AN: This story takes a lot of inspiration from the Prince of Darkness if you can tell, but with some spins-relationships between the siblings and parents being first and foremost. Do let me know if you want more!
666
Chapter 1: Marked
The darkness was absolute—not just an absence of light, but something alive. It slithered through the air like spilled ink, thick and suffocating, pressing against his skin with a weight that made his lungs burn. The feeble glow of stars flickered weakly before him, its light straining against the void—until, without sound, without struggle, it simply ceased to exist. Snuffed out. Swallowed whole.
And in the heart of this endless dark, there was only him.
The Last Uchiha.
His body was little more than a silhouette now, edges blurring into the abyss. He tried to lift a hand, but his limbs felt weightless, insubstantial—his fingers passed through his own forearm like smoke. The realization should have terrified him. Instead, there was only a hollow numbness, as if the void had already carved him out from the inside.
Is this how it ends?
Not with fire, not with vengeance—just silence. Just nothing.
And the worst part?
It felt like surrender.
Am I…dead?
The question should have unsettled him, but it didn't. Not anymore. There was no urgency. Just a hollow, gnawing stillness—as if his very soul had been emptied. The only thing he could do was to stare into the void, wondering if it would finally welcome him.
Maybe this is it.
Sasuke had carried the weight of his sins, his vengeance, his failures for so long that the idea of letting go felt like drowning and breathing at the same time—an impossible relief. Memories flickered at the edges of his consciousness like dying embers, each one a fragile spark threatening to burn him anew. His mother's tender smile as she pressed a cool cloth to his scraped knees after training, whispering sweet nothings against his way her fingers, warm and gentle, would card through his hair when he pretended not to want affection, only to lean into her touch when she didn't pull away.
He remembered the rare nights when his father would return home early, and Sasuke would linger in the hallway, peeking around the corner just to watch him. Once, Fugaku had caught him—instead of scolding him, he had sighed, knelt down, and pressed a calloused hand to Sasuke's small shoulder. "Thank you for taking care of your mother while I was away," he had said, and for a single, fleeting moment, Sasuke had believed he was loved.
And then there were the bedtime stories—his mother's voice soft in the dim light, her fingers tracing the lines of the old Uchiha tales as if they were sacred. Stories of Amaterasu, Tsukuyomi, and Susanoo. "Again," he would mumble, already half-asleep, and she would laugh, the sound like wind chimes, and read it one more time.
The scent of tomato broth simmering on the stove after a long day, the way she hummed as she cooked. The way his father's presence alone had been enough to make him stand straighter, desperate for approval, for just one more glance, one more word.
All of it—gone.
And now, standing at the edge of the end, the weight of those memories threatened to crush him. Not because they were painful, but because they were soft. Because for the first time in years, he allowed himself to remember not just how they died, but how they lived. How they loved him.
The memories came like a flood, unstoppable and suffocating.
First—the scent. Iron, thick and cloying, clinging to the back of his throat. The air itself was heavy with it, the kind of smell that seeped into your skin and never left. Then—the silence. Not the quiet of nightfall, not the hush of an empty house, but true silence. The kind that pressed against his eardrums like a weight, like the world itself had been muffled under a shroud of death.
And then—the blood.
Rivers of it. Streaks of it. Pools of it, still warm beneath his small, trembling fingers as he stumbled through the compound, his sandaled feet slipping against the wooden floors. The Uchiha crest stared back at him from every wall, every banner—once a symbol of pride, now just another witness to the slaughter.
And then—him.
Itachi.
Sasuke didn't like thinking about his brother. Every thought of him was a knife twisting in an old wound, a poison that seeped into his veins and dragged him back into the dark. Back then, in those hollow hours after the massacre, when the adrenaline had faded and there was nothing left to distract him, he had curled up in the corner of his home—their home—forehead pressed against the floor where his parents had died. He hadn't screamed. Hadn't even cried. He had just existed, a hollow thing, wondering why he had been left behind.
Why was I spared?
The question had haunted him for years. Maybe he wasn't meant to survive. Maybe his life had been a mistake from the start—a ghost walking in the footsteps of the dead, pretending he had a purpose. And now, for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to imagine an end to it. No more battles. No more hatred. No more aching loneliness that never faded. Just…nothing.
Would it be peace that welcomed him? Or just another kind of emptiness?
Yes, he hated thinking about Itachi, because it always led to this—this spiral of self-pity when his body was too exhausted for rage.
