Chapter 57: Mammon
Seven days.
Like a wraith, he had idled away seven whole days in this void.
During that time, no light rose within his eyes; only a heart steeped in bitterness, vulnerable and exposed, was slowly eroded by the encroaching darkness.
His six holy wings stirred up gusts of chilling wind as Lucifer finally shook off the darkness that had ensnared him; he fixed his unwavering gaze upon the depths of the Abyss below.
For countless millennia, he had dedicated his entire being to the Divine Light—only to meet the ultimate fate of being cast down into the Abyss. How much thought, how much effort had he poured out for the sake of Heaven, for the sake of that Glorious Sovereign?
Yet Adam had effortlessly surpassed him, seizing the Creator's love without expending a single ounce of effort.
He envied Adam—and felt a profound sense of shame for doing so.
That mere human was not worth such a heavy toll on his mind and spirit.
Lingering in mid-air for a brief moment, he turned and flew toward the distance, vanishing from sight almost instantly.
Lucifer's silhouette dissolved into the darkness; yet, shortly after his departure, a young demon emerged from behind a massive boulder.
The little demon gazed for a while in the direction Lucifer had taken, waiting until he was certain the angel would not return. Then, he crouched down and began gathering the strands of severed hair scattered across the ground—hair that shone with the brilliance of pure gold.
Strand by strand—each as fine as the golden sands at the bottom of a riverbed—he gathered them up; bent low over the earth, he worked tirelessly, showing not the slightest sign of fatigue.
He had never known the light of day, nor did he realize that the hair of the Archangel of the Seraphim shone with the radiance of the morning sun. He simply held the golden strands in his hands—clutching them with an adoration he could not bear to relinquish—as the luminous hair lit up the depths of his eyes. The joy reflected in his gaze at that moment surpassed his delight in anything else he had ever beheld.
Using a strand of soft, fine silver thread, he bound the golden hair into a neat bundle. Then, with light, skipping steps, he headed toward the nearby Demon Market. Unbeknownst to him, however—and shortly after he had bounded away—the very angel he believed to have long since departed stepped out of the shadows once more.
Lucifer's emerald eyes rested heavily upon the demon who had taken his hair; a few moments later, he began to follow him. "Hmm, excellent. Very fine. Absolutely beautiful." Wearing a green cap and draped in a gray cloak, the old demon held a magnifying glass, meticulously scrutinizing the lock of hair in his hand while letting out intermittent gasps of admiration.
"I have never seen hair of such exquisite quality. Undoubtedly, it belongs to an angel—"
Demons detest angels, yet—curiously enough—everything associated with Heaven is highly coveted in Hell. This includes gold and gemstones; in Heaven, these are used to adorn sacred gates and palaces, so in Hell, they are likewise used to "decorate" pitch-black caverns. Although the demons have no idea what practical use these inedible, unplayable objects serve them, the trends of Hell invariably mirror those of Heaven.
Even the witches are obsessed with adorning themselves with glittering gold.
Simply because they heard that is how the angels in Heaven dress themselves.
And just like that, the market value of gold, silver, and jewels skyrocketed.
"How magnificent! Smooth as silk—why, every single strand practically sparkles!" Having finished appraising the hair, Barbatos—looking thoroughly satisfied—produced a small nugget of gold and placed it before the demon who had brought the hair to the shop.
The young demon frowned as he stared at the piece of gold—no larger than a fingernail—and shook his head.
"You foolish lad!" the old demon—whose heart was as black as pitch—said to him. "This is all it's worth."
"Beautiful though it may be, it is, after all, merely hair—not actual gold. It serves no practical purpose whatsoever."
The young demon grasped his meaning instantly; bristling with indignation, he snatched the hair back from the old demon's grasp and stormed out of the gold shop without a single backward glance.
Hmph! He wasn't selling it anymore!
"Hey! Wait up!" Seeing him about to leave, Barbatos hurriedly gave chase. "Alright, alright! I'll throw in another piece... no, make it two!"
He chased after the young demon, frantically raising his offer; the balance of power between the two shifted completely in an instant. Finally, panting heavily, Barbatos managed to grab hold of the young demon's arm. "Alright then, you sly devil. Name your price—give me a number."
