Chapter 228: [Welcome to the 100th Floor.]

The air felt thinner at the top.

Lucifer stood before the portal to the final floor. His hand hovered near the glowing frame, heat buzzing softly through his skin. Months—months of effort, blood, and quiet rebuilding—and it all led here.

Behind him, the rest of the tower spiraled downward like a dead god’s spine. Ninety-nine floors behind. One ahead.

This was the end.

The final test.

But he didn’t step in yet.

He stood there, letting the hum of the portal wash over him.

[Get ready, son. This is unlike anything you’ve ever faced before. If you can defeat whatever is in that floor... then you can face Adam. I believe in you.]

Damaris’ voice echoed faintly in his mind, the connection always warm now. It wasn’t like the system talking. It was personal. Direct. From the blood.

Lucifer gave a small smile.

"...Yeah. I know."

But his face turned serious again.

And before stepping forward, he allowed himself one final glance back—one final playback of everything that had brought him here.

The Vampire Realm was no longer what it once was.

Gone were the days of cracked stones and cold castles ruled by brute force. It had changed—evolved. He had built something new from its bones.

Fifteen great states, each ruled by one of the Origin Seats, stretched across the realm now. Entire continents, each with its own architecture, culture, and design. Spires of obsidian mixed with glass-tech jutted from the land like fangs of progress. Some cities hovered. Others carved themselves into mountains. Magic ran through every streetlamp. Tech hummed beneath the stone.

Teleportation lines connected the capitals.

Floating trains glided across mana-rails.

Every citizen carried a blood crystal—identification, currency, and emergency beacon all in one.

It was a realm of fusion now—ancient bloodlines and future innovation. Vampires still held their pride, their nature... but they no longer fed on chaos. Law ruled here. A new order built from the ashes of Valecar’s mistake.

Lucifer made sure no one like him would ever rise again.

In the heart of it all stood the Capital, shielded by barriers layered in celestial script and vampire glyphs. It pulsed with both magic and logic—a living fortress wrapped around the throne.

And guarding it...

Heron.

Bigger now. Stronger. The silent shadow.

He stood atop the city’s edge like a sentry without a heartbeat.

Within the capital, the central command ran like a machine. Dracula oversaw foreign diplomacy and historical archives—keeper of memory. Valena supervised internal affairs, public welfare, realm adjustments—soul of the city. And then Lucian—his clone, his echo—stood as Vice Sovereign. If Lucifer ever vanished, Lucian’s word became law.

And it worked.

They all worked.

The humans who followed him from the broken Earth now had homes. Jobs. Roles. Many were engineers, teachers, medics, merchants—fully integrated. The witches, kitsunes, and werewolves from the Origin Clan remained close to the castle. They had lands within the core capital. Their loyalty wasn’t blind—it was earned. And protected.

Peace existed.

Not perfection.

But peace.

Lucifer had made a realm where no one had to starve in silence. Where the strong still mattered, but the weak weren’t discarded.

A kingdom worthy of the night.

And now...

He exhaled deeply. His breath fogged slightly against the freezing air as the portal closed behind him with a soundless pulse.

Ahead...

Darkness.

But it wasn’t silent.

He could hear footsteps. Not rapid. Not charging. Just walking.

Measured. Calm. Controlled.

Lucifer squinted into the dark, letting his eyes adjust. And then he saw it.

Him.

The figure stepped into view with that same slow rhythm. Pale skin. Eyes like two red suns. Hair—white, wild, sharp at the edges like it had been cut by blades of wind.

Lucifer’s heart didn’t skip.

It stilled.

He recognized that face. That presence.

"...Father?"

But no.

It wasn’t his father.

Not yet.

The man before him was Damaris—yes—but not the one who raised him. Not the one who spoke softly through the system. This was a younger version. From a time long before Lilith. Before love. Before loss.

Before compassion.

This one... hadn’t become the Progenitor to protect. He became it to conquer.

This version of Damaris radiated pure pressure. It coiled around the room like a serpent ready to strike. The ground under his feet cracked from how dense his aura was.

[Welcome to the 100th Floor.]

Lucifer took a slow breath.

"...so this is the challenge."

There was no response.

No words. No emotion.

Just a blur of movement.

Lucifer barely leaned back as a pale hand sliced past his face like a blade. It didn’t even look like a punch—just a swipe. But it shattered the wall behind him into dust.

Lucifer spun low and kicked upward. Damaris didn’t even block. He just turned. Lucifer’s leg slammed into his ribs—felt like kicking a steel wall—and Damaris backhanded him mid-air, sending him flying into the pillar at the far end.

Lucifer grunted, hit the ground hard, rolled once, then pushed up slowly.

He wiped the blood from his lip.

"You’re not going to talk, huh?"

No answer.

Damaris rushed again.

This time faster.

Lucifer summoned his blood blades mid-step—two crimson fangs arcing from his palms. He parried the first strike, spun around to deliver a counter—

Only to feel a sharp jab to his ribs.

He was thrown into the ceiling this time.

"Shit—"

He crashed back down, landing on his back.

Before he could recover, Damaris was already there—knee on his chest, hand pressing down on his throat.

Lucifer gasped—his entire neck searing under the pressure. His body strained, his limbs trembled. No matter how strong he’d become, this Damaris...

...was still stronger.

He kicked up, used his full force to twist, managed to slip free and backpedaled.

(He’s faster than me. Stronger. More refined.)

Lucifer didn’t panic.

But his jaw clenched.

(Then I can’t outmatch him. I need to outsmart him.)

He focused. His blood aura pulsed, expanding behind him like a wave. Shadow tendrils snapped into form, wrapping around his arms and merging with his blades.

Damaris watched.

Still silent.

Still expressionless.

Lucifer muttered under his breath.

"...alright then."

The ground lit up with red sigils—his own creation. He lunged forward again, faster than before, weaving through space with short-range teleport bursts. He struck from the left—then right—then low.

Each blow clashed with Damaris’ arms like striking granite.

But he kept going.

Strike.

Strike.

Cut.

Fade.

Dodge.

And then—contact.

One blade stabbed into Damaris’ side.

Lucifer’s eyes widened.

He got him.

But Damaris didn’t flinch.

Instead, he grabbed Lucifer by the face—lifted him off the ground—

—and slammed him down.

A crater formed beneath them.

Lucifer coughed blood, eyes hazy for a second.

(He’s not even hurt...?)

Damaris stepped back—silent as ever—and began to walk toward him again.

Lucifer’s vision blurred. But he pushed himself up.

Chest rising. Falling.

Blood dripping.

Muscles aching.

But he stood.

And as he raised one hand to his chest, he summoned the sigil of the Progenitor—his mark glowing brighter than ever before.

"...you may be him," he said quietly. "But you’re not my father."

And with that—

He charged again.