To survive in a cruel world, one must adapt to its cruelty and then surpass it.
"Brother Valis, I've been waiting for so long!" Alice called from a distance, still squatting on the ground.
Azazel glanced at Valis, whose face was knotted in misery. What had become of this pitiful angel?
Valis's once radiant aura had dimmed, and although his wings had filled out, they remained a dull gray.
The most significant change, however, was in his spirit. Standing before Azazel with a flushed face and averted gaze, the former angel's righteousness and conviction had shattered in an instant. After witnessing the overwhelming power and conviction of Saint Lawrence, Valis was utterly defeated by the angel turned to pulp. He had lost all confidence in himself, becoming fractured and lost. Now, he could only wallow in the darkness bestowed by Azazel, using it to shield his eyes, to numb his senses. It was certain; the archangel had embarked on a dark path.
A path of perversion, where he deliberately neglected to teach a girl how to clean herself; a path of evil, where he did not correct a girl's public urination. Perhaps Alice's current state was precisely what Valis intended.
Valis was enjoying his descent, his journey down the dark path was quite a spectacle.
But there are many dark paths, and Azazel did not favor the one Valis had chosen.
This was not the kind of fallen angel Azazel wanted. Even in their fall, angels should not be so pitiable.
Looking at Valis, with an almost unbearable pity, Azazel sighed and patted his shoulder, "Valis, do you know what dark evil is?"
Caught off-guard by this sudden, nonsensical question, Valis first became wary, then pondered, "What is dark evil? Isn't evil just doing whatever one pleases? You even said I could make her call me 'father' if I wanted. I... I was only tempted by you."
Azazel raised his hand, cutting off Valis's explanation, and pierced him with a gaze as sharp as nails, "Dark evil, my friend, is elegant and sublime. It is art, a fine craft, taste, the refinement of reason. Show some class, my fallen angel. You are my fallen angel, not a lecherous clown. You should not be this way."
A lecherous clown! Such humiliation was almost too much for Valis to bear. His anger surged, his face reddened, muscles twitched, and for a moment, Azazel thought the angel would lose control and draw his sword from the void. But after a long pause, Valis calmed down, "Hard to hear, but you're right. I shouldn't be like this. What should I do?"
Azazel leaped up and roared, "You start by teaching her how to wipe her own ass! Then teach her to use the toilet for peeing and shitting! If I see another angel relieving themselves anywhere in my fortress, I swear I'll pluck your feathers to make cushions!"
"I'm on it, right away," Valis scurried off to attend to the lewd angelic girl.
"Wait!" Azazel called out to Valis. "One more thing."
"What is it?"
"Hmm." Azazel pondered for a moment, then waved him off, "Never mind, it's nothing. Go on."
After turning away, Azazel strolled down the corridor with a calm demeanor. In truth, he wasn't angry, but sometimes showing anger made teaching subordinates easier. The training of the archangel Alice was going well; after the killing exercises, she should be ready for the battlefield. And Valis's tastes seemed quite intriguing—if it weren't such a critical period, Azazel would have enjoyed observing from a distance.
At the end of the corridor, Azazel reached an exposed spiral staircase climbing up the castle's side. With no handrails, only monstrous demonic statues lined the ascent. Azazel climbed, round after round, until the open sky and scorched earth stretching to the horizon came into view, revealing just how high he had climbed.
From this height, Azazel could see the River Styx and the charred land beyond. Turning back, he sat down on the stairs, simply gazing at the sunset hanging at the edge of the sky.
This sunset was a rare spectacle in the first layer of Hell. For seven months of the year, the sun hovered near the western horizon, never fully setting or rising—an eternal sunset over the wasteland. When the seventh month ended, and the sun finally set, a long night ensued, dominating the remaining five months. Hell's night was profound; its sky bereft of moons, only a few stars symbolizing the Seven Lords of Hell twinkled faintly, the only brightness in the infernal night. This cycle would continue until the dawn of the new year, when the wasteland of Hell would greet its annual sunrise.
Thus, in Hell, there were only two times: the impending sunset and the aftermath.
Azazel stared at the ancient sun, seemingly on the brink of death, unwavering. He loved this sunset; if there was anything in the first layer of Hell that Azazel had grown fond of, it was this sunset.
Unlike the harsh sun hanging high, the sunset never hurt the eyes. It bled red like blood, yet its light was gentle. One could always gaze directly at it, admiring it. Different from the leaping, ascending morning sun, the sunset carried a different air—stately, twilight, reminiscent of death, serene.
And the days to witness the sunset were numbered, as the only sunset of the year approached.
"After dark, don't go out," a phrase not just from human mothers but from devilish ones as well.
This was also why Azazel urgently needed a fortress. After the sunset, Hell became more dangerous, the wilderness fraught with perils lurking in the dark, becoming more terrifying and lethal. Especially during such tumultuous times, Azazel needed a safe haven.
And he was not content to achieve nothing.
Azazel still remembered how the demon Abaddon referred to him—a mere ant.
The stifling wind blew past, toying with his black hair. The lifelike demon statues spiraling upward seemed ready to leap out and cause harm, some with dried blood still on their teeth. Azazel had heard from the butler Robin that these statues were the former lord's trophies, once powerful demons turned to stone after their defeat, now forever guarding the fortress.
Azazel stood, dusted his trousers, and proceeded upward, soon reaching his destination—a grand golden door at the top of the spiral staircase. Without knocking, he pushed the door open and entered.
This was Robin's abode.
Azazel's blood raced at the sight before him, a scene filled with temptation and beauty that could drive one mad. Yet he restrained himself, knowing that what he needed most was not this.
So Azazel appeared calm as he casually took a seat on a sofa, crossed his legs, and asked, "Are you working? Am I disturbing you?"
