Hastur stood at the edge of the cliff.
The sea below roared like a living thing, endless and devouring, its voice clawing at the rocks as if it wished to swallow the land itself. The sky above was pale, harmless, insultingly peaceful. Earth always was—fragile, ignorant, blind to the horrors that walked quietly upon it.
In Hastur's hands writhed a demon.
Small. Weak. Barely worthy of the name.
It trembled between his palms, its form half-coherent, smoke and flesh struggling to maintain shape beneath the weight of Hastur's grip. Once, it had dared to call itself his subordinate. Once, it had knelt and sworn loyalty, eyes burning with ambition and hunger.
Now it begged.
"Please—Lord Hastur—please forgive me—I was only—"
The words collapsed into sobs. The creature's voice cracked, its mind unraveling under the pressure of divine contempt.
Hastur sneered.
Forgiveness.
The very concept tasted foul.
He looked down at the thing in his hands, remembering when such creatures would not even have dared to look upon him. Demons, gods, titans—entire species once trembled at the mere echo of his name. The King in Yellow. The Monarch Beyond the Stars. Eldritch sovereign of madness and ruin.
And now this.
"When," Hastur murmured coldly, "did I regress so far that filth like you believed itself worthy of deceiving me?"
The demon wailed louder, its thoughts spilling out in panic, memories flashing unbidden into Hastur's perception. Desire. Greed. Schemes whispered in dark clubs and neon-lit rooms. The demon had believed itself clever—had believed seduction, manipulation, and false worship could steal a fragment of Hastur's sealed power.
Pathetic.
Hastur's gaze drifted beyond the demon, beyond the cliff, beyond Earth itself.
Beyond the stars.
He remembered his golden days.
He remembered the universe before limits.
Back then, reality bent willingly beneath his presence. Worlds were his playgrounds, civilizations his toys. He ruled not through order, but through beautiful, exquisite despair. He built entire dimensions devoted to suffering—vast survival realms where monsters roamed freely and humans were forced to confront the truth of their insignificance.
Their screams had once been lullabies.
He had been unstoppable.
Until that one arrived.
The Buddha.
The memory burned.
Hastur's fingers tightened involuntarily, and the demon screamed as its form cracked.
The Buddha had appeared without warning, without fear, without rage. Calm. Serene. Infuriating. He had stepped into Hastur's domain as though it were nothing more than a garden path, eyes filled not with hatred—but pity.
Hastur had been in the midst of creation then. A particularly exquisite dimension. Humans hunted by monsters, forced into impossible moral choices, stripped layer by layer until only cruelty and survival remained. Hastur had taken pleasure in breaking them physically, emotionally, mentally—shaping despair into art.
Normally, no being would have challenged him there.
Normally, no being would have survived.
But that day was cursed.
As Hastur turned his attention to the Buddha, they struck.
His siblings. Fellow evil gods.
They attacked from behind, timing their betrayal perfectly. Their combined assault fractured his focus, disrupted his dominion. They did not stay to finish the deed. Cowards. They struck, wounded him, and fled—content to let another do the rest.
And the Buddha did.
Hastur snarled at the memory.
Seals—layer upon layer of divine law and enlightenment—had wrapped around his existence. His power, his true form, his authority beyond the universe… bound. Suppressed. Chained.
Exiled.
Not destroyed.
Sealed.
Condemned to Earth.
Condemned to humans.
Forced to live among them. Hide from them. Pretend to be them. Observe their fragile lives, their meaningless routines, their delusions of importance.
It had taken centuries to adapt.
Centuries to rebuild even a fraction of influence.
He had subdued incubus and succubus demons who ruled the nightlife of Earth from behind bars and nightclubs, creatures who fed on desire and indulgence. Through them, he reclaimed standing. Influence. A cult—small, but loyal. A whisper network of worship and fear.
It was not the throne he deserved.
But it was something.
And then this demon—this insignificant parasite—had dared to reach higher.
Had dared to touch what was he claimed his.
Had dared to want his power.
