The Descendants - Rise of the Reaper Army

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Thirty Three

Melloch knew what had to be done. Once Lucifer was out of the way he would surely inherit the earthly plain and be crowned prince of the second realm. Satan would be pleased with his defeat of the human race and when all of God’s creatures were decimated, the world above would truly become Hell on Earth. But he could not be blamed for Lucifer’s death. Oh no. His hands must remain clean or his Master would be oh so angry and that was not what he wanted. He longed to be the Dark Lord’s favourite son, to revel in his adoration as Lucifer had for so many eons. Soon it would be his turn. Melloch felt the first wave of excitement rush through him. It was wicked and deceitful and murderously delicious. In his private quarters he sat back and imagined the moment and over again, fantasising about the look on Lucifer’s face as he gasped his final breath. The surprise that would force his eyes wide open and the pain he would feel. Oh the pain. It gave Melloch more pleasure than he had ever felt. He closed his eyes and imagined Lucifer screaming in agony, his beautiful face twisting and contorting like the tortured souls below. He imaged those angelic wings trampled and dirty, his golden hair muddied. No longer would he shine, no longer would he radiate. Lovely Lucifer would be stained, soiled and broken.

And Melloch, how he would smile.

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