5 years later.

Billions died when humanity learned the truth. Not of demons. But of what we were worth to them.

Nations collapsed overnight. Cities didn't fall to monsters. They were sacrificed – by their own leaders, by men with trembling hands and launch codes. Karachi. Mumbai. Delhi.

Wiped clean.

Incinerated. As if nuclear fire could cauterise the wound. We fought.

We lost.

Now the only choice is to kneel.

And suffer.

Africa has gone dark.

No signals. No borders. No hope. Only the crawling spread of Lilith's children—monsters born from once-human wombs. They do not march. They bloom. Forests that breathe. Cities that walk. Queens who whisper lullabies to the unborn.

Seoul still shines.

Its skyline gleams. Its streets remain clean. But no one wakes up there. Asmodeus cloaked the city in a dream that never ends. A maze of pleasure, fear, and longing where time folds in on itself. Millions walk through perfect days – unaware they've died a thousand times. No screams. No blood. Only the quiet madness of paradise that eats you from the inside.

China bombed itself to buy time.

Now it glows. Still. Silent. Dead. But in the ashes, faith thrives. The Church of Moloch took root where nothing else should grow. Western Europe followed soon after. Sermons rise from shattered cathedrals, turning rubble into altars. There are no governments now. Only the Word. At its head: Ethan Campbell – once a man. Now Moloch's prophet. Behind him, Verrine, bloated with grace, dripping sanctity like pus. And Zagan, the fox-eyed alchemist, who rewrites rebels into saints with golden veins and no names.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

They do not conquer. They convert. They rewrite.

And they are winning.

To the east, Agrath reigns.

The Queen of Blood moves through Eastern Europe like a virus that remembers hunger. She does not build. She does not speak. She feeds. Villages wake to find their rivers red. Their children gone. Their reflections weeping. Her servants are beautiful. And always thirsty.

America no longer remembers it was a nation.

Belail fell from the sky wreathed in holy fire. His wings are light. His sermons are pain. They say he was once an angel. They say he still is.

A thousand churches rose overnight – cathedrals of bone and burnt flesh. The faithful chant without sleep. They wait for God to return. The new United States of Grace.

And something is listening.

There are whispers of blood sport in the heart of the continent.

Ruined stadiums echo with screams. Contractor death matches. Soul-forged slaughter. They say Orobas waits there. Unchallenged. Unmatched. A general of Moloch. A demon of war, built of silence and muscle. He does not hunt. He waits. No one who seeks him returns.

And then there is Belphegor.

His cities are not ruins. They function. Trains run. Markets open. The lights stay on.

But underneath— Basements never mapped. Tunnels never sealed— He waits.

He does not rage. He whispers. He does not lead. He watches. He offers pleasure, compliance, survival – at a price no one can name until it's too late. You don't know you've entered his domain. You only realise when your violation and shame becomes the air.

And beneath one such city— Still smiling. Still clean. Still safe— Max Jaeger is still breathing.

He is not free. He is not whole.

He is the engine that feeds their miracles.

Each day, they bring him another life. A child. A soldier. A soul not yet broken. They beg him to awaken them. Or they scream when he refuses.

He never says yes.

But when the collars tighten— When the blades come out— When someone else starts to suffer—

He burns.

Not out of mercy. Out of rage. Out of shame. Out of a fire he no longer controls.

One soul a day. Sometimes two. Each one leaves a scar behind his ribs. Each one is a name he will never forget.

He closes his eyes. He bites down the scream. And he gives them fire.

Because if he doesn't— They'll kill someone else. And make him watch.

Again. And again. And again.

The Grimm Institute is all that remains.

Steel and salt. Secrets and blood. The last exorcists. The last researchers. The last place where truth is recorded. Humanity's last resistance.

They are not winning. They are not whole. But they remember.

And after five years of dead ends, false leads, and silence—

They know where Max is.

And they're going to bring him home.

Or end his suffering.

One way or another.

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