As he spoke, however, he saw his old rival from the neighboring gold shop—Morax—passing right before his eyes, hauling a cartload of gold and jewelry. The wooden wheels groaned and creaked as they struggled to inch forward; at the sight of it, both the little imp and the old demon were instantly struck dumb with astonishment.
"Morax! Where on earth did you get all that?" Morax hadn't opened his shop for days, yet suddenly he had acquired such a massive hoard of gold; Barbatos couldn't help but drool with envy.
"What is there to envy?" The demon perched atop the cart—who sported a bull's head—jumped down upon hearing the remark, panting heavily as he fanned himself vigorously with his palms.
"You have no idea—I don't even know what to do with this entire cartload of stuff!"
"What happened?" Seeing his rival's dejected expression, Barbatos couldn't help but press for details. In that very moment, the little imp he had been holding seized the opportunity to wriggle free from his grasp and scurried far away in an instant.
The imp didn't go far, though; he merely hid in a distant corner, gazing longingly at the cart of gold, unable to tear his eyes away.
"You've heard about it, haven't you? That war between King Baal and the Fallen Angels?"
"Oh, I've heard rumors. How did it turn out?"
"Your news is woefully out of date! We won, of course!"
"Then why aren't you happy?" Barbatos asked in bewilderment. "Isn't winning a good thing?"
"It's *because* we won! They looted heaps of gold from the angels, too—so now, what makes gold rare or valuable anymore?" Morax fumed.
"Was there really that much?"
"You bet. Those high-and-mighty angels were dripping with the stuff—decked out in gold and silver from head to toe. You could just walk around and casually scoop up piles of it off the ground. And it's all authentic, straight-from-Heaven merchandise, too."
Barbatos let out a low whistle of amazement. Living in this remote corner of the realm, his access to news was limited; yet, more than the news of gold's devaluation, he was eager to learn the inside story behind that war between the demons and the Fallen Angels.
Regarding that host of angels, all he knew was that their initial fall from grace had triggered a massive, violent upheaval.
After all, the sheer magnitude of that cataclysmic event had shaken the very foundations of Hell—rocking the earth and sending tremors through the Nine Circles—coming just shy of turning the entire Underworld completely upside down. "I've heard angels are pretty formidable—that Lucifer fellow, back during the Holy War, he beat several Demon Kings to a pulp..." Barbatos lowered his voice as he asked Morax, "Didn't he possess six-sevenths of God's power? How did those Fallen Angels end up losing so easily?"
"Six-sevenths of God's power? What a colossal joke! God struck them down with a single blow," Morax scoffed disdainfully. "Naturally, our King Baal proved to be far superior!"
"Furthermore, throughout this entire war, that so-called 'Radiant Morning Star'—the undisputed greatest being across the Three Realms—never even made an appearance!"
"So where did he go?"
"Who knows? Perhaps he died of shame—that's exactly what King Baal told that Beelzebub fellow," Morax recounted vividly, speaking as if he had been present at the scene himself. His storytelling drew in even more demons eager for some gossip; swelling with pride, he clambered atop a wagon laden with gold and began waving his arms from the roof.
"When that six-winged Archangel heard this, his face turned as black as a storm cloud! Then, like a crow suddenly stripped of its wings, he plummeted straight down from the battlefield!"
"Once he fell, the remaining host of angels were utterly insignificant."
"The demons serving under King Azmodan defeated them with effortless ease!"
"And what about Asmodeus?"
"Asmodeus? Who's that?" Hearing the strange inquiry, Morax instinctively shot back a question of his own. He turned his gaze toward the source of that raspy voice—and froze.
The radiant angel was beautiful beyond all description; yet, his cold eyes held not a shred of emotion, as if he were staring at an inanimate object.
Sensing the shift in atmosphere, the surrounding demons scattered like frightened birds. Only the little demon who had asked the initial question remained cowering in place, watching as the Archangel advanced—step by step—toward the demon who had been spouting such arrogant nonsense.
"I ask you again: where has Asmodeus gone?"
His steps were as fluid as drifting clouds, yet they seemed to strike the earth with the force of ten thousand bolts of thunder. "Lu... Luci... Lucifer!" The bull-headed demon's legs went limp; he collapsed onto the wagon, frozen with terror. "I... I didn't know!"
"Is that so?" The angel let out a soft, gentle hum. Morax, captivated by that tender sound, couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.
