“Mortals always want to attain divinity. It’s their nature,” the Imp muttered, trudging through a forgotten wasteland. Their eyes were half-lidded, weighed down by exhaustion — but a crooked smile crept across their sharp, cracked-lip mouth, like a fractured mirror reflecting madness itself.

“But why,” they hissed, “would I let another god run amok?”

Their tail flicked rhythmically, a metronome to their spiraling insanity. Then, suddenly, their aimless steps warped into chaotic bursts — teleporting forward with wild abandon. Each rupture of reality tore the wasteland asunder: mountains toppled, crumbled, and shattered, unable to bear the Imp’s violent passage.

The Imp had found another victim.

Clutching the badge of the fallen, Elliot, the Imp snapped their fingers. A name shimmered into existence: James — a handsome white-haired boy wearing a dark purple hat.

The Imp’s yellow eyes gleamed, fixated on the looming fortress before him.

Will this one squirm? Run? The Imp mused with twisted anticipation. Their skin flushed bright red as their long, serpent-like tongue unfurled like a crimson waterfall — ready to ensnare the unsuspecting.

They blinked slowly.

Rotten corpses lay strewn before them — a gruesome path of blood and death. Fingers curled in anticipation, eyes rolling back into their skull, lips twitching into a sinister chuckle.

They had found their prey.

James turned, poised to claim godhood. The Angels’ Light shimmered around him — a beacon of hope and power.

“You’re a mere child,” the Imp snarled, voice dripping venom, “cursed with the greed of a pig.”

James’s heart sank as he faced the crimson fiend — emerald pupils gleaming with malicious delight, saliva dripping from that unnatural tongue.

“You want this too?”

The Imp tilted their head — mocking the fear they expected, yet James dared to defy the stereotype.

“It’s mine,” James spat, ripping his hat from his scalp — blood blossoming in its wake.

“ENCHA—”

A spear pierced his skull, and the boy’s body crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

The Imp’s eyes twitched; fingers scratched at their neck, over and over. Toes curled, tail twisting in restless spasms. Lips quivered with suppressed rage.

After a moment, the Imp bent down and retrieved the badge pinned to James’s chest.

“You weren’t a child,” they muttered darkly. “You were one of them.”

Eyes closing briefly, the Imp vanished — teleporting away, leaving destruction in their wake.