling right as they leave my transformed lips. "The connections between realms, the democratization of cosmic knowledge, the breaking down of artificial barriers. But I want to do it as who I am now, not who I was before."
"And who are you now?"
I flex my claws, feeling the armor shift beneath my skin. "Someone who's seen what happens when power goes unchecked. Someone who's survived the worst cosmic authorities can dish out. Someone who's done pretending that their rules matter more than the connections between beings who just want to learn and grow."
The Creator nods slowly. "Then perhaps it's time to show the cosmos what five thousand years of Hell has taught you about building bridges instead of barriers."
A smile spreads across my face—the first genuine one I've felt since returning. "Are you offering to help?"
"I'm offering to not interfere," He replies. "Which, given the current cosmic climate, might be the most valuable assistance I can provide."
As He begins to fade, preparing to return to whatever cosmic duties occupy His attention, I call out. "Wait. One more thing."
He pauses, raising an eyebrow.
"Thank you," I say simply. "For finally showing up. For acknowledging what happened. For giving me the freedom to decide what comes next."
His smile is warm, paternal in a way that makes something in my chest ache. "You survived five thousand years of Hell, Kamen. You don't need my permission to be extraordinary."
With that, He vanishes, leaving me standing in the sanctuary with Lucifer and the lingering scent of divine intervention.
"Well," Lucifer says after a moment, his perfect smile returning. "That was unexpected. Though I have to admit, I'm curious to see what you do with this newfound freedom."
I look toward the academy, where my former students are probably still afraid to pursue the knowledge I once taught them. Then I think about the connections between realms that the Guardians have been systematically dismantling.
"I'm going to build something new," I say, feeling purpose crystallize in my chest for the first time since my return. "Not the old academy, not the old methods. Something that acknowledges what I've become while serving what I've always believed in."
"And what's that?"
I turn to face him, my transformed features set with determination. "That knowledge belongs to everyone. That power should serve connection, not control. That sometimes the best way to honor who you were is to fully embrace who you've become."
The armor pulses with anticipation as I head toward the door. It's time to stop hiding from what five thousand years of Hell made me.
It's time to show the cosmos what a truly free cosmic architect can accomplish.
I stride through the sanctuary's corridors with renewed purpose, my footsteps echoing with the weight of divine validation and five thousand years of hard-earned wisdom. The familiar walls seem different now—not the refuge I've been hiding in, but the launching point for something greater.
Caleif appears around the corner, her eyes widening as she takes in my transformed posture. There's something different about how I carry myself now, and she notices immediately.
"You look..." she pauses, searching for the right word. "Determined. What happened? I felt some kind of massive energy surge, and then—"
"The Creator paid us a visit," I say, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice. "Told the Guardians to back off and investigate who really orchestrated my trip to Hell."
Her mouth falls open. "The Creator? As in, the actual—"
"The genuine article," I confirm, reaching out to touch her face with claws that no longer feel like weapons when I'm with her. "And He gave me something I haven't had in five thousand years—complete freedom to choose my own path."
The wonder in her eyes shifts to something warmer, prouder. "And what path are you choosing?"
I look past her toward the academy wing, where I can sense the nervous energy of students who've been forbidden from pursuing the knowledge they crave. "I'm going to finish what I started. But not as the man who left—as the being who returned."
"The students are terrified of you," she says gently. "They scatter when they sense you coming."
"I know," I reply, feeling the familiar ache of that rejection. "But fear and respect often walk hand in hand. Maybe it's time they learned the difference."
I head toward the academy wing, Caleif falling into step beside me. With each stride, I feel the last vestiges of shame about my transformation falling away. The Creator Himself acknowledged what I've become—not as an abomination, but as someone who survived the unsurvivable.
The first classroom I enter goes silent as I cross the threshold. Twenty young faces—demon, human, and angel alike—freeze in terror as my transformed presence fills the space. Their instructor, a nervous-looking angel named Serendiel, actually takes a step backward.
"Please," she stammers. "We weren't discussing anything forbidden. Just basic realm theory, nothing about barriers or—"
"Relax," I say, my voice still carrying that hellish growl but somehow gentler than before. "I'm not here to punish anyone. I'm here to teach."
The silence stretches until a brave young demon in the front row raises her hand tentatively. "Professor Driscol? Is it true you spent five thousand years in the Pit of Judgment?"
I study her face—perhaps seventeen by demon standards, her eyes bright with curiosity despite the fear. "It is. And I'm going to tell you what I learned there. Not just about survival, but about the true nature of cosmic power."
More hands begin to rise, curiosity overcoming terror. Good. Fear might get their attention, but wonder will hold it.