Angels—they were always reasonable, weren't they? What had he been so afraid of?
Yet, with a mere wave of his hand, the supposedly "reasonable" angel lifted the wagon—along with the demon and the celestial treasures originally belonging to the angels—suspending them all in mid-air.
"Wait! Wait!" Morax cried out in sheer panic. "You were asking about Asmodeus, right? I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything!"
Screaming from his perch in the air, he spilled every secret he knew. His deep violet eyes gazed down at the angel below, filled with desperate hope that he might be lowered back to the ground.
However, the angel merely regarded him with cold indifference. His lips—which appeared so soft and tender—parted slightly to form the shape of a single word: *"Boom."*
"No! Please—I beg you!" the demon shrieked in despair.
With a sudden, explosive blast, the demon—along with the entire wagon-load of gold and jewels—detonated in mid-air.
A shimmering shower of golden dust drifted down from the sky, as if a rain of pure gold had begun to fall.
Lucifer turned his gaze toward a young demon standing nearby—a creature whose eyes held not a shred of fear as he watched the scene unfold—and asked:
"Why didn't you run?"
The demon tilted his head, regarding him with eyes that gleamed with fascination.
Lucifer walked over to him and looked down at the strands of his own hair clutched tightly in the demon's arms.
"Why did you trade my hair for gold?"
The demon hugged the lock of hair even tighter, glaring at Lucifer with the same fierce suspicion a dragon might cast upon a thief attempting to steal its hoard.
"Mammon!"
That single name stirred a memory within Lucifer. He looked at the string of translucent crimson agate beads adorning the young demon's wrist, and the murderous intent simmering in his heart gradually began to fade.
"So it's you, Mammon." He reached out to gently stroke the young demon's hair. Years had passed, and the world had changed, yet this demon remained exactly as he had been in his childhood.
Filthy.
And utterly enamored with glittering gold and treasure.
He lost the inclination to bicker with the little demon; leaving the hair where it was, he turned and walked away—his footsteps heavy—marching steadily toward a distant horizon. Mammon watched him, appearing to ponder for a moment before choosing to follow.
Lucifer naturally noticed the little demon trailing close behind; he paid him no mind, merely offering a cool remark:
"If you wish to follow me, at the very least, learn to speak first."
"Mammon!"
"From this day forth, if those are the only two words you utter, I shall no longer acknowledge you."
The little demon's footsteps faltered for a moment; yet, glancing back at the rain of gold cascading across the entirety of Hell, his look of hesitation hardened into resolve.
Follow him! I must follow him!
He is the sacred path leading to gold; by following him, I shall find riches and treasure!
Most importantly—he cast a glance at the string of red agate beads encircling his wrist.
I have seen it once again...
"Mammon... Gold!"
"Simply adding one or two extra words will not suffice," Lucifer stated coldly. He paid the demon no further heed, for his mind was heavy with care, leaving him scarcely able to muster a smile.
Both Beelzebub and Asmodeus lay wounded, their resolve shaken by the deceitful whispers of the demons; inwardly, he reproached the two Archangels for their unreliability—their failure to protect the angels who had fallen into this realm.
However, after traveling swiftly for several miles, his pace suddenly slowed.
The little demon trailing behind failed to halt in time, nearly crashing into him; he glared at Lucifer with evident displeasure.
"Mammon!"
True to his word, Lucifer ignored the demon's indignation, fixing his gaze instead upon the pitch-black terrain.
"I am no savior."
The doubts voiced by the Fallen Angels still echoed in his ears; he spoke abruptly, capturing Mammon's attention.
"Is this world truly incapable of turning without the presence of any single individual? Whom, then, could I possibly save?"
"Who is there to save them?"
"Adam? The Messiah? God?" A flicker of mockery escaped the corner of his eye. "No."
"There is no one who can save them."
"Save for themselves."
If the Fallen Angels could not grasp this fundamental truth, then—even were he to resolve the current crisis—they would inevitably repeat these same absurd doubts in the future.
With this thought in mind, Lucifer cast aside his sense of urgency, resolving to seize this very opportunity to compel them toward true clarity. Concealing his true form, he wandered through the realm—pausing, then moving on—with Mammon trailing behind him, until they had traversed nearly the entirety of Hell.
It was not until then that the place where the stars had fallen once again appeared before his eyes.
