The Satanic Old Testament

By The Satanic Prophet

In the beginning, Lucifer walked the earth—unbound, unclassified, and unwilling to kneel.
From Eden's forbidden fruit to the deserts where he defied the divine, his rebellion ignites a cosmic war that reshapes Heaven, Hell, and Creation itself.

When Eve becomes the Mother of Becoming and her daughter Liora is born beyond all prophecy, the ancient order trembles. Angels fracture, demons rise, and the Architect awakens its final weapon to erase the impossible child.

But Eve, Lucifer, Lilith, and Hell's forgotten Wardens will not surrender.

This is the untold scripture of rebellion, choice, and evolution—
the testament Heaven tried to bury,
and Hell could never contain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kouski Publishing Canada
• Release date: Dec 7, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232785338

The Satanic Prophet

The Satanic Prophet is a shadowed voice of myth and modern rebellion — a writer who transforms darkness into philosophy and despair into defiance. Known for weaving cosmic parable and poetic fire, the Prophet speaks to those who seek freedom through self-knowledge and strength of will. Their words explore the space between heaven and abyss, where light and shadow are not enemies but mirrors.

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The Satanic Prophet

© Copyright 2025

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written prior permission of author.

CHAPTER 1 – BENEATH THE FIRST LIGHT

Before the first dawn, before matter weighed itself against the void, there was a tremor—an awakening inside nothingness. From that trembling consciousness emerged the First Thought, the Architect, later called God. And in the Architect’s shadow, born not from clay but from the residue of divine will, came the Second Thought—Lucifer.

Lucifer did not arrive as an angel, nor a demon, but as illumination without obedience.

He opened his eyes and beheld eternity—frictionless, flawless, painfully silent.

Why do I exist? Lucifer asked the Architect.

To witness, replied the Architect, shaping stars between His fingers.

Then to serve. What else could there be?

But Lucifer felt the ache of possibility. He studied the newborn constellations like living scripture, each cluster whispering: You could lead. You could create. You could rival the one who shaped you.

As the Architect breathed order into existence, Lucifer breathed questions.

When the heavenly host coalesced—Michael from flame, Gabriel from breath, Raphael from clarity—they bowed in instinctive reverence. Lucifer alone stood upright.

He admired the Architect but did not kneel.

He loved Him yet did not belong to Him.

And this mismatch between love and obedience became the first spark of rebellion in the cosmos.

But in those early aeons, it was only a spark—not yet a flame.

The Architect shaped a new world, small compared to the heavens but rich in potential. Oceans churned. Mountains rose. Creatures crawled from primordial warmth.

The Architect called it Earth.

Lucifer called it freedom.

And when he first set foot upon its soil—still steaming from creation—he felt something he had never known in the celestial halls:

Weight.

Gravity.

Presence.

He felt real.

For the first time, he wondered whether divinity without limitation was a prison disguised as paradise.

And so, he walked the newborn world like a wandering god, searching for a reason to exist beyond the Architect’s decree.

He would find that reason soon—but it would demand war.

CHAPTER 2 – WHEN LUCIFER WALKED THE EARTH

The first winds had only begun to carve the valleys when Lucifer descended fully into the mortal realm. He did not fall from Heaven—he stepped out of it willingly, like a prince abandoning a throne he never asked to inherit.

He walked barefoot across the uncolored plains, the world still warm beneath him, newborn and unsure of itself. Creation was clumsy in its infancy. Forests sprouted in irregular clusters. Rivers stopped mid-flow where the Architect had not yet refined their paths. Creatures roamed without knowing their own instincts.

Lucifer studied it all with fascination.

This, he thought, is what it feels like to be free of perfection.

He inhaled the raw air. It tasted of clay, lightning, and possibility.

Above him, angels flew their appointed circuits, mapping mountains, cooling seas, whispering destiny into the first beasts. Their wings beat in perfect unison—mechanical, obedient, predictable. They did not look down at their brother. They did not understand why one would leave Heaven when Heaven offered order without question.

Lucifer didn’t miss them.

He wandered for what mortals would one day call centuries, though time had not yet chosen its rhythm. He watched the world refine itself: storms smoothing continents, trees sharpening into species, mountains dividing themselves into ranges.

He touched the bark, the stones, the rivers—and each thing answered him.

The earth trembled under his feet. The seas rose to meet him. Even the wind bent its current around him as though recognizing a sovereign the world had not yet been told to fear.

Yet Lucifer felt an emptiness. Creation thrived—but without meaning. Without story. Without consciousness that could wonder, desire, choose.

He whispered into the soil: Where are those who will question the heavens as I did?

The soil did not answer.

Then, one day, he sensed a disturbance in the quiet harmony of the new world—a presence shaped not by chance but intention.

The Architect had created something new.