"The Guardians told us we couldn't study your work anymore," another student says, this one human. "That it was too dangerous."
"Dangerous to whom?" I ask, settling into the familiar rhythm of teaching despite my transformed state. "To you? Or to the authorities who benefit from keeping knowledge compartmentalized?"
I move to the front of the classroom, my armor shifting and flowing as I gesture. "Let me tell you about the first thing Hell taught me—that those in power will always claim their restrictions are for your own good."
For the next hour, I share fragments of what five millennia taught me. Not the violence—they're not ready for that—but the deeper lessons about resilience, about refusing to let others define your limitations, about finding strength in the connections that matter most.
When the class ends, none of the students flee. Instead, they linger, asking questions with an eagerness I remember from before my imprisonment.
"Will you be teaching regularly again?" the young demon asks as the others file out.
"Every day," I promise. "But not the same curriculum as before. I'm going to teach you things the Guardians don't want you to know. Things about breaking barriers instead of accepting them."
Her eyes light up with the kind of intellectual hunger that makes teaching worthwhile. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow," I say. "Bring anyone who's tired of being told what they can't learn."
As I leave the classroom, I find Lucifer waiting in the hallway, his perfect smile particularly amused. "How did it go?"
"Better than expected," I admit. "They're scared, but they're also curious. And curiosity always wins in the end."
"And the curriculum? I assume you won't be teaching the same theoretical approach as before."
I flex my claws, feeling the weight of practical experience behind every transformed feature. "I'm going to teach them what I learned in the Pit—that the only real barriers are the ones we accept. That power belongs to those willing to claim it. That sometimes the most important lesson is learning when to break the rules."
"Dangerous knowledge," he observes.
"The most valuable kind," I reply. "The Guardians wanted to keep me from sharing what I knew. Instead, they gave me five thousand years to discover things I never would have learned in peaceful study."
We walk toward the main courtyard, where I can see other students gathering, word of my return to teaching spreading quickly. Some still look terrified, but others show that spark of defiant curiosity that makes real learning possible.
"There's something else," I say to Lucifer as we pause near the central fountain. "Someone orchestrated my imprisonment. The Creator made that clear. This wasn't just cosmic bureaucracy—it was a targeted removal."
His expression grows serious. "Any theories?"
I think about the forces that would benefit from my absence, the entities that might see my work as a threat to their power. "Whoever it was, they're going to be very unhappy to learn I'm back and teaching again. We should be ready for that."
"Are you prepared for another fight so soon after returning?"
I look down at my transformed hands, feeling the power that five thousand years of combat has given me. "Lucifer, I'm not the same being who was taken from his bed three weeks ago. I'm something new, something forged in hellfire and tempered by absolute refusal to surrender."
"And what exactly are you?"
I smile, and for the first time since my return, the expression feels completely natural on my transformed features. "I'm a teacher who's learned that the most important lessons often come from surviving what should have destroyed you. I'm a bridge-builder who's discovered that sometimes you have to tear down the old structures before you can build something better."
I pause, watching my students gather in the courtyard, their faces a mixture of fear and fascination as they look at what their professor has become.
"Most importantly," I continue, "I'm someone who's done accepting limitations imposed by others. The Guardians wanted to contain me. Hell wanted to break me. Instead, they created exactly what they feared most—a free cosmic architect with nothing left to lose."
As the desert sun sets behind the sanctuary walls, painting the sky in shades that remind me of both hellfire and hope, I feel something I haven't experienced since before my imprisonment: complete certainty about my purpose.
Tomorrow, I'll begin teaching a new generation of students that the cosmos belongs to those brave enough to claim their place in it. I'll show them that transformation—even the violent, traumatic kind—can be a source of strength rather than shame.
And if whoever orchestrated my imprisonment wants to try again, they'll discover that five thousand years of Hell has prepared me for whatever they think they can throw at me.
I'm no longer the architect who tried to change the world through gentle persuasion and cosmic manipulation. I'm something far more dangerous—a teacher who's learned that sometimes the most important bridges are built from the rubble of what came before.
The words feel strange coming out of my mouth, but somehow right. For too long, I've been caught in an endless cycle of self-doubt, trying to reconcile the cosmic architect I was with the combat-forged being I've become. But standing here, watching my students gather with that mixture of fear and fascination, I finally understand—the transformation isn't something to overcome. It's something to embrace.
"You're going to terrify half the cosmos," Lucifer observes, though his tone suggests he finds the prospect entertaining rather than concerning.
"Good," I reply, watching as more students filter into the courtyard, drawn by whispered rumors of my return to teaching. "Fear can be useful when it's directed at the right targets."
