Chapter 1: Born of the Abyss
Darkness. The first sensation it knew was an all-consuming darkness pressing in on every side. A damp, stifling heat clung to the air, filled with the stench of sulfur and decay. In this endless night, something stirred. A small creature uncurled from a fetal position amid a pile of jagged rocks and steaming mud. It blinked its eyes for the first time, membrane-thin lids peeling back to reveal slit pupils that caught the faint red glow emanating from cracks in the earth. It had been born in the lowest depths of the Abyss, and the world greeted it with indifference and hostility.
A wet cough racked its frail body, expelling clotted black fluid from its lungs. The creature—neither fully formed demon nor mindless beast—scrambled upright on spindly limbs. Its skin was slick and ebony, stretched taut over a gaunt frame. Jagged protrusions jutted from its elbows and spine, vestigial spikes offering paltry defense. A long tail, thin as a whip, trailed behind it, ending in a bony tip. The newborn demonling stood perhaps the height of a human child's knee, a pitiable wretch in this hellish landscape. Yet in its glowing red eyes flickered something rarely seen in the Abyss's lesser spawn: a spark of awareness.
Around it, the cavern sprawled vast and unforgiving. Stalactites hung like the fangs of some great beast from the ceiling high above. Pools of bubbling tar and rivers of molten rock cast an eerie glow that danced on the slick cavern walls. Distant shrieks and roars echoed through tunnels, the cries of other denizens of the dark engaged in their eternal hunt. The very ground trembled occasionally with the footsteps of far larger monstrosities that prowled these depths. Instinctively, the small creature pressed itself against the craggy wall, its heart hammering against its ribcage.
The atmosphere was heavy, oppressive with ancient malevolence. It weighed on the newborn's mind—a mind still forming from the primordial instinct of survival. In this moment of fragile existence, a single drive overwhelmed all others: survive. It did not yet have words or language to articulate this urge, but it felt it deep in its nascent soul.
A skittering noise drew its attention. Through the gloom, the demonling saw movement: a centipede-like demon, all barbed chitin and squirming limbs, inching across a rock not far away. The centipede demon was only slightly larger than the newborn, but infinitely more dangerous to the untested whelp. It had pincers that dripped venom, and multiple beady eyes that reflected the lava's glow. The newborn froze, its clawed toes digging into the muck soundlessly. A primal fear surged. In the Abyss, everything was either predator or prey—often both.
The centipede's mandibles clacked, tasting the foul air. Perhaps it sensed the fresh birth, the vulnerable flesh nearby. It coiled, then lunged from the rock with a sudden burst of speed, a blur of black carapace. The newborn demon reacted on pure instinct, letting out a rasping hiss and throwing itself aside. It tumbled across sharp rocks as the centipede demon struck where it had stood a heartbeat before. Pain flowered in the creature's side where a jagged stone gashed it. Hot blood, nearly as black as the shadows, oozed from the wound.
Pain. Fear. These sensations hammered into the demonling's mind, yet amidst them, something akin to clarity emerged. As the centipede demon scrabbled to turn around for a second attack, the newborn scrambled up. Fight or flight. The choice would mean life or oblivion in the next few seconds. It had no knowledge, no experience, but it did have hunger. A gnawing emptiness inside—it realized it craved something, something that the centipede might provide if it could somehow kill it.
The centipede lunged again, venom glistening on its curved fangs. The newborn demon twisted its torso with surprising agility, the fang slicing through the air past its shoulder. With a feral snarl, the demonling latched onto the centipede's side, clawed fingers seeking purchase between chitin plates. Its teeth—sharp but underdeveloped—scrabbled against the armored hide uselessly. The centipede screeched, thrashing wildly to dislodge the attacker. It slammed the newborn against the cavern floor once, twice, the impact rattling its bones and nearly making it lose its grip. Stars exploded in the creature's vision; strength was fading. But as its desperation peaked, something stirred in its core. A warmth, a power foreign yet familiar: the stirrings of demonic energy fueled by its soul.
With a guttural scream that echoed louder than its small lungs should allow, the demonling drove its knee into the centipede's softer underbelly. One of its elbow spikes managed to puncture a segment of the centipede's exoskeleton. The centipede demon shrieked, a spray of brackish ichor spurting from the wound. Encouraged by the scent of its foe's lifeblood, the newborn bit down again, this time finding a softer patch and tearing at it with newfound fury. A limb was ripped free from the centipede's body with a wet rip. The larger creature writhed in agony, flailing and then retreating, trying to slither away and escape this unexpectedly vicious prey.
But the newborn's survival instinct had fully overtaken it. There was no thought of mercy, no concept of restraint—only the urge to kill or be killed. It pounced on the wounded centipede, clawing and biting relentlessly. The fight was ugly, feral, and short. In moments, the centipede demon lay still, its carapace rent and leaking fluids onto the stone. The newborn demonling crouched over the corpse, chest heaving and limbs shaking from adrenaline and pain. It had done the impossible for a creature of its meager strength: it had slain an enemy on the very hour of its birth.
As the adrenaline rush ebbed, the newborn felt a new sensation intrude upon its awareness. From the corpse beneath it, faint wisps of sickly greenish light began to rise. The demonling cocked its head, watching in fascination as the ethereal glow coiled around its own claws and then sank into its dark flesh like mist into a sponge. Warmth blossomed inside its chest. The pain from its injuries dulled slightly, and a small surge of strength followed, as if it had just feasted on a hearty meal after starving.
It shuddered, eyes fluttering at the unexpected pleasure that accompanied this energy. Though it had no one to teach it, no conscious knowledge of demonkind's ways, the truth became evident through instinct: it was absorbing the centipede demon's soul.
