Introduction: A Rather Inconvenient Reincarnation

  The Bible warns:

  “Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.”

  And honestly? He’d take that as a compliment.

  The thing about being Heaven’s most radiant prince is that no one expects you to fall. But what if you defy the gods, steal divine knowledge, and—hypothetically—unleash the Seven Deadly Sins upon the mortal world? Let’s say retirement plans get… revised. Lucifer hadn’t meant to break the world. Truly. He’d only wanted to fix it. But what had begun as an act of defiance had become legend, and what had once been a name of reverence had turned into a curse.

  Once upon a time—long before humans learned to worship, sin, or blame their bad decisions on divine intervention- he had been the Shining One, and oh, how he had shone. A warrior. A scholar. The first of God’s favored. His light was so brilliant that the stars dimmed in envy. Yet his fatal flaw wasn’t pride. It was asking questions. Dangerous ones, at that.

  Questions like: Why do the gods hoard all the knowledge? Why must humanity remain ignorant, fumbling in the dark while the divine sit on their golden thrones? And—his most fatal question—what if I could do better?

  His first mistake: thinking he could be God.

  His second: stealing the Seven Sins.

  (And before you judge—no, he hadn’t planned to drown the world in chaos. He’d meant to elevate it. While Prometheus gave mortals fire, Lucifer gave them something far more dangerous: Knowledge.) He pried open the vaults of Heaven and spilled its secrets into mortal hands—not as commandments, but as gifts. The Seven Sins. Tools for enlightenment. Keys to godhood.

  Instead, they became a Pandora’s Box.

  Greed did not simply corrupt kings—it hollowed them. Gold piled high in vaults while their people starved, until their crowns sat too heavy on skeletal brows. Every decree was a tax, every alliance a debt, and in their hunger for more, they forgot how to rule anything but ruins.

  Wrath was wildfire given flesh. It did not burn cities; it unmade them. Fathers strangled sons over slights they’d forgotten by dawn. Queens razed entire lineages for a single insult. The earth itself cracked open beneath armies that marched because fury was the only language left.

  Envy was a slow poison. Neighbors spied through cracked doors, coveting each other’s bread, beds, breaths. Trade routes became webs of sabotage. Scholars plucked out rivals’ eyes to steal their visions. No invention, no art, no love was ever enough—only the gnawing need to take what another had.

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  Lust was not passion—it was consumption. It slithered between wedding vows and war treaties alike, reducing love to possession, bodies to currency. Palaces became pleasure prisons, their gilded cages stuffed with broken birds who’d once had wings.

  Gluttony made feasts of famines. Lords gorged on roasted peacocks while peasants licked bark from trees. But it wasn’t just food—it was hunger as religion. Oceans drained of fish. Forests fell for a single night’s bonfire. The world was a carcass, and they ate their own future without tasting it.

  Sloth was the rot beneath the splendor. Laws went unwritten. Fields untended. Plagues unchecked. But its true venom was in the mind—why rise? Why fight? Why care? The great libraries moldered, for who would seek answers when oblivion was softer?

  Pride turned kings into statues—rigid, gleaming, and empty. They built monuments to their own legends while their cities crumbled beneath them. No advisor dared whisper "wrong." No mirror dared reflect the truth. In the end, their empires collapsed under the weight of a single, unshakable delusion: I am god here.

  He’d promised them wings.

  He’d given them chains.

  And so, he fell. Dramatically, of course—a comet of divine fire, a scream etched across the sky. No elegant descent. No last mercy. Just impact. When the smoke cleared, Lucifer was no longer an angel. (Not just an angel, anyway.) Golden eyes blinked open. Scales gleamed under the moonlight. A half-human, half-dragon abomination with a heartbeat like a war drum and a destiny that clung like a curse.

  Ah.

  Problem number one.

  But Lucifer had never been good at quitting. So he tried again. Walked among mortals. Whispered secrets into the ears of scholars and kings. This time, he’d balance the scales. This time, they’d wield the Sins wisely. They did not. His third mistake- to trust the humans. His brightest disciple—the one he’d trusted with his name, his purpose, his sword—dug a dagger between his ribs. Not for justice. Not even for power. For the Sins themselves. The war that followed drowned continents. Magic tore the sky open. And Lucifer, finally out of miracles, made a choice:

  If the world burned for his mistakes, he’d burn with it.

  With the last of his stolen divinity, he shattered the Seven Stones. The traitor died screaming. He died smiling.

  But the universe has a vicious sense of humor. His soul was locked away—not in Hell, but in nothingness. A void so absolute, even oblivion yawned and turned its back. Centuries blurred. His legend warped into a children’s fable about snakes and fruit (a gross oversimplification, he’d argue). The world moved on.

  Fate did not.

  A thousand years later, a boy gasped awake, gold eyes flickering with forgotten fire.

  Lucifer Draekhyr lived again. And this time? He didn’t even know he was the hero or the villain.