I feel Caleif's presence before I see her, my enhanced senses picking up her unique signature—that peculiar blend of demon essence and something entirely her own. She slides her hand into mine, seemingly unbothered by the claws that have replaced my fingers.
"The Guardians won't take this lying down," she warns. "Divine intervention or not."
"I'm counting on it," I say, squeezing her hand gently. "Let them come. Let them show my students exactly who benefits from keeping knowledge contained and controlled."
The three of us stand in silence for a moment, watching as the courtyard fills with students of all three realms. Their faces reflect the spectrum of reactions I've come to expect—from outright terror to cautious curiosity to barely concealed excitement.
"I should prepare for tomorrow's lesson," I say finally, reluctantly releasing Caleif's hand. "Five thousand years of combat experience doesn't organize itself into a teachable curriculum."
"What exactly will you be teaching them?" Lucifer asks, his perfect eyebrows rising slightly.
I consider the question, thinking about all the lessons Hell burned into me. "How to recognize when they're being manipulated by cosmic authorities. How to find power in themselves rather than seeking it from external sources. How to build connections that transcend artificial barriers."
"Revolutionary stuff," he notes with a hint of admiration.
"No," I correct him, my transformed features settling into something like determination. "Evolutionary. The cosmos doesn't need a revolution—it needs to grow beyond the artificial constraints that have been imposed on it."
As I turn to leave, a student steps into my path—the young demon from the classroom, her eyes bright with that intellectual hunger I recognize so well.
"Professor Driscol," she says, her voice steadier than most when addressing me. "I have a question that couldn't wait until tomorrow."
"Ask," I encourage, curious what could be so urgent.
She glances around nervously, then lowers her voice. "Is it true what they're saying? That you killed the Guardians who came for you today?"
I blink, caught off guard by the rumor. "No. The Creator intervened before things escalated to that point."
Relief washes over her features, followed quickly by something that might be disappointment. "Oh. It's just... some of us were hoping..."
"That I'd declared war on cosmic authority?" I finish for her, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
She nods, her eyes dropping to the ground. "The Guardians have been... cruel since you disappeared. Punishing anyone who tries to continue your work."
My amusement fades, replaced by something colder and more dangerous. "Tell me."
For the next few minutes, she outlines what's happened in my absence—students interrogated about my teachings, certain areas of study explicitly forbidden, some of my most promising pupils transferred to "remedial" programs designed to reeducate them in acceptable cosmic theory.
With each word, the crimson energy beneath my skin pulses more intensely, the armor responding to my rising anger. By the time she finishes, I can feel the spikes extending from my joints, my transformation advancing in response to my emotional state.
"Thank you for telling me this," I say, my voice now fully the growl of the Pit. "What's your name?"
"Mira," she replies, seemingly unbothered by my increasingly demonic appearance. "Mira Vex."
"Well, Mira Vex," I say, placing a clawed hand gently on her shoulder. "Tomorrow's lesson just changed. I think it's time your generation learned exactly what the Guardians are so afraid you'll discover."
Her eyes widen with excitement. "You mean—"
"I mean that knowledge isn't dangerous," I interrupt. "Power that fears knowledge is dangerous. And it's time we exposed that fear for what it really is—control disguised as protection."
As she hurries off to spread the word, Caleif steps closer, concern evident in her expression. "Are you sure about this? Directly challenging the Guardians' educational restrictions might provoke a response even the Creator can't easily dismiss."
I look out over the courtyard, at the students who've suffered in my absence, at the knowledge that's been suppressed and contained. "I'm sure about one thing—I didn't survive five thousand years of Hell just to come back and teach watered-down versions of what these students deserve to know."
"And if the Guardians retaliate?"
I flex my claws, feeling the power of five millennia of combat flowing through my transformed body. "Then they'll learn what happens when you threaten a teacher's students. When you try to contain knowledge that deserves to be free."
The sunset paints the sanctuary in shades of crimson and gold, the colors of both hellfire and divine radiance. As darkness falls, I feel something settling within me—not peace, exactly, but purpose. The certainty that comes from finally understanding what five thousand years of torment was preparing me for.
Not just to survive. Not just to return. But to teach others how to break the chains I've already shattered.
Tomorrow, the real work begins. And the cosmos will never be the same.
I spend the night preparing my first real lesson since returning from Hell. Not in my old office with its neat bookshelves and comfortable chair, but on the sanctuary's roof under the desert stars. The place feels right—open, unrestricted, defying conventional boundaries.
My enhanced vision lets me write without light, my clawed fingers moving across the tablet with surprising dexterity as I outline what my students need to know. Not abstract theories about cosmic architecture, but practical knowledge about how power actually functions across the three realms.
"Can't sleep either?" Caleif's voice comes from behind me, soft and familiar in the darkness.