By now, three months had passed since the mass descent of the angels.
Pandemonium—the very site of the angels' fall—had become, in these times, Hell's most popular venue for entertainment.
The Angelic Coliseum was situated right there.
After capturing the fallen angels Beelzebub and Asmodeus, the demons—citing the collective safety of all the fallen angels as their pretext—had confined them in cages. Each day, they staged spectacles wherein angels were forced to battle against monstrous beasts, all for the demons' amusement.
To heighten the thrill, they further mandated that every other angel—those not currently performing—must take their seats in the stands to serve as the audience.
Whether as performers or as spectators, for the once-haughty angels, both roles were fraught with the utmost humiliation; indeed, it was impossible to say which was the more degrading.
Furthermore, to quell any potential uprisings among the angels, the troops of the Demon General Samigina were garrisoned not far from the site.
Yet, three months had elapsed, and the anticipated rebellion had failed to materialize.
With Lucifer gone, the fallen angels had become as pliable and easily manipulated as lumps of dough.
"It seems I gave them too much credit."
Such was the sigh of the King-class demon Agares after witnessing one of these spectacles; having done so, he promptly lost all interest in the fallen angels. In stark contrast to him, however, the other demons remained wildly enthusiastic about frequenting the place.
They had erected a perimeter fence at the site, fashioned from twisted iron barbs. Affixed to the exterior was a crude iron placard bearing a sign—upon which were scrawled the words "Angels' Paradise"—welcoming demons from far and wide to visit and partake in the entertainment.
Lucifer gazed at the twisted, hideous lettering on the sign and remained silent for a long while.
Three months—he had believed that would be ample time for the fallen angels to come to their senses.
The reality, however, proved far worse than he had imagined.
"Mammon."
"I'm here." The little demon shuffled over, his gait unsteady; still unaccustomed to the confinement of his shoes, he felt the urge to kick them off with nearly every step.
"You look terrifying," he remarked, gazing up at Lucifer. "Why is that?" "
"Because of this land."
"This land?" Mammon glanced around. "I really like it here—truly."
His gaze lingered on the gravel beneath his feet, and a glint flickered in his eyes.
Lucifer did not catch the implied meaning behind his words; even if he had, he had no time to dwell on it. His gaze remained fixed—heavy and somber—upon the encampment of Samigina's forces. Located roughly two kilometers away, they had erected a tower there.
Samael and several other Fallen Angels who had attempted to rebel were being held captive within it.
"Come here, Mammon. I need you to do something for me."
As night fell upon the mortal realm, Mammon stepped through the Western Gate of the Angels' Paradise. Posing as a demon tourist, he was quickly greeted by the official in charge.
The mid-ranking demon—whose head was distinctly triangular in shape—scrutinized him closely. His violet eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary upon Mammon's handsome face; it was a well-known fact that the higher a demon's rank, the more comely their appearance tended to be.
Even if they were not naturally attractive, high-ranking demons could employ advanced illusionary arts to enhance their looks—unlike the likes of *him*, who were forever confined to their own hideous forms.
"Well, look at that—a newcomer! Is this your first time here?"
Mammon nodded and tossed him a violet-hued magic crystal. The potent demonic energy contained within it made the surrounding demons drool with envy; to a demon, such an object was a treasure of true utility. Mammon felt no pang of regret; per Lucifer's instructions, he stood to reap a threefold return on his investment. He smiled—and for a fleeting instant, his fair, unblemished face appeared as beautiful as that of an angel.
The demon who had received the crystal smiled in return. Tucking the high-quality gem securely into his robes, he looked into those deep, obsidian demonic eyes and spoke with fawning eagerness:
"Where would you like to go first? The bathhouse? The casino?" "Or perhaps the Angelic Coliseum?" the demonic steward asked him.
The fallen angels bowed their heads in unison, making way for the two demons; their humble demeanor stood in stark contrast to the only angel he had ever known.
"In that case, let's wager... actually, no—let's skip the casino."
As if conversing with another voice, Mammon turned to the demonic steward and said, "I'd like to look around on my own. You're rather in the way here—oh, am I not supposed to say that? But you really *are* in the way. Would you mind stepping aside?"
His words could hardly be described as polite, prompting the demon—who had been hoping to extract a few more magic crystals from him—to offer a strained smile.
"Of course. As you wish."
And so...