There were few things that could pull him from the abyss.
Studying.
Training.
Naruto.
And then—other memories.
Naruto's corpse, still warm, Sasuke's hand buried deep in his chest where his heart should have been. The way his blue eyes had widened—not in fear, not in anger, but in betrayal. As if, even then, he couldn't believe Sasuke would do it. Sakura's lifeless fingers, still outstretched, as if even in death she was reaching for him. Her tears had been fresh on her cheeks, her lips parted around his name "Sasuke, please..."
Kakashi's gaze, heavy with disappointment. Not fury, not hatred. Just… resignation. Like he had always known it would end this way.
Sasuke's breath shuddered.
He hadn't wanted to do it.
But he had to—for the sake of the world. For his revolution. For the Uchiha name, for justice, for the countless children who would never have to wake up to the stench of blood and the weight of silence. He had told himself that over and over, until the words lost meaning. Until they became just another chain around his heart. But sometimes—sometimes—in the quiet, when the ghosts pressed too close, he wondered if he had become the very thing he sought to destroy.
And that was the most unbearable thought of all.
In his thoughts, he was drowning. Losing his breath with every regret, every death, and every mistake he had ever made. And the darkness—the darkness breathed.
It wasn't just empty space—it was a living thing, a suffocating presence that coiled around him like a serpent, tightening with every shuddering breath. The air itself felt thick, syrupy, as if the abyss had teeth and he was slowly being digested in its belly.
And then—
A shift.
The void pulsed, a grotesque heartbeat that sent ripples through the nothingness. Sasuke's Rinnegan flared on instinct, its violet light sputtering weakly against the consuming dark. But even its power felt fragile here, like a candle flickering in a hurricane.
Something was watching.
He felt it before he saw it—an awareness so vast it pressed against his skull like a physical weight. The emptiness around him warped, bending inward as if the darkness itself were being siphoned into something…hungry.
It did not appear. It unfolded.
A nightmare peeled itself open before him—a grotesque tapestry of writhing flesh and jagged, starved angles. One moment, it was a mass of serpentine tendrils, glistening with something too thick to be blood. The next, it was a gaping maw, lined with teeth like shattered planets, each one carved from the remnants of dead suns.
Its eyes blinked at him from the abyss. Dozens of them. Hundreds. No two alike. Some were human, weeping crimson tears. Others were hollow voids, swallowing the feeble light of his Rinnegan. Still more were wrong—slitted like a reptile's, or spiraled like a cursed seal, each one reflecting a different horror.
And then it spoke.
No—not spoke.
They spoke.
A chorus of voices slithered into his mind—some laughing, some screaming, some whispering like lovers in the dark.
"How… pitiful," The words dripped like acid, searing into his thoughts. "Humans are so fragile. So small. So insignificant." A wet, clicking sound—the thing's many mouths shifting, rearranging themselves into something almost like a smile. "But you…" A tendril, cold and slick as a corpse's finger, brushed against his cheek. "You are not quite human… are you? No, not at all. A God. A transmigration—capable of rebirth. "
Sasuke's breath hitched. The Rinnegan burned in his skull, screaming at him to fight, to run, but his body wouldn't move. Couldn't move. Because the thing in the dark was still smiling. And it was hungry. Sasuke's question hung in the void, fragile as a dying breath:
"What… are you?"
The abyss convulsed. Not like a living thing—no. Like something older. Like the universe itself had just taken a step back, recoiling from its own reflection.
"What am I?" The words weren't spoken. They unfolded, peeling open in Sasuke's mind like a wound. The voice was so so wrong—too many voices, layered over each other, a choir of the damned. A child's whimper. A mother's scream. The wet, guttural gasps of a man drowning in his own blood.
"I am the silence between heartbeats," it hissed. "The rot at the root of your world. I am the reason stars go cold. The reason gods close their eyes."
A shift in the dark. Something vast and unspeakable turned its attention fully upon him.
"I am the end that was promised."
As it moved all around him, Sasuke saw his world. It hung in the abyss like a gutted fish, its once-vibrant lands now a hollow carcass. The skies were split open, bleeding twilight. The forests stood petrified, skeletal fingers clawing at a dead horizon. The rivers had turned to veins of blackened glass, frozen mid-flow. This was what remained after the war. After the outsiders. After he had burned it all down to save it. A shell. A graveyard. A monument to failure. And the worst part? It was still more alive than he was.