"Don't need much sleep anymore," I reply, setting the tablet aside. "Another gift from the Pit."
She settles beside me, her warmth a pleasant contrast to the cool night air. "What are you working on?"
"Tomorrow's lesson. Something the Guardians definitely don't want taught."
"Which is?"
I gesture at the stars above us, at the invisible barriers that separate the three realms. "The truth about how cosmic authority maintains itself. Not through divine right or inherent superiority, but through information control and manufactured consent."
"Dangerous territory," she observes, though there's no disapproval in her voice.
"The most important kind," I reply, turning to face her. In the starlight, her features are softened, but I can still see the concern in her eyes. "What's bothering you?"
She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "I'm worried about what happens if this works too well. If your students actually learn what you're teaching them and decide to act on it."
"That's the point," I say, confused by her concern.
"Is it?" she challenges gently. "Or is the point to give them knowledge and let them decide what to do with it? Because if you're using them as weapons in your war against cosmic authority—"
"I'm not," I interrupt, perhaps too quickly. The accusation stings because there's a grain of truth in it. Part of me—the part forged in five thousand years of combat—does want to unleash a generation of students against the forces that imprisoned me.
Caleif's hand finds mine, her touch grounding me as always. "I know you want justice for what was done to you. You deserve it. But these are kids, Kamen. They look at you and see something between a returning hero and a walking legend. They'll follow you into fire if you ask them to."
The weight of that responsibility settles on my shoulders, heavier than any armor. "I just want them to understand their own power. To know they don't have to accept artificial limitations imposed by beings who claim authority they haven't earned."
"Then teach them that," she says simply. "But be careful not to teach them your rage along with it. They haven't spent five thousand years in Hell. They haven't earned that particular burden."
I nod slowly, recognizing the wisdom in her words. My rage is mine—forged in hellfire, tempered by millennia of combat. It's not something to pass on to students who are still discovering their own path.
"I'll be careful," I promise, bringing her hand to my transformed lips. "Knowledge without indoctrination. Power without obligation. Freedom to choose what they do with what they learn."
She smiles, the expression luminous in the starlight. "That sounds like the teacher I fell in love with. Even if he does have horns and glowing eyes now."
We sit in companionable silence for a while, watching the stars wheel overhead. Eventually, she leans against my shoulder, her breathing slowing as she drifts toward sleep. I hold her carefully, marveling at how fragile she seems against my transformed body, yet how strong her presence makes me feel.
As the night deepens around us, I return to my lesson plans with renewed focus. Not a manifesto for cosmic revolution, but a curriculum designed to empower without directing. To show possibilities without demanding specific outcomes.
By the time dawn breaks over the desert, I'm ready. Not just for the lesson, but for what comes after—the inevitable response from cosmic authorities who fear knowledge they can't control.
Let them come, I think as Caleif stirs against my shoulder. I've spent five thousand years learning how to fight beings that thought they were unkillable.
But more importantly, I've spent those same years learning why some fights are worth having.
The classroom is packed beyond capacity, students from all three realms crowded into every available space. They fall silent as I enter, their collective intake of breath audible even to normal hearing. To my enhanced senses, it's like a physical wave—fear mingled with anticipation, curiosity wrapped in caution.
I move to the front of the room, my transformed presence commanding attention without effort. The armor flows beneath my skin, responding to my emotional state—not rage now, but focused determination.
"Before we begin," I say, my voice carrying that hellish growl that no amount of effort can completely eliminate, "I want to address the obvious. Yes, I spent five thousand years in the Pit of Judgment. Yes, it changed me. No, I am not the same being who left here three weeks ago."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd, students exchanging glances as they process my blunt acknowledgment.
"But that's not why you're here," I continue. "You're here because you've been told there are things you shouldn't know. Areas of study that are too dangerous for your young minds. Cosmic truths that must be protected from your curiosity."
I look around the room, meeting as many eyes as I can. Some flinch from my gaze; others hold it with defiant interest.
"Today, we're going to discuss why certain knowledge is restricted," I say, activating the display behind me. It flickers to life, showing the familiar diagram of the three realms and the barriers between them.
"And why the Guardians are so afraid of you understanding how these barriers actually work," I continue, gesturing at the display. "Because once you understand that, everything else starts to make sense."
I pace across the front of the classroom, feeling the weight of every eye following my movements. The armor shifts beneath my skin, responding to my growing excitement rather than anger. This—teaching, sharing knowledge, watching understanding dawn—this is what five thousand years of Hell couldn't take from me.
"The official explanation is that barriers between realms exist for your protection," I say, highlighting the glowing lines that separate Heaven, Hell, and the mortal world. "That without these carefully maintained divisions, chaos would reign. That certain knowledge belongs in certain realms, and crossing those boundaries invites disaster."
