I'm The Devil - Chapter 296

Chapter 296: Back To The Aesir Realm
The skies above the Aesir realm shimmered with hues of gold and azure, a perpetual dawn bathing the land in divine light. As Lucifer and Nezha descended from the void between realms, their arrival was heralded by a ripple in the air—a disruption in the realm’s otherwise tranquil energy. The moment their feet touched the gleaming bridge of Bifröst, a low hum resonated through the ether, and within seconds, a figure materialized before them.

Heimdall.

The Watchman of the Gods stood tall, his gleaming armor catching the ethereal light, every line of his form exuding authority. His golden eyes—bright and piercing—narrowed slightly as they fixed on Lucifer. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other clutching the horn of Gjallarhorn, which seemed to vibrate faintly in his grasp. His posture was rigid, like a statue carved from celestial marble, but the slight twitch in his jaw betrayed his unease.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” Heimdall said, his voice deep and steady, though it lacked the usual sternness with which he addressed intruders. He inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture of guarded respect. “You are not welcome here. State your purpose before I alert the Allfather.”

Lucifer smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sent a ripple of tension through the air. His wings folded neatly behind him, their shadowy edges a stark contrast against the radiant Bifröst. He took a single step forward, the sound of his boots echoing faintly on the crystalline bridge. “Ah, Heimdall,” Lucifer began, his tone rich and smooth, like silk gliding over steel. “Ever the diligent gatekeeper. How is it that you still haven’t tired of this monotonous duty?”

Heimdall’s grip on his sword tightened, though he did not draw it. His golden eyes flickered with a mix of apprehension and defiance. “My duty is eternal,” he replied evenly, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. “And I will carry it out, even if it means standing in your way.”

Behind Lucifer, Nezha stood silently, his fiery aura subdued but still flickering like embers in the wake of a storm. His golden eyes shifted between the two figures, studying the tension that coiled in the space between them. He could feel the weight of Heimdall’s gaze occasionally flicker to him—a brief glance, as though assessing the boy’s purpose.

Lucifer chuckled softly, the sound carrying a dangerous edge. “Standing in my way?” he repeated, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, Heimdall, you should know better. I haven’t come to wage war—not today, at least.”

Heimdall’s expression remained stoic, though a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. His gaze flickered briefly to Nezha, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And him?” he asked, nodding toward the boy. “Does he speak for you?”

Nezha straightened at the remark, his grip on his spear tightening. He opened his mouth to respond, but Lucifer raised a hand, silencing him with a graceful gesture. “He’s with me,” Lucifer said, his voice calm but firm. “That’s all you need to know.”

The Watchman’s jaw tightened further, but he did not argue. Instead, he took a half-step forward, his posture bristling with suppressed energy. “You still haven’t answered my question,” Heimdall said, his tone sharper now, though still laced with caution. “Why are you here, Morningstar?”

Lucifer’s smirk widened, and he spread his arms slightly, his coat billowing as though carried by an unseen breeze. “I’m here to speak with an old friend,” he said, his voice carrying a note of mockery. “Tell me, Heimdall, where is Loki these days? I’d imagine he’s not far—troublemakers tend to linger near the edges of chaos.”

At the mention of Loki’s name, Heimdall’s eyes hardened, and his grip on Gjallarhorn tightened. For a brief moment, his composure slipped, and a flicker of something—fear? anger?—passed across his face. “Loki is under strict watch,” Heimdall said tersely. “You will not see him.”

Lucifer tilted his head slightly, his smirk softening into something colder, more dangerous. “You misunderstand me,” he said, his tone dropping into something quieter but infinitely more menacing. “I wasn’t asking for your permission.”

The air around them seemed to grow heavier, the light of Bifröst dimming ever so slightly as Lucifer’s presence asserted itself. Heimdall’s hand twitched toward his sword, but he hesitated, the weight of the Morningstar’s gaze freezing him in place.

Nezha, sensing the rising tension, stepped forward, his fiery aura flaring briefly. “Enough,” he said, his voice firm. “We’re not here to fight. Let us pass, or—”

Lucifer raised a hand again, cutting him off with a calm yet commanding gesture. “There’s no need for threats, Nezha,” he said smoothly. His dark eyes flicked back to Heimdall, their depths unreadable. “The Watchman and I understand each other.”

