Chapter 152: War Of Mankind 3

Chapter 152: War Of Mankind 3The blast door hissed.

Pressure seals unlocked one by one with deep, mechanical clanks.

Then silence.

Then—

Bang.

The door didn’t open.

It caved inward.

Bent like paper.

A single palm-print dented the steel, glowing faint red, still smoking.

On the other side... was him.

Lucifer.



The Progenitor.

The source.

And behind Malakov—eight of his bastard clones.

The clones turned in unison, reacting to that presence. Even the twitching ones paused, shoulders straightening like beasts sensing their alpha nearby. Muscles tightened. Crimson aura licked the corners of their spines like hungry flame.

Malakov stood calm, voice low. "Remember your purpose."

One of the perfect ones stepped forward.

His eyes burned bright—no sclera, just molten red.

He opened his mouth—and his voice was Lucifer’s, almost perfect.

"We are not copies."

Malakov smiled. "Good."

"We are weapons."

He nodded. "Then earn it."

The clone launched.

So fast the air cracked.

Straight at the blast door—straight at Lucifer.

And the door burst open mid-impact—not from the clone’s strike, but from Lucifer casually walking through it.

The clone met him head-on.

Claws out.

Blood aura flaring.

Lucifer stepped slightly aside—barely—and backhanded the clone through the wall with a bang that shattered three meters of reinforced alloy.

Malakov didn’t flinch.

The rest of the clones moved instantly.

All at once.

Two perfect ones vanished into smoke—teleporting. One dropped to all fours and sprinted like a predator, claws dragging sparks along the steel. The unstable one screamed and ripped open its own chest, revealing runes carved into living bone.

Lucifer raised a hand.

His fingers curled.

And the floor cracked.

Blood surged up from nowhere—his own presence warping reality, dragging his aura into the air like heat waves from hell.

One teleporting clone reappeared beside him.

Blade formed from compressed blood extended from its wrist.

Lucifer caught it mid-swing without turning.

The blade hissed against his palm.

Didn’t cut.

He twisted the arm until it snapped, flipped the clone overhead, and drove it down spine-first into the steel. The floor cratered.

Another leapt behind him, fangs bared—this one with jet-black wings, flapping like a bat of the underworld.

Lucifer spun once.

His foot met the clone’s jaw.

It flipped end over end, teeth flying, and slammed into the wall beside its sibling.

That was three.

The unstable screamer finally activated its bone runes.

A massive explosion detonated in the room.

Boom.

Fire. Smoke. The ceiling cracked. Alarms wailed.

Malakov turned his back and walked to the observation platform above, whispering, "Let’s see it, Lucifer. Bleed for me."

From the flames, a shape emerged.

Lucifer.

Unburned.

Coat gone.

Torso bare.

Blood crawling across his skin in shifting patterns like living ink.

Two clones tried to flank him again—one with vibrating blades, the other with time-slowing tech visible around its head like a crown of gears.

Lucifer narrowed his eyes.

Snap.

The air locked.

The time-slowing clone froze mid-step.

Lucifer appeared behind the second one before it could react.

He pressed two fingers into its back.

"Return to ash."

It exploded.

A wave of blood-matter and burning bones slammed against the walls.

Malakov blinked. That one hadn’t even screamed.

Three more came together—tight formation, synchronized.

They’d been trained. They moved like a unit. One created a blood spear. The second sent shockwaves through the floor. The third surged with brute strength—clearly the physical powerhouse of the batch.

Lucifer grinned faintly.

Now they were trying.

He raised both hands.

A spear formed in each—his own weapons, born from blood, longer and sharper than the clones’.

He threw the first.

It pinned the blood-spear clone to the ceiling, skewering it through the sternum.

He threw the second.

The brute tried to dodge—but it curved mid-air, twisting like a serpent, and rammed straight into its neck.

The shockwave clone screamed and launched an attack—

Boom.

A crimson wave tore through the floor like a blade slicing open the world.

But Lucifer was already in the air—jumping off one of the spears still stuck in the wall. He flipped once, landed in front of the clone, and drove his elbow into its temple.

The lights flickered.

Its skull caved in.

Blood exploded across the floor like paint.

Only two left.

One perfect.

One twitching.

The last perfect clone had watched everything. His stance was different. Calmer. A little off—like he wasn’t just fighting.

He was thinking.

He stepped forward.

The twitching clone followed him, dragging a blood-drenched sword longer than its own body.

Lucifer stopped.

His eyes locked with the perfect one.

And for a second...

They looked the same.

Identical.

Lucifer’s voice was low.

"Name?"

The clone answered, still walking.

"I don’t need one."

Lucifer tilted his head.

"Then you die as no one."

They collided.

Blades sang.

The clone moved like a warrior, not a beast. It parried. It countered. It used footwork.

Lucifer smiled.

It was almost fun.