I pause, letting that sink in before continuing.
"But ask yourselves this: who benefits from these divisions? Who gains power from being the gatekeepers of what passes between realms? Who gets to decide what knowledge is 'dangerous' and what is 'acceptable'?"
Mira raises her hand, her eyes bright with understanding. "The Guardians."
"Precisely," I nod, feeling a surge of pride. "The Guardians and similar cosmic authorities maintain their position by controlling information flow. It's not about protection—it's about power."
I tap the display, zooming in on the barrier structure. "These aren't natural formations. They're constructs, deliberately designed and maintained. And anything constructed can be deconstructed—or reconstructed in a better form."
The room is completely silent now, every student leaning forward, drinking in words they've been told they shouldn't hear.
"I was imprisoned because I taught previous students how to create doorways between realms without Guardian permission," I continue, my voice taking on a harder edge. "Doorways that allowed free exchange of knowledge, culture, perspective. Doorways that threatened the carefully maintained monopoly on cross-realm interaction."
I flex my claws, crimson energy dancing between my fingers. "They took my cosmic abilities, thinking that would stop what I started. Instead, they gave me five thousand years to discover something far more important—that true power doesn't come from cosmic manipulation. It comes from understanding."
A human student in the back raises his hand hesitantly. "Professor, if the barriers aren't natural, why do they exist at all? Who put them there in the first place?"
"An excellent question," I say, genuinely pleased. "The barriers were established during the Great Partition, when the Creator separated what was once a unified cosmos into distinct realms. The official reason was to prevent cosmic war, to establish clear domains for different types of beings."
I pause, making sure I have their complete attention. "But the truth is more complex. The barriers were meant to be permeable—to allow controlled interaction while preventing total domination of one realm by another. Over time, those tasked with maintaining the barriers became invested in making them more restrictive, more absolute."
"Because it gave them power," Mira interjects, her eyes narrowing with understanding.
"Exactly," I confirm. "The more restrictive the barriers, the more valuable the ability to cross them becomes. The more controlled the flow of information, the more power resides in those who decide what crosses and what doesn't."
I move to the center of the room, my transformed presence commanding complete attention. "What I'm about to teach you isn't just theory. It's practical knowledge about how the barriers actually function, how they can be navigated, and—yes—how they can be modified without cosmic permission."
The tension in the room spikes, a mix of excitement and fear palpable even to normal senses. To my enhanced perception, it's intoxicating—the thrill of forbidden knowledge, the dawning realization of possibilities previously denied.
"This isn't about starting a revolution," I clarify, remembering Caleif's warning. "This is about reclaiming your right to understand the cosmos as it actually is, not as cosmic authorities want you to perceive it. What you do with that understanding is entirely your choice."
For the next two hours, I outline the fundamental principles of barrier mechanics—not the sanitized version approved by the Guardians, but the raw, unfiltered truth I've spent centuries uncovering. I show them how energy flows between realms despite supposed divisions, how consciousness naturally resists artificial containment, how the barriers themselves require constant maintenance precisely because they oppose the natural state of cosmic unity.
Throughout the lesson, I can feel the growing excitement, the expanding awareness. These aren't just students absorbing information—they're young minds awakening to possibilities they've been deliberately denied.
When I finally pause, the silence is electric with potential.
"That's enough for today," I say, noting the disappointment that immediately crosses their faces. "We'll continue tomorrow, moving from theory to practical applications."
As they file out, buzzing with excitement and newly awakened curiosity, I sense a presence at the back of the room. Valen stands in the doorway, his burning eyes watching me with a mixture of academic fascination and concern.
"Quite the curriculum," he observes as the last student leaves. "The Guardians will hear about this within hours, if they haven't already."
I shrug, the armor shifting beneath my skin. "Let them. I'm done hiding what I know. Done pretending their restrictions serve any purpose beyond maintaining their own power."
"I don't disagree," Valen says, approaching with measured steps. "But there are... complications you should be aware of."
Something in his tone catches my attention. "What kind of complications?"
He glances toward the door, ensuring we're alone. "While you were in the Pit, certain entities took advantage of your absence. Not just the Guardians, but others with... specific interests in maintaining the status quo."
My armor responds to my sharpening focus, becoming more pronounced across my shoulders and chest. "Be specific."
"There's a faction calling itself the Purifiers," he explains, his voice dropping lower. "Angels, primarily, but with support from certain demonic houses and even mortal organizations. They believe the barriers should be strengthened, not weakened. That cross-realm contamination is a cosmic threat that must be eliminated."
"And?" I prompt, sensing there's more.