For a long moment, the two celestial beings stared at each other, the silence between them thick and charged. Finally, Heimdall exhaled sharply and stepped aside, his posture stiff and reluctant. “Very well,” he said, his voice tight. “But know this, Morningstar—Odin will not take kindly to your presence.”

Lucifer’s smirk returned, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect him to,” he said lightly. “But then again, I didn’t come here to please Odin.”

With that, Lucifer strode forward, his movements as smooth and deliberate as ever. Nezha followed close behind, his fiery aura dimming as they crossed the bridge into the heart of the Aesir realm. Behind them, Heimdall watched in silence, his golden eyes filled with unease as the Morningstar disappeared into the light.

Thor’s hall was alive with music, laughter, and the rhythmic pounding of feet. The grand chamber, lit by the golden glow of countless floating lanterns, vibrated with the energy of revelry. A massive oak table stretched down the center of the room, laden with steaming platters of roasted meats, overflowing horns of mead, and fresh loaves of bread that seemed to replenish themselves as quickly as they were devoured.

At the far end of the table, Bariel—a towering figure with a broad chest and an infectious grin—sat, utterly engrossed in his feast. His fiery red hair was disheveled, and his armor, though polished, seemed perpetually askew, as though he could never quite sit still long enough to adjust it. He guffawed loudly at a jest shared by one of Thor’s warriors, his laugh rumbling like distant thunder. The massive golden goblet in his hand sloshed with ale as he tilted it back and downed it in one swig, then slammed it onto the table with a satisfying thud.

“More!” Bariel bellowed, his voice booming over the din. His free hand reached for a roasted leg of boar, which he bit into with enthusiasm. The grease glistened on his beard as he tore into the meat with an energy that could only be described as primal joy.

Thor, seated nearby and equally merry, clapped Bariel on the shoulder. “You’ve bested even my appetite, Bariel!” the Thunderer declared, his own goblet raised high. “Where do you keep it all?”

Bariel grinned through a mouthful of food, his teeth flashing brightly. “A warrior needs fuel, Thor!” he declared, thumping his chest with a greasy fist. “And this hall knows how to provide!”

As the hall erupted in cheers, Bariel suddenly froze mid-bite. The grin slipped from his face, replaced by a curious stillness. He blinked once, twice, and then set the half-eaten leg of boar back onto his plate. His hand fell to his lap, where it lingered, clenched into a loose fist. His bright green eyes softened, a flicker of something deeper flashing within them—recognition.

“Bariel?” Thor asked, his brow furrowing. “What is it?”

Bariel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, his shoulders rising and falling like distant waves. Then, his expression shifted. A wide smile broke across his face, but this one wasn’t the boisterous grin of a feast—it was warmer, more personal. “He’s here,” Bariel said softly, almost to himself. His voice carried an uncharacteristic reverence, as though the very words tasted of memory.

Thor raised an eyebrow. “Who’s here?”

Bariel rose abruptly, the chair beneath him scraping loudly against the stone floor. His movement was quick and purposeful, his bulk belying a grace born of centuries of battle. “My brother,” Bariel said, his voice now brimming with both joy and urgency. He turned toward the door of the hall, his steps brisk but measured. For once, he ignored the food, his focus wholly elsewhere.

Thor, puzzled, called after him. “Your brother? But I thought you—” His words were cut short as Bariel strode out of the hall without a backward glance.

The cool night air of the Aesir realm greeted Bariel as he stepped outside, his boots crunching softly against the polished stones of the courtyard. The revelry inside seemed to fade into the distance as he stood still for a moment, his gaze scanning the horizon. He inhaled deeply, the crisp air filling his lungs, and then, as though guided by an unseen force, he began walking toward the edge of the realm’s great expanse.

There, standing amidst the shimmering glow of the Bifröst’s end, was Lucifer.

The Morningstar looked as he always did: composed, unhurried, and impossibly elegant.

Bariel’s steps quickened as he neared, and then, unable to contain himself, he broke into a run. The ground trembled faintly beneath his weight, but his joy was unrestrained. “Lucifer!” he called out, his voice echoing across the plains.

A/N

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