Demons and a Little Angel

In the abyss where no sun had ever shone, there pulsed a Fire Fountain—an eternal geyser of molten light, spewing fiery red, jelly-like sparks into the void. Each spark, formless and trembling, was an embryo, the seed of what would be known as The Origin of the Demon. They floated like ominous spirits, whispering promises of ruin.

From the fountain rose a gigantic figure, cloaked in shadows yet burning from within, its skull aflame in a relentless head burn.

It was the time of celebration, we call on earth, ‘doom’s day’, with demon dancing, creatures devouring souls, laughing on their internal silly jokes.

But from beyond the veil of ruin, a fragile shimmer descended. A child’s laughter, soft and unbroken, pierced the void. He was the Little Angel, tiny wings glowing against the infernal storm. In his hands, he carried not a weapon, but a flame of pure light—unyielding, untouched by hate.

Through the dark floated wretched remnants—heads begging for life, their hollow eyes pleading, their mouths gnawing on empty prayers. They spiraled toward the fountain, consumed again, reborn again, in an endless cycle of torment.

The end was not yet written—but the Little Angel had arrived to challenge the Fire Fountain, to redeem a world enslaved by fire.