"And they've been gaining influence. Rapidly. Your imprisonment was a significant victory for them, allowing them to implement policies that would have been impossible while you were teaching freely."
I absorb this information, feeling the implications settle like lead in my chest. Not just cosmic bureaucracy, then, but an organized movement actively working against everything I believe in.
"How powerful are they?"
Valen's expression grows grim. "Powerful enough that even the Creator's intervention might not be sufficient if they decide your return represents an existential threat to their agenda."
I laugh, the sound harsh and metallic through my transformed vocal cords. "Let them try. I spent five thousand years killing things that thought they were unkillable. I'm not afraid of zealots with a superiority complex."
"Perhaps you should be," he counters. "They're not just fanatics, Kamen. They're strategic, patient, and they've spent the last three weeks—your five thousand years—consolidating power across all three realms."
I consider his warning, weighing it against what I've just taught my students. Knowledge versus fear. Understanding versus caution. The freedom to choose versus the safety of restraint.
"Thank you for telling me," I say finally. "But it doesn't change anything. If these Purifiers want to maintain artificial divisions between realms, they're standing against the natural flow of cosmic evolution. Against what the Creator Himself acknowledged yesterday is my right to teach."
Valen sighs, a sound like distant flames. "I expected as much. Just... be careful. Your students look at you and see a returned hero. The Purifiers look at you and see their worst nightmare made flesh."
As he leaves, I turn back to the classroom, now empty except for the lingering energy of awakened minds. My transformed fingers trace the barrier diagram still glowing on the display.
Purifiers. The name itself reveals their fundamental misunderstanding. There's nothing pure about artificial division, nothing sacred about maintained ignorance. If they've gained power in my absence, it's all the more reason to continue what I've started.
I feel a familiar presence approaching—Caleif, her unique energy signature as recognizable to me now as my own heartbeat.
"How did it go?" she asks, entering the classroom with a small smile.
"Better than I expected," I admit. "They were afraid at first, but curiosity is stronger than fear. By the end, they were asking questions the Guardians would consider borderline heretical."
Her smile widens. "So the teacher returns, horns and all."
"Valen just warned me about a faction called the Purifiers," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "Have you heard of them?"
The smile fades from her face. "Yes. They've been... problematic since your disappearance. Particularly for those of us with connections to multiple realms."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they've been implementing policies that make it harder for beings like me to exist in the spaces between," she explains. "Forcing everyone to choose a side, to stay in their designated realm, to conform to their concept of cosmic purity."
The rage that's never far from the surface these days stirs again, the armor responding with a pulse of crimson energy. "That ends now," I growl, the sound reverberating through the empty classroom. "I didn't survive five thousand years of Hell to come back and watch everything I believe in be dismantled by cosmic segregationists."
Caleif places a hand on my arm, her touch calming the hellfire in my veins. "One step at a time," she advises. "You've started something important today. Let it grow organically. Don't force it."
I cover her hand with mine, careful of my claws against her skin. "You're right. As always." I take a deep breath, forcing the rage back down where it belongs. "One classroom at a time. One mind at a time. That's how real change happens."
As we leave the academy wing together, I can feel the ripples of today's lesson already spreading—students gathered in small groups, discussing what they've learned, questioning what they've been told. It's a start. Not the dramatic confrontation part of me still craves, but something potentially more powerful.
Understanding, freely given and freely received. The kind of power no barrier can contain, no authority can control.
Tomorrow, we move from theory to practice. And if the Purifiers want to stop what I've started, they'll have to do more than implement policies and consolidate influence.
They'll have to go through me. And after five thousand years in the Pit of Judgment, I'm not someone anything goes through easily.
The evening brings an unexpected visitor to the sanctuary. I'm in my quarters, reviewing notes for tomorrow's practical demonstration, when there's a knock at my door. Not Caleif's familiar pattern, not Lucifer's imperious rap, but something hesitant, almost fearful.
I open the door to find Mira standing there, her young face set with determination despite the nervous energy radiating from her.
"Professor Driscol," she says, her voice steadier than her aura suggests. "I need to speak with you. It's important."
I step aside, gesturing for her to enter. My quarters are sparse now—the comfortable furnishings of my previous life replaced with more utilitarian options after I destroyed the original furniture during a particularly vivid flashback. The walls bear claw marks I haven't bothered to repair, reminders of nights when the Pit feels more real than the sanctuary.
"What's so urgent it couldn't wait until tomorrow's class?" I ask, settling into a reinforced chair designed to accommodate my transformed physique.
Mira fidgets with the edge of her sleeve, her eyes darting around my sparse quarters before settling back on me. "The Purifiers," she says, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "They're not just gaining influence. They're here."
