I'm The Devil - Chapter 274

Chapter 274: Grieving Egypt

The sun rose slowly over Egypt, casting long, heavy shadows across the land, now draped in an unnatural silence. The air felt thick, as if weighed down by a grief so vast it could not be spoken. It clung to the city, seeping through walls and across fields, filling the empty spaces with a hollow, aching stillness.

Pharaoh emerged from his palace, his face ashen and hollow. His steps were slower than usual, each one laden with the weight of the night’s horrors. His eyes, rimmed with the red of sleepless hours, stared ahead, unfocused and empty, as if he still struggled to understand, to believe what had befallen his kingdom. For the first time, his regal bearing seemed shattered; he appeared not as a ruler, but as a man—one whose heart had been torn open and left to bleed.

Around him, the wails of parents and families echoed, filling the streets with cries of anguish. People clutched the bodies of their sons, holding them close as if trying to coax warmth back into their lifeless forms. Mothers rocked back and forth, faces buried in their hands, while fathers stood frozen, unable to move or speak, their shoulders slumped under the weight of their loss. Some staggered through the streets, aimless, eyes unfocused, their minds struggling to grasp the incomprehensible tragedy. A grief so deep, it rendered them voiceless, their breaths shallow, gasping, as though the very air was too heavy to breathe.

Pharaoh clenched his fists, his eyes hardening with each painful cry that reached him. But when he returned his gaze to the palace steps, his face softened—eyes glassy with tears he would not shed. He swallowed, his throat tight and dry, feeling the bitter taste of regret on his tongue. For all his power, all his defiance, he had not been able to protect his own.

From behind him, his wife stepped forward, her own face etched with grief, her eyes swollen and red. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he did not pull away. Instead, he reached up and held it, clutching her fingers as if finding in her touch the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“Enough, Pharaoh,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. “Let them go. No more blood, no more death.”

Pharaoh’s lips parted, a faint quiver betraying the turmoil beneath his stoic mask. He looked down, avoiding her gaze, and for a moment, he seemed to waver, caught between pride and agony. But the faces of his people, hollow and broken, flashed before him, and he could not bear it. He exhaled a shaky breath and gave a single nod, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Summon Moses,” he rasped, voice hollow. “Tell him… tell him they are free to go.”

—

Moses and Aaron stood in the palace courtyard, their faces impassive as they watched Pharaoh approach. Moses’ eyes were dark, fixed on Pharaoh with a somber intensity, and though his expression remained calm, there was a sorrow that lingered in his gaze, a flicker of compassion for a man brought so low.

Pharaoh stopped a few feet away, his breath labored, his eyes glistening with barely contained emotion. For a long moment, the two men stood in silence, their gazes locked, a thousand unspoken words passing between them.

At last, Pharaoh spoke, his voice hoarse and broken. “Go,” he whispered, the word almost swallowed by the weight of his suffering. “Take your people, and go. Leave Egypt… and do not look back.”

Moses inclined his head, his expression solemn. “As you command, Pharaoh. We will depart at dawn.”

Pharaoh’s jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes briefly, as if gathering the last shreds of his composure. When he opened them again, his gaze was resolute, though his voice trembled. “And take this curse with you. Let no plague follow you back, Moses. May your God be satisfied… with this.”

A flicker of sorrow crossed Moses’ face, but he said nothing, offering only a silent nod. He turned to leave, and as he did, his movements were slow, deliberate, each step heavy with the knowledge of the lives lost, the suffering endured. Aaron placed a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder, and together they walked from the palace, their figures casting long shadows in the dawn’s pale light.

—

The news of their freedom spread quickly among the Israelites, and though there was relief, joy was tempered by caution and grief. Families gathered their belongings, their faces a mixture of hope and exhaustion. Mothers soothed their children, whispering soft assurances that soon, they would be free. Fathers packed quietly, their hands moving with steady purpose, though their eyes held a sadness born of long years of hardship.

As the sun began its ascent, painting the horizon with streaks of pink and gold, the Israelites began to move as one—a vast procession of men, women, and children, all bound by a single, shared purpose. Their faces were solemn, their expressions a blend of awe and trepidation as they looked ahead, toward the uncertain road before them.

In the distance, Pharaoh watched them go, his face an unreadable mask. His wife stood beside him, her hand slipping into his, and together, they bore witness to the departure of a people once enslaved. As the last of the Israelites disappeared over the horizon, Pharaoh’s grip tightened, his jaw clenching with a mix of rage and sorrow, though he said nothing. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken grief.

The city of Egypt, meanwhile, lay in mourning. The people moved through the streets like shadows, their eyes haunted, their voices hushed. The once-bustling city felt hollow, the echo of Azrael’s passing lingering in every corner, every breath, a reminder of the power that had come upon them like a storm and left just as swiftly.

Bast moved slowly down the streets of Egypt, her feline eyes gleaming with quiet anger as she took in the scene around her. She was cloaked in a flowing, midnight-black robe that brushed the ground as she walked, her gaze flickering over the grief-stricken faces of her people—the very ones who had worshipped her, brought her offerings, placed their faith in her. Each step she took was heavy with a restrained wrath and a simmering sorrow.

“What happened here?” she murmured, her voice soft yet laced with a dangerous edge. She didn’t need to raise her voice to command attention; even in sorrow, heads turned as she passed, drawn by the quiet power in her presence.

Beside her, Aphrodite moved gracefully, her expression a rare blend of shock and sadness. Her usual warmth, the captivating beauty that made mortals lose their breath, seemed dulled by the grief she saw etched into every face. She reached out gently to touch the shoulder of a woman cradling her lifeless child, a hint of anger mingling with the empathy in her gaze.

“Nobody knows for certain,” Aphrodite said, her voice carrying a sorrowful note that was all the more piercing for its sincerity. Her normally soft, radiant smile was replaced by a tight frown, her eyes narrowing as she looked toward the east. “But everyone seems to believe Lucifer was involved… one way or another.”

Hestia, trailing just behind, paused and raised her hand slightly, as if to still the air. Her face was calm but unyielding, her gaze sharp as she studied the devastation around her. She looked not only at the people but at the city itself—the empty homes, the lifeless streets. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tight with silent resolve. She was the keeper of hearth and home, and the sight of so many families torn apart seemed to kindle a fire within her.

“There’s only one way to know the truth,” she said quietly, her words carrying the weight of her determination. “We find Lucifer. Immediately.”

Bast nodded, her expression turning hard as steel. The slight twitch of her fingers betrayed her eagerness to confront him, to demand answers, but her movements remained poised. “Then we waste no time,” she said, her voice low and deadly.

Together, the four goddesses exchanged a glance of shared purpose, their faces reflecting an unspoken unity. They turned as one, their figures cutting a striking image against the mourning city. Bast’s robes billowed around her like shadows; Aphrodite’s golden aura seemed dimmed but still glowed softly in the pale morning light; and Hestia, her steps grounded, walked with the unbreakable resolve of someone who would face down fire itself.