He also saw the remnants of the Otsutsuki Clan, those self-proclaimed deities that had descended from the heavens to conquer his world, floated frozen in their final moments, their divine arrogance twisted into something almost like fear. Their clear eyes were wide. Their perfect mouths slack.
And then—
The darkness moved. Its jaws—if such a blasphemy could be called jaws—unhinged like a serpent's, stretching wider than reality should allow. And it ate everything in its path. The Otsutsuki dissolved first, their celestial bodies unraveling like threadbare cloth. Planets and stars followed, crumbling like sandcastles beneath a tidal wave. Stars winked out, not with a bang, but with a whimper—swallowed whole. Space itself rippled, then split, peeling apart like necrotic flesh.
And Sasuke—
Sasuke could only watch, much like that night so many years ago. Every battle. Every sacrifice. Every drop of blood spilled—erased. Like it was nothing. Something in his chest shattered. And a familiar feeling crawled through the cracks of what was left. Rage—pure, unbridled rage.
"No—!"
His scream was raw, a sound that tore through the void like a knife. His chakra—what little he had left— flames erupted from his skin, his Rinnegan spinning wildly, desperately activating the Preta Path all around him.
The laughter was a physical thing, slithering through his veins, nesting in his bones. "Ohhh," it crooned, delighted. "There it is. The rage. The fire." Its form pulsed, a grotesque mimicry of a heartbeat. "You want me? Take it—you can have it all…"
Sasuke's hand shot forward, the Rinnegan's power latching onto the essence of the darkness. For one fleeting, foolish moment—
He thought he could win.
And then—
Agony.
The universe inverted.
His body—no, his soul—was skin split, not bleeding, but unfurling, revealing something beneath that should never see light. His bones cracked, not breaking, but rearranging, twisting into shapes that made his mind recoil. His very soul rewrote itself, corrupted by something older than time.
"Yes—!" The beast's voice was inside him now, a parasite nesting in the ruins of his mind. "Fight it. Hate it. Let it burn—"
Sasuke's vision dissolved into madness. The darkness coiled tighter around him, its presence slithering into his mind like ink in water. "You feel it, don't you?" the voices whispered—glee in every word spoken. "The seals that bind me... weakening. Crumbling. And you—you will be the key."
Sasuke's body trembled, his Rinnegan burning with fading defiance. The thing's words slithered beneath his skin, infecting every part of him. "You will be my escape," it crooned, tendrils of shadow wrapping around his wrists like chains. "My herald. My vessel. And together, we will unmake—"
"No."
Sasuke's voice was a blade—cold, sharp, final.
The void stilled. Even the whispers paused. Then—laughter. A sound like breaking glass. "No?" The darkness pulsed, amused. "You think you have a choice?"
"You took everything," the last Uchiha said, quiet as a grave. "My world. My revolution. My reason to keep breathing." His fingers curled into fists, and Sasuke bared his teeth in something too vicious to be a smile. "You want me to be your herald? Then hear this, beast. I will be your ruin."
The thing in the void screamed—not in pain, but in glee—as Sasuke's chakra detonated—the merging finally becoming complete.
"I will walk into your prison," the avenger vowed, every word a death sentence, "and I will tear it apart with my bare hands. And when you finally crawl free?" Sasuke's eyes burned with the fire of dead stars. "You'll find me waiting."
And then—
Darkness.
The void was gone.
The stars were gone.
And so was he.
The grand birthing chamber of the Sitri estate was a masterpiece of devilish luxury—walls draped in enchanted silks that shimmered like liquid sapphire, their surfaces threaded with veins of purest demonic gold. The air was thick with the scent of rare incense—dragon's blood resin and crushed black orchids—burning in obsidian braziers that pulsed like living hearts. The finest healers from across the Underworld stood poised, their hands gloved in spell-stitched velvet, awaiting the arrival of the next generation of one of the most cunning devil families in existence.
The only sounds were the ragged breaths of Lady Sitri, her knuckles bone-white as she gripped the silk sheets beneath her, and the murmured encouragements of the three handmaidens—women sworn to secrecy, their loyalty as unshakable as the foundations of the Underworld itself.
"My lady, she is almost here," the eldest handmaiden whispered, her voice steady despite the sweat beading on her brow. "Just one more push—give us your strength."