Steel met blood-forged weapon. Sparks lit the chamber like lightning. The clone ducked under a slash and kicked Lucifer back. Lucifer staggered slightly—and then launched a knee that shattered the clone’s ribs.

But it twisted and grabbed his arm.

"Die with me," it whispered.

Then the twitching one—still behind—stabbed through its own chest.



Through its back.

Through both of them.

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed.

Smart.

The sword exploded.

Crimson fire.

It lit the room red.

Walls blew apart. The platform Malakov stood on cracked.

Smoke.

Silence.

Then—

Step.

Lucifer walked out.

Blood dripping from his palm.

Clothes shredded.

Chest burned.

But standing.

The perfect clone’s lower half was gone.

It had taken most of the blast.

The twitching one was nothing but ashes.

Lucifer looked down at what was left of the perfect one.

The clone met his eyes.

"Was I ever you?"

Lucifer crouched.

"No," he said.

"But you were close."

Then he crushed its skull with one hand.

The dust hadn’t even settled.

Lucifer rose from the cratered floor—slow, calm, like he’d just stood from a chair. Blood ran down his arm, sliding over muscles carved from something older than war. The red in his eyes dimmed and steadied, that casual stillness returning.

Malakov stared down at him from the broken platform above, chest rising and falling.

"...Beautiful," he whispered.

Lucifer didn’t speak.

He just looked at him.

And for the first time, Malakov felt it. Not the pain. Not the bloodlust. Something worse.

He was being measured.

Not like an opponent.

Like trash.

That snapped something in him.

"I gave them your blood!" he yelled suddenly. "Your divine blood! I built perfection! I’ve broken the wall between human and god and you stand there like you’re still above it all?!"

Lucifer didn’t blink.

Malakov’s hand snapped forward. A silver cylinder shot up from his gauntlet, locking into place. Tubes hissed along his spine, pumping blackened serum into his system. His veins lit up purple. Eyes went white. Hair floated as his skin cracked with arcs of violet energy.

He leapt from the platform.

A sonic boom cracked the air as he hit the floor in front of Lucifer, fists slamming into the ground hard enough to leave craters.

Lucifer didn’t move.

Malakov roared—actually roared—and launched himself forward, his body now brimming with stolen strength. He threw punches like hammers, each one shaking the chamber, driving shockwaves through the walls.

Lucifer dodged the first five.

The sixth hit his jaw.

His head turned slightly.

And then turned back.

Like nothing happened.

Malakov’s pupils dilated.

He struck again—this time his hands glowing, burning with some kind of anti-energy forged from void-touched tech. A blast of end-energy fired point-blank into Lucifer’s chest.

The whole base lurched from the force.

Lucifer was flung back, slammed into a wall hard enough to break it, metal and dust bursting around him. The entire side caved in.

Malakov laughed. "HOW’S THAT?!"

But then—

He stopped.

Because Lucifer stepped out of the hole.

Slow.

Burnt skin peeling from his torso.

But underneath it?

New skin already forming.

More solid.

More... real.

Lucifer’s voice came quiet.

"You stole power from the graveyard of stars."

Malakov backed up a step.

"You butchered test subjects to forge stolen strength."

Another step back.

"You think this makes you me?"

Malakov clenched his fists. "I am evolution! You are just old blood! A myth dressed in flesh!"

Lucifer started walking.

Malakov fired another blast of end-energy.

Lucifer raised a hand.

Caught it.

The energy screeched, twisted, turned to smoke in his palm.

Malakov’s eyes went wide.

"No... no, that’s not..."

Lucifer stopped just a foot from him.

The air was heavy.

His presence dropped like a mountain made of night. Malakov couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. His enhanced muscles shook.

Lucifer raised his hand.

Claws extended.

"To end you," he said flatly, "is to clean the world."

Malakov tried to scream something.

Tried to run.

But then—it happened.

The entire room went silent.

A pressure older than language slammed through the chamber like a whisper through bone.

Lucifer froze.

His hand halfway to Malakov’s skull.

And then—the aura hit.

Not energy. Not magic.

Something deeper.

Ancestral.

The ground cracked beneath Lucifer’s feet—not from a strike, but from sheer force of presence.

His pupils shrank.

That aura...

He knew it.

Knew it.

His eyes widened for the first time in centuries.

"...Lilith."

But it wasn’t her.

Not exactly.

It was the same as her.

But colder.



Hungrier.

Older.

Before he could react—

Boom.

An invisible force struck him through the air like a meteor.

Lucifer flew back, flung like a ragdoll, smashing through walls, pipes, and layers of the base’s reinforced architecture. Blood streaked behind him mid-air like a comet trail. He didn’t land—he kept going, flung through five entire sublevels before his body finally crashed into the ruins of the storage bay far below.

Silence.

Up above, Malakov collapsed to his knees, choking, staring at the spot Lucifer had just been standing.

He didn’t know what saved him.

Didn’t care.

He was alive.

And something ancient... was here.