A ragged sigh escaped the newborn's throat, and a rudimentary thought formed in its mind: this was good. The soul's energy nourished it far more than the creature's flesh ever could. In fact, the demonling realized with a wrinkle of distaste that the actual meat of the slain centipede repulsed it. It craved not the flesh, but the essence—the intangible power that now swirled within.
In the gloom of that abyssal cavern, the little demon sat back on its haunches, pieces of the centipede's shell and gore sliding off its body. Inside its being, a subtle change was taking place. That soul energy was settling, like hot coals in its belly, and with it came the faintest hint of structure—an almost alien presence making itself known in the back of its mind.
Suddenly, the creature jerked as a series of flickering images and symbols seared themselves across its mind's eye. Strange sigils and a language it didn't know—yet somehow understood—unfurled before it.
The newborn whimpered softly at the unexpected intrusion, looking around with a snarl to see if some other predator had crept up. But it was alone, apart from the mangled corpse at its feet. The presence persisted gently, awaiting attention. As the initial panic subsided, curiosity took hold. The demonling focused on that presence, and the symbols resolved into meaning. It could feel something new—a connection, an interface, a system bound to its very soul.
Gradually, the meaning of the symbols became clear:
• Name: [None] (Newborn Lesser Demon)
• Soul Count: 1
• Available Evolutionary Adaptations: 2 (Claw Strengthening – 1 Soul, Hardened Skin – 1 Soul)
• Minion Creation: [Locked – Requirement not met]
The demonling did not fully comprehend it all yet, but words like "adaptation" kindled understanding. It had one soul now, and it could use this soul for something. Visions of the savage fight that had just taken place flashed in its mind. If it had been just a bit stronger, or tougher… a longing rose within it. The memory of being slammed against the rocks, nearly losing the fight, was fresh and hatefully bitter.
Slowly, haltingly, it formed its first true desire: it never wanted to feel that weak again.
The interface hovered in its mind—perhaps sensing that intent. Two options glowed softly in its thoughts: Claw Strengthening or Hardened Skin. It could consume the soul's energy to improve one aspect of itself. The demonling flexed its clawed hands. They were scrawny, barely able to rend flesh without great effort. Stronger claws would make hunting easier, bloodshed swifter. It then ran a trembling hand over its skinny torso, flinching as fingers passed the raw gash from earlier. Tougher skin might prevent such wounds, allow it to withstand more punishment.
It was a crude calculus, but survival was all it understood. Finally, with a hissing breath, the newborn focused on Hardened Skin. At least if it could endure more, it might have the chance to strike back even if outmatched.
No sooner had it made the choice than a wave of searing heat flooded through its body. The demonling doubled over with a choked cry. It felt as if molten iron was being poured just beneath its flesh, coursing through every inch of its skin. Tiny black scales began to push out of its previously smooth hide, each one hardening in moments to form an overlapping layer of natural armor across its limbs and torso. The gash in its side closed up, the wound knitting as rough scar tissue and scales replaced torn flesh.
The process lasted only a minute but felt eternal to the young demon. When the pain finally subsided, it lay panting on the ground. Slowly, it clambered back to its feet, trembling but… stronger. It looked down at itself, flexing an arm. Under the dim red light, it saw the dull gleam of its newly formed scales. The improvement was modest—this was a minor evolution after all—but it could already feel the difference. Its body felt a touch more solid, less likely to break.
The soul energy from its first kill was gone, spent to fuel this change. The interface in its mind updated:
• Soul Count: 0
The creature's stomach—or whatever analogous organ served that purpose—twisted with hunger once more. Not for food, but for more soul energy. The taste of that power was addictive. It needed more, if it was to continue hardening its fragile existence against the perils that surrounded it.
A distant roar reverberated through the cavern, followed by a chorus of lesser screeches. The myriad creatures of the Abyss were engaged in their own dances of death in unseen crevices and chasms. The newborn demon knew it was just one insignificant morsel in a vast ecosystem of predators. But now it possessed a tool none of those predators likely had: a system that let it guide its evolution by consuming souls.
Lightning flickered in its mind—brief images of potential futures. It saw itself bigger, with razor claws and a crown of horns; or with powerful legs leaping from the darkness; or with wings to take flight from danger. So many possibilities, all dependent on the souls it could gather.
The demonling turned its gaze upward, toward a narrow tunnel from which faint sounds emanated. Danger lurked everywhere, but also opportunity. It gathered the centipede's severed limb and cautiously tasted the blood. The flavor was acrid and unpleasant, providing no sustenance, so it spat and threw the limb aside. Flesh did little; it was the soul that had been nourishing.
There was no going back, no safety in staying here. The centipede's corpse would attract others soon—already it could hear faint clicking in the darkness, perhaps kin drawn by the scent. If the newborn remained, it would face more attackers, likely too many to overcome.
With one last look at the remains of its first kill, the demonling slunk away, keeping to the shadows along the cavern's edge. Each step was cautious, its improved skin scraping softly against stone. Every flicker of movement in the distance set its nerves on edge. It was wounded, exhausted, and empty of soul power now. But it was alive.
In the lowest depths of the Abyss where only death reigned supreme, a weak, unformed creature had taken its first life and its first steps. Through blood and pain it had discovered the taste of power, however small. In this desolate hellscape, a newborn demon had one simple thought burning in its mind—survive and grow stronger, no matter the cost.
Clutching that thought, it crept onward into the darkness, the heavy atmosphere swallowing its tiny form. Unseen in the oppressive black, the demonling's red eyes glowed with newfound determination as it ventured forth in search of souls to consume and an existence beyond mere prey.