(Beelzebub Arc – Chapter 6 of 7)
The first punch didn't land.
It cracked the wind instead.
Lucen slid back, boots scraping the asphalt as a pressure wave tore down the road behind him. Wrath had barely moved—but his raw aggression filled every inch of the air like smoke.
The city was already collapsing into madness.
Two blocks over, people were screaming—fighting, bleeding, destroying. The poison of Wrath didn't need words. It traveled like instinct. Like something ancient and viral. And it was spreading fast.
Lucen's mind raced.
He couldn't let the fight grow. Couldn't let it become a war.
Control.
That's what his monk father always said.
Not victory. Not strength.
Control.
Lucen raised a hand—focusing his will.
Lust.
A pulse of invisible energy rippled toward Wrath, warping the light, dulling the sense of battle. The effect was subtle. Like putting a silk cloth over a blade.
Wrath's eyes flickered. His steps slowed—not stopped—but blurred, just for a second.
Lucen used the moment.
He charged in—using Charity to shield himself from the heat, and Gluttony to absorb the wild blasts of rage that flowed from Wrath's body like smoke from a furnace.
Their fists collided.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
Wrath's body was wrapped in infernal fury. Every strike was like being hit by a collapsing sun. Lucen's absorbed rage converted to bursts of strength—but barely. He was still being pushed back.
"Is that all?" Wrath grinned, his jaw cracking open far wider than any human's should.
"You rely too much on borrowed virtue, Zaqel. You're still hiding behind human clothes."
Lucen's jaw was bleeding. He didn't bother wiping it.
"I'm hiding behind control," he said. "You wouldn't understand."
He spun. Landed a strike to Wrath's ribs—burning with redirected Gluttony. The sin didn't just absorb—it fed back when needed, and Wrath's own fury became a backlash.
He growled. A deep, ancient sound.
"You think you're clever," Wrath snarled. "You think cleverness will save you when you're drowning in your own guilt."
Then—
He roared.
A roar that shattered windows, turned cars upside down, and cracked concrete like glass. Lucen stumbled—blood rushing from his ears, vision blurred. Wrath walked through the sonic chaos untouched, face twisted into a demonic grin.
Lucen tried to move. But Wrath caught him by the throat.
"You know what makes me different from the others?" he whispered.
"I'm not hiding."
He hurled Lucen into a wall. The building caved inward. Lucen hit the floor, gasping, coughing dust and blood.
Charity was cracking.
Lust was fading.
Gluttony was unstable.
He had nothing left but his will.
But just as Wrath walked forward—ready to end it—
A voice rang out.
"You're not a god. Just a tantrum with muscle."
It was Scarne.
He stood, bruised, armed with nothing but a long pipe and his scarred determination. Behind him, citizens were fleeing. Some were helping others. Some still fighting.
Scarne had gathered the ones who resisted Wrath's influence.
The ones still trying.
Wrath blinked.
"You?"
Scarne smirked, eyes gleaming. "Yeah. Me."
And with no fear, he rushed in and slammed the pipe across Wrath's chest.
It bent.
Didn't hurt him.
But it distracted him.
Enough.
Lucen rose again.
Not as a monk. Not as a devil.
As both.
He let go of the three powers—
—and called upon one of the Heavenly Virtues gifted to him by the Archangels during his fall.
Diligence.
His body didn't glow.
But it refused to fall again.
Lucen moved faster. Cleaner. No wasted motion. Every strike was calculated. Every dodge surgical. Diligence gave him perfect mental clarity. No doubt. No hesitation. No anger.
Wrath couldn't match it.
He was powerful—but wild.
Lucen was exhausted—but focused.
He dodged Wrath's flaming hook, flipped over his shoulder, and slammed both hands into Wrath's back—pushing Gluttony into overdrive.
The Sin of Gluttony became a vacuum, pulling all of Wrath's chaotic fury into itself.
Wrath screamed—roared again—but this time it cracked inward.
His own rage turned on him.
He fell.
Crashing through the road, embedded halfway into the street, twitching with sparks of red energy. The chaos across the city paused, like a storm hesitating.
Lucen stood over him, breathing hard, fists clenched.
"I don't want your throne," he said softly.
Wrath, half-conscious, muttered, "You'll take it anyway…"
Lucen reached out, hand glowing.
He touched Wrath's forehead—not to kill, but to claim.
The mark of Wrath burned itself into Lucen's body. A third seal. A third burden.
Another piece of Hell in his soul.
The city fell quiet.
For now.
–
Later That Night…
Lucen sat on the rooftop. His coat off. Shirt soaked in blood and sweat.
Scarne approached with two cans of soda. Tossed one over.
Lucen caught it.
They drank in silence.
Then—
Scarne spoke.
"You good?"
Lucen stared into the stars.
"No."
Pause.
"But I'm not giving up."
—
To be continued in Chapter 26 – "The Echoes of Violence"