Hastur looked down at it again, contempt incarnate.
"You deserve to die," he said quietly.
The demon sobbed harder. "I worshipped you—I loved you—I—"
A laugh escaped Hastur's throat. Low. Cold. Ancient.
"Love?" he echoed. "I prefer obedience and fear."
He was about to close his hands.
About to incinerate the creature and scatter its essence across time itself.
When a voice interrupted him.
"Hey—don't do it."
Hastur froze.
Not because of fear
.
But because of disbelief.
He turned his head and saw a human approaching—alone, unarmed, heart pounding so loudly Hastur could hear it. The man moved with urgency, concern written plainly across his face.
A human.
Thinking he was the one about to die.
For a moment, Hastur simply stared.
Did he truly look that weak?
That pitiful?
The thought offended him more than the demon's betrayal.
The man spoke again, softer now, like one would speak to a wounded animal. "You don't have to jump."
Jump.
Hastur almost laughed.
This human saw a man standing at a cliff with open hands and assumed despair and weakness. Assumed suicidal intent.
Just like that damned Buddha.
Always projecting their morality onto things far beyond them.
The human came closer, eyes filled with something Hastur despised.
Compassion.
He hated it.
Hated the way it tried to impose meaning where none was needed. Hated how it wrapped itself around suffering and called it virtue.
The man asked what he was doing.
Hastur answered truthfully.
"Disposing the garbage."
The human misunderstood immediately, as expected. He could not see the demon. Could not perceive the corruption squirming between Hastur's palms. Instead, he saw emptiness—and filled it with his own assumptions.
You think you are garbage.
The thought amused Hastur briefly.
The human spoke of worthy of everyone. Of meaning of life. As if he understands.
Hastur felt something dark coil in his chest.
This one was persistent.
He spoke like a savior. Like someone who had survived suffering and believed that gave him the right to interfere with others.
Ah.
That explained it.
Another wounded human pretending to be whole.
The man offered help. A job. Purpose.
Hastur nearly killed him on the spot.
The audacity.
The arrogance.
To stand before an eldritch god and offer employment.
It reminded him too much of the Buddha. Too much of that infuriating calm certainty that the universe could be fixed if only one tried hard enough.
Anger flared.
Hastur felt the urge rise—sharp, violent, intoxicating.
He could break this human.
Easily.
He could peel away Ellios's self-righteous compassion layer by layer until only despair remained and cruelty. He could show him how fragile goodness truly was. How easily it cracked under pressure.
It was his specialty after all.
He had done it to civilizations.
He was ready.
Then the human spoke his name.
Ellios.
Ellios Blade.
The name carried weight. Influence. Power. A man shaped by suffering and sharpened by wealth. A man admired, feared, respected.
Interesting.
When Ellios asked his name, Hastur answered truthfully again.
"Hastur."
The reaction was subtle—but present. A flicker of recognition. Fear quickly buried beneath sympathy.
Sympathy.
Hastur felt disgust twist inside him.
He pities me.
That alone deserved punishment.
Yet Hastur paused.
Something within him—old, calculating, patient—stirred.
Breaking Ellios here would be easy.
Breaking him slowly would be art.
So Hastur waved his hand. The demon died screaming without sound, its existence erased in divine fire. Its ashes scattered into the wind, unworthy of remembrance.
To Ellios, it looked like sadness.
To Hastur, it was cleansing.
He turned back to the human and agreed to leave with him.
As Hastur followed Ellios toward the car, his expression calm, his posture obedient, his presence perfectly human, his mind churned with anticipation.
Ellios believed he was saving someone.
Ellios believed in goodness.
Hastur smiled inwardly.
He would let Ellios keep that belief.
For now.
He would watch him. Test him. Peel back his layers gently. Turn his compassion into weakness. His morality into chains.
He would break Ellios Blade so completely that when the man finally fell, he would curse the day he ever tried to play Buddha.
After all—
Hastur had all the time in the world.
And breaking good people had always been his favorite pastime.