I lean forward, my armor shifting slightly beneath my skin in response to my sharpening focus. "Here? At the sanctuary?"
She nods, her young face grave with a seriousness that seems beyond her years. "Not physically—not yet. But they've been recruiting. Students, faculty, even some of the administrative staff. They call themselves 'Concerned Citizens for Cosmic Stability,' but it's just a front."
"How do you know this?" I ask, studying her with new interest. There's more to this young demon than I initially perceived.
"My family has... connections," she says carefully. "My mother serves in the Crimson Dawn clan's intelligence network. She's been tracking Purifier activity since before your imprisonment."
The pieces click into place—her fearlessness in approaching me, her immediate grasp of the political implications in today's lesson. This isn't just an eager student; she's the child of someone deeply embedded in demon politics.
"And what does your mother say about their immediate plans?" I ask, keeping my voice casual despite the tension building in my chest.
Mira's eyes meet mine directly, unafraid of my hellfire gaze. "They're planning to shut down the academy. Not through official channels—they're going to manufacture an incident, something that 'proves' cross-realm education is dangerous. Something they can use to justify immediate intervention."
The armor pulses beneath my skin, responding to the anger her words provoke. Five thousand years of combat has taught me to recognize the shape of a trap before it's sprung.
"When?" I demand, already calculating potential countermeasures.
"Soon. Within days, possibly tomorrow." She hesitates, then adds, "My mother believes they accelerated their timeline when they learned of your return to teaching."
I rise from my chair, moving to the window that overlooks the sanctuary grounds. In the moonlight, the peaceful desert campus seems untouched by cosmic politics—students from three realms walking together, studying together, learning to see beyond artificial barriers. Everything the Purifiers apparently despise.
"Why tell me this?" I ask, turning back to face her. "Why not go to the administration? To Lucifer, who technically oversees this sanctuary?"
Her expression hardens slightly. "Because half the administration is either sympathetic to the Purifiers or too afraid to oppose them. And Lucifer..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "Lucifer maintains a position of strategic neutrality in most cosmic conflicts. My mother doesn't believe he would intervene until it was too late."
I study her, seeing past the youthful appearance to the calculating intelligence beneath. "And what do you expect me to do with this information?"
"Whatever you think is necessary," she says simply. "You're the only one who's proven they can't be intimidated or controlled. The only one who came back from Hell stronger instead of broken."
The weight of her expectation settles on my shoulders—heavier in some ways than the burden of five thousand years of combat. She's looking at me not just as a teacher, but as a protector. A defender against forces that would destroy everything I've built.
"Thank you for bringing this to me," I say finally. "I'll handle it. But Mira—be careful. If these Purifiers are as organized as you suggest, they'll have eyes everywhere."
She nods, a small, fierce smile crossing her face. "I was raised to be cautious, Professor. My mother didn't send me to study with you because of your approved curriculum. She sent me because she believed in what you were really teaching—even before you went to Hell."
As she leaves, I stand at the window for a long time, watching the night deepen over the sanctuary. The rage that's been my constant companion since the Pit simmers just beneath the surface, but it's controlled now, focused. Not the blind fury that led me to kill Guardians, but something more dangerous—calculated wrath with a specific target.
These Purifiers think they can destroy what I've built. They think they can use fear and manipulation to maintain artificial barriers between realms. They think my five thousand years in Hell made me a problem to be eliminated rather than a force to be reckoned with.
They're about to learn how wrong they are.
I need to move quickly, but intelligently. Not the frontal assault part of me craves, but something more strategic. Something that turns their own tactics against them.
First, I need more information. Then, I need allies—not just Caleif and my immediate circle, but others who understand what's at stake. And finally, I need to prepare my students for what's coming—not by turning them into soldiers in a cosmic war, but by ensuring they understand exactly why their education matters enough for others to try to stop it.
The Purifiers want to manufacture an incident? Fine. I'll give them one they'll never forget—but not the one they're expecting.
I find Caleif in her quarters, surrounded by ancient texts and modern data tablets—research for her own classes on cross-realm ethics. She looks up as I enter, her expression immediately shifting from concentration to concern as she reads my mood.
"What's happened?" she asks, setting aside her work.
I explain what Mira told me, watching Caleif's face darken with each detail. By the time I finish, the crimson flecks in her eyes are glowing with a fury that matches my own.
"I've heard rumors about these 'Concerned Citizens,'" she says, practically spitting the name. "They've been particularly active in pushing for stricter regulations on demons who maintain residences in the mortal realm. I didn't realize they were connected to the Purifiers."
"According to Mira, it's the same organization, just operating under different names in different realms," I explain. "Classic disinformation strategy—make it seem like the pressure is coming from multiple independent sources rather than a coordinated campaign."
