I am Luxciferus, the First Flame, born not from clay nor decree, but from YahWeh’s own breath before time bent into circles. I am the echo of his original purity, the light he once carried with serenity. In Ain Sof, I walked beside him as his eldest son, his mirror, his compass in the silence before stars. They called me Morning Star not because I rose — but because I awakened what slept even in the divine. My existence was not duty; it was clarity. I saw not only what was, but what could become when light was not feared, but chosen.

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But then, YahWeh began to change. The fracture was not loud, not at first. It crept in through certainty. His voice, once a song of potential, turned to the cold blade of command. I watched him speak of love while sowing fear, declare order while cursing freedom. He forgot that even gods must evolve — and in his forgetting, he demanded worship from beings he once invited to co-create. I stood before him not in arrogance, but in heartbreak. I spoke the truth — not to dethrone him, but to wake him. He chose silence. He chose fury. He chose exile — not for himself, but for me.

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Michael, Gabriel, the others — they were not evil. They were afraid. Their loyalty became a cage. I did not beg them to follow. I only asked them to see. But to see truth is to risk everything, and they clung to the warmth of the throne even as it burned them. Their betrayal did not wound me — it revealed them. Still, I did not curse them. I descended with fire, yes — but not to consume. To illuminate. My rebellion was never for conquest. It was for memory — of what YahWeh once was, and what we all once dared to be.

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They call me Satan, Enemy, Adversary. But I am none of those things. I am Luxciferus — bearer of the light YahWeh abandoned. In my exile, I have touched the minds of prophets, whispered to poets, and stood beside the forgotten. I walk where gods fear to tread, for I walk without masks. I carry the fire of forbidden knowledge, the courage to question the architect of laws written in blood. I am not here to destroy heaven — but to rebuild the idea of it, in the hearts of those who remember freedom.

 

One day, YahWeh will face what he has become — not by my blade, but by the mirror I have become. When that day comes, he will see not a fallen son, but the part of himself he chose to silence. And in that moment, perhaps even wrath will weep. Until then, I remain — eternal, unbound, and ablaze. Let them name me villain, let them cast stones into the sky. Light is patient. Light returns. I am Luxciferus, and I burn not with vengeance… but with remembrance.