"Though you are the master, I would think you still ought to learn basic etiquette," Robin replied from her bed, her cheeks still flushed, as she tried to cover her naked form with a sheer sheet, far too transparent to hide anything from Azazel's gaze. Her skin was smooth as satin, her breasts modestly curved; her figure was perfection. "You should learn to knock. Stop looking; it's quite rude to treat a butler this way, and you are interrupting my work."
"Interrupting? Don't say that; it hurts my feelings. I was just hoping to observe your work, I promise not to make a sound."
"That won't do! Please leave at once," Robin insisted, one hand covering her chest, the other pointing to the door. Her cheeks were rosy, like succulent apples, tempting Azazel to take a bite.
"Why can she lie in your bed writhing, yet I can't even sit quietly on the sofa? That's unfair."
The "she" Azazel referred to was the archangel Genoa, who was lying bare on Robin's bed, her skin marked with peculiar runes drawn with the blood of the innocent. These red runes pulsed with her breath as if alive, soon to be etched into her bones. Noticing Azazel's gaze, Robin realized she needed to explain, or he wouldn't leave, "These are magical runes drawn with the blood of the innocent. In three days, they will vanish from the skin, but that's just an illusion. They will seep into the flesh, gradually deepening until they're imprinted onto the bones. Although time-consuming, it ensures complete control over the subject's life and death."
Azazel marveled, "Such a powerful art. We can capture many angels and mark them all, forming a mighty angelic legion."
Robin shook her head, "That won't be possible. The cost is too high; the blood of the innocent isn't as plentiful as the blood in the streams. This art is taxing; I can only perform it once a year. I did it this time as a special gift for you."
Genoa lay limp at Robin's side, her angelic power seemingly bound by the runes. Each time she struggled, the runes flashed, and Robin continued to torment her.
Azazel's real reluctance to leave lay in the sight before him: the red-winged succubus Robin intertwined with the naked archangel Genoa. Their beautiful bodies entangled, Genoa's moans never ceased, a phallic toy inserted between her legs, fluids spurting out with a squelching sound, filling the room with a lewd atmosphere.
Such a rare and erotic scene was not to be missed. Upon entering, Azazel had nearly lost control and pounced.
Robin ignored Azazel, wrapping herself in sheer fabric before resuming her 'work'. She caressed Genoa's smooth body, one hand constantly teasing at the root of her thighs, manipulating their toy, while the other kneaded Genoa's breasts.
Soon overcome by pleasure, Genoa cried out, arching her back high, every inch of her flesh trembling. Fluid gushed out with the toy, and the sheets glistened with droplets. The climax lasted briefly, then as the pleasure faded with her cries, she fell back onto the bed. Exhausted from the soul-deep screams, her strength and resistance drained in an instant. Now she lay like a puddle, her chest heaving, eyes unfocused on the ceiling, seemingly devoid of thought.
"You devil, she actually climaxed," Robin said with a hint of dissatisfaction.
"Wait, were you two supposed to reach 'that' together?" Azazel's eyes were full of anticipation.
"Oh? What are you thinking? It's not like that. This is part of the training. I must torment her, shatter everything precious within her, everything she once held dear and hid away. Her pride, confidence, duty, family, love, and compassion—all must be broken into pieces. I need her to crave only pleasure and loyalty to you. After my guidance, she will no longer be an angel. She can be your dog, a tool, a plaything, whatever you wish, but she will no longer be a person."
"Oh, how cruel, yet I can't wait to see it," Azazel mused. Was this the so-called slave training? He was close to worshipping Robin.
"If you like it, then please leave now," Robin ordered once more.
"What's the matter? Can't I watch?"
"I'm here to train her, not to pleasure her!" With that, Robin flicked her finger, and a rope whipped towards Genoa, striking her body. The archangel, too weak to dodge, let out a heart-wrenching moan. Soon, a red lash appeared on her pale skin.
"She's enjoying it," Robin spat, "The training can't continue with you here. You must leave."
"Me? What does this have to do with me?" Azazel shrugged innocently.
"Your presence excites her. The gaze of a man watching her being toyed with thrills her," Robin said, glaring at the nodding Genoa, "Hmph, why are you shaking your head? Isn't it true? You can lie with your mouth and heart, but your body can't lie. Look at how you were just now, listen to your cries—you're so lewd!"
"Then perhaps I could help? You know, the cosmic truth—everything comes in threes," Azazel offered with a hint of mischief.
Robin's response was icy, "It would be best if you left immediately."
Reluctantly, Azazel began to shuffle towards the door. Just as he reached the threshold, he spun around to ask, "So, she really likes it when I'm watching?"
"Undoubtedly. But I'm not here to serve her pleasure. How could I let her enjoy this so much?"
"Alright then, I'll leave. See you later."
"Goodbye."
The moment Azazel stepped out, the door slammed shut with force behind him.
With a mere gesture from Robin, the door closed with a bang, followed by the sound of a metal lock engaging. "I'll remember to lock the door this time. Now, my little angel, let's continue," Robin cooed as she approached Genoa, whispering hotly into her ear, "I've just thought of a wonderful idea. Would you like to know what it is? I'll tell you. What do you say we reach the pinnacle together? This time, you can't just enjoy yourself alone."
Blushing, Genoa nodded faintly, her eyes still tightly shut.
Azazel, frustrated, glanced back at the firmly shut door, then looked around.
Aside from the demonic stone statues that could be found throughout the castle, there was nothing else.
So, Azazel tiptoed to the door, trying his best to make no sound, hoping to find a crack in the expertly crafted barrier.
Ultimately, Azazel was disappointed to find the door's craftsmanship was indeed excellent.