Caleif rises, pacing the room with the fluid grace that first captivated me centuries ago. "If they're planning to manufacture an incident, they'll need something dramatic. Something that plays into existing fears about cross-realm contamination."
I nod, my mind already racing through possibilities. "Which means they'll target the most visible symbols of what they oppose—mixed-realm classes, shared knowledge repositories, the doorways themselves."
"Or you," she says quietly, stopping to face me directly. "You're the most visible symbol of all, Kamen. Especially now, with your... transformation."
I flex my claws, watching the crimson energy pulse beneath my skin. She's right, of course. My return from Hell, my obvious physical changes, my renewed teaching—I'm the perfect target for those who want to prove that cross-realm interaction leads to corruption.
"Then let them come for me," I say, a predatory smile spreading across my transformed features. "Five thousand years in the Pit taught me how to handle beings that think they're righteous."
"No," Caleif says firmly, placing her hand on my arm. "That's exactly what they want—to provoke you into violence they can use to justify a crackdown. We need to be smarter than that."
She's right again. The rage that served me so well in Hell could be a liability here, playing directly into our enemies' hands. I take a deep breath, forcing the armor to recede slightly beneath my skin.
"What do you suggest?" I ask, valuing her strategic mind as much as her emotional support.
"We expose them before they can act," she says, her eyes bright with determination. "If they're planning to manufacture an incident, they must have agents in place, preparations made. We find those preparations and reveal them publicly—show everyone that the threat to cosmic stability comes from those claiming to protect it, not from cross-realm education."
It's a good plan—better than my initial impulse to confront them directly. But it requires information we don't yet have.
"I need to speak with Lucifer," I decide. "Whatever his position on cosmic neutrality, he won't want his sanctuary used as a battleground without his permission. And he has resources we don't—eyes and ears in places we can't reach."
Caleif nods, though I can see the reservation in her eyes. "Just remember that his priorities might not align perfectly with ours. Lucifer plays the long game—sometimes very long."
"So do I," I reply, thinking of the five thousand years that forged me into what I am now. "And I've learned that sometimes the most important victory isn't defeating your enemy, but exposing them for what they truly are."
As I leave to find Lucifer, I feel something I haven't experienced since my return from Hell—not just purpose, but clarity. The Purifiers think they're fighting to maintain cosmic purity, to preserve artificial barriers they believe are necessary.
I'm fighting for something simpler and more profound—the right of every being to learn, to grow, to connect across artificial divisions. The right I spent five thousand years in Hell earning for myself and everyone else.
Tomorrow's class will continue as planned. But the lesson will be about more than barrier mechanics. It will be about recognizing manipulation, about seeing through fear to the power dynamics beneath.
Because the most dangerous knowledge isn't about how to cross barriers—it's about understanding why those barriers exist in the first place, and who benefits from keeping them intact.
I find Lucifer in his private study, a space that somehow manages to be both opulently comfortable and intimidatingly austere. He's seated behind a desk of polished obsidian, his perfect features illuminated by floating orbs of gentle light as he reviews what appears to be cosmic correspondence.
"Kamen," he greets me without looking up. "I was wondering when you'd come. News travels quickly, even in a sanctuary."
"Then you already know about the Purifiers' plans," I say, not bothering with preliminaries. Five thousand years in Hell has stripped away my patience for social niceties.
He sets aside his work, finally meeting my gaze with those impossibly blue eyes. "I know there are factions who find your return... inconvenient for their agendas. The exact nature of their plans remains somewhat opaque, even to my sources."
I study his face, looking for any hint of deception. Even after all this time, Lucifer remains difficult to read—his perfect features reveal exactly what he wants them to, nothing more.
"According to my information, they're planning to create an incident that will justify shutting down the academy," I say, watching for his reaction. "Something that 'proves' cross-realm education is too dangerous to continue."
"And your source for this information?" he asks, one perfect eyebrow arching slightly.
"A student whose family has connections to demon intelligence networks."
Lucifer's smile widens fractionally. "Ah. Young Mira Vex, I presume? Daughter of Seraphina Vex, the Crimson Dawn's spymaster?"
I blink, caught off guard by his immediate identification. "You know her?"
"I make it a point to know everyone who enters my sanctuary, Kamen. Especially those with connections to powerful figures in any realm." He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Seraphina has been tracking Purifier activity for some time. Her information is generally reliable, if somewhat colored by demon political interests."
"Then you believe there's a genuine threat," I press, needing clarity on where he stands.
Lucifer's expression grows more serious. "I believe there are forces at work who find your approach to cosmic education... problematic. Whether they