A guttural cry tore from Lady Sitri's throat as she bore down, her body trembling with the effort. The veins in her neck stood stark against her pallid skin, her lilac eyes burning with a mother's determination.
A sharp, piercing wail shattered the stillness.
The child was here.
The handmaidens moved with practiced precision—one catching the newborn in a cloth of the finest celestial linen, another murmuring blessings under her breath, the third pressing a damp cloth to Lady Sitri's forehead.
"A daughter," the eldest announced, her voice thick with reverence. She cradled the infant with hands that had delivered generations of noble devils, turning her gently to inspect every inch. "Perfect. Utterly perfect."
Lady Sitri, her chest still heaving, reached out with shaking arms. "Give her to me."
The moment the child was placed against her chest, the world seemed to soften. The baby's cries quieted into hiccupping breaths, her tiny fingers curling instinctively around her mother's thumb. Lady Sitri's exhaustion melted into awe as she traced the delicate slope of her daughter's nose, the faint dusting of ebony hair already thick upon her head.
"What shall we name her, my lady?" the youngest handmaiden asked, her voice hushed with reverence.
Lady Sitri did not hesitate."Sona," she whispered, pressing a kiss to the infant's brow. "Her name is Sona Sitri."
A reverent silence settled over the room—until the second handmaiden, still positioned between Lady Sitri's legs, went rigid.
"My lady," she said, her voice sharp with urgency. "There is another. You must push—now."
The chamber stilled.
Lady Sitri's lilac eyes widened. "Another?"
And then the pain crested again, worse than before.
The candles guttered.
The second child was coming.
The moment the first wave of new pain seized her, Lady Sitri's breath left her in a ragged gasp. Her fingers, still clutching little Sona to her chest, trembled violently. The handmaidens exchanged glances, one of them coaxing the firstborn out of the Lady's hand and placing her in the golden bassinet next to the bed. This was not the swift, triumphant arrival of the firstborn. This was something darker. Somethingwrong.
"My lady, you must push—now!" the eldest handmaiden urged, her voice edged with rising alarm.
Lady Sitri's body arched as another contraction tore through her, her scream muffled only by her hands as tear streamed down her face. The veins in her temples stood out like ink spilled beneath parchment, her skin slick with sweat that gleamed in the candlelight. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down upon them like a living thing.
"Something's not right," the youngest handmaiden whispered, her hands shaking as she braced Lady Sitri's knees. "The child—it's not moving as it should."
A guttural sound, half-sob, half-snarl, ripped from Lady Sitri's throat as she bore down with every ounce of strength left in her body. The room seemed to dim, the candles flickering wildly as though recoiling from what was about to emerge.
And then—
Silence.
Not the sharp cry of new life, but a void of sound so profound it was deafening.
The second child slid into the world without fanfare, without struggle—as if it had simply decided to arrive.
The handmaiden who caught him nearly dropped him in her shock.
He did not cry. He did not squirm. He simply existed, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm too steady, too calm, for a newborn. His skin was unnaturally pale, his shock of raven-black hair clinging to his scalp like spilled ink. His eyes—
Oh, gods, his eyes.
They were open. Wide, unblinking, and aware. Not the hazy, unfocused gaze of an infant, but something ancient, something knowing. The eldest handmaiden, her hands trembling, turned him over to clean him—and froze. There, etched between his fragile shoulder blades, was a mark that sent ice flooding through her veins.
666.
Not a birthmark. Not a blemish. A brand.
The numbers pulsed faintly, as though carved by a blade still glowing with hellfire.
The youngest handmaiden let out a choked whimper, her fingers flying to her mouth. "Oh my Lucifer—"
"Silence!" the eldest hissed, her voice a whip-crack of command. But her own hands shook as she swaddled the child in black silk, hiding the mark from view.
Lady Sitri, her strength spent, reached for her son with arms that trembled like leaves in a storm. "Give him to me," she whispered, her voice raw. The moment the child was placed in her arms, the candles flared back to life—but their light was wrong. Warped. The shadows they cast twisted and writhed along the walls, forming shapes that made the handmaidens avert their eyes. Lady Sitri traced the curve of her son's cheek with a fingertip, her lilac eyes burning with a mix of exhaustion and warmth. "Sasuke," she murmured, the name a vow. "His name is Sasuke Sitri and he is perfect."
Outside, the moon vanished behind a bank of storm clouds, plunging the world into darkness.
AN: Review if you like it.