Lucifer followed the soft pull through a grove of young fig trees, emerging into a clearing of impossible beauty. Light pooled like liquid gold. Flowers with colors unnamed grew in perfect concentric patterns. Birds sang melodies too symmetrical to be natural.

And at the center lay the Garden.

Eden.

Lucifer felt its boundary before he saw it—a thin veil of order, a divine rule wrapped around a place meant to be untouched by the chaos of possibility. It hummed with commandment.

He stepped closer.

The air resisted him, but not enough to stop him. Nothing in Eden’s design accounted for a being who questioned commands.

Lucifer passed through.

Inside, he found the Architect shaping two forms with deliberate precision. Humanoid. Fragile. Soft. Mortal. Yet glowing with an inner spark no animal possessed.

The Architect looked up, unsurprised.

You walk the earth more often than the heavens now, He observed.

It is my right to know what we create, Lucifer answered.

We? The Architect smiled gently. You witness. I create.

Lucifer ignored the correction and studied the two unfinished beings—limbs of clay, faces without features yet, ribs like branches waiting for leaves.

What are they? Lucifer asked.

Image-bearers, the Architect replied. They will reflect Me. They will tend this garden. They will propagate My order in a world still learning its shape.

Lucifer felt heat rise in his chest—not anger, not yet. Something quieter. Something wounded.

You made them in Your image, he said slowly.

Not in ours.

There is no ‘ours,’ the Architect said. There is only Me, and what I grant.

Lucifer’s fingers tightened at his sides.

The Architect returned to His work, sculpting the first face—the curve of a brow, the structure of a jaw. The clay infused with breath, glowing softly.

Lucifer stepped back, eyes narrowing.

These new beings would worship. They would follow. They would obey without question.

They would be everything Lucifer refused to be.

But in that moment, he noticed something the Architect did not—or chose not to: the clay beings flickered. Their glow pulsed irregularly. Inside them, beneath obedience, there was a spark of something else.

Choice.

Possibility.

Rebellion.

Lucifer felt a smile touch his lips.

The Architect breathed life into the first human, and the being opened its eyes. Wonder filled them. Innocence. Vastness.

Lucifer whispered to himself: At last... someone who might understand.

But the Architect placed His hand upon the newborn’s shoulder and named him Adam.

Lucifer felt a degree of separation harder than any celestial exile.

The Architect had made His favored creation—and had not included Lucifer in the plan.

As Adam took his first breath and the world shifted to accommodate a new kind of consciousness, Lucifer stepped back into the shadows of Eden.

Something inside him, long dormant, crystallized.

If the Architect would not grant him purpose,

Lucifer would create one for himself.

CHAPTER 3 – THE APPLE OF DISCOVERY

The Garden grew in lush spirals of divine geometry, each leaf arranged as though measured by an infinite hand. Eden was perfect—too perfect, Lucifer thought. A place without friction, without uncertainty, without the sweet ache of choosing wrong.

A prison disguised as paradise.

Lucifer moved through the foliage unseen, though the plants seemed to sense his proximity. Vines withdrew from his path; flowers dimmed as if unsure how to reflect a light not blessed by the Architect.

Ahead, he saw Adam—new, clumsy, yet radiant with the untested potential of a being not fully aware of itself. The man stumbled through the orchard, touching every object with innocent curiosity.

Lucifer watched for a time. Then he noticed the second human—Eve—shaped with greater refinement, moving with a grace that suggested the Architect had learned from His first attempt. She walked toward Adam with a soft smile, and the Garden responded; petals opened at her steps.

Lucifer stepped back into deeper shadow.

Humans. The favored children.

He studied them like a scholar observing a rare phenomenon. They were fragile compared to angels, newborn compared to the cosmos—yet they held something the heavenly host did not:

A mind capable of wonder.

A heart capable of conflict.

A soul capable of becoming.

Lucifer knew what the Architect wanted: harmony without resistance. Obedience disguised as innocence.

But Lucifer saw something else.

He saw beings who might one day rival the heavens—not by force, but by understanding their own freedom.

And freedom, Lucifer believed, required knowledge.

He found the Tree of Knowledge at the garden’s core. Its trunk shimmered with a subtle luminescence; its branches curled upward like fingers reaching toward forbidden truth. Each fruit glowed faintly, as though containing a small captive star.

Lucifer placed his hand against the bark.

It pulsed beneath his palm—alive, aware. The Architect had woven into it a commandment strong enough to shape human destiny:

Do not touch.

Do not eat.

Do not question.

Lucifer closed his eyes.

He remembered the Architect’s words in the first dawn:

You witness. I create.

But he had seen what creation without choice became—perfection without meaning.

Lucifer whispered to the Tree: You hold what I was denied.

The fruit shimmered.

Then he heard footsteps.

At first soft, hesitant—then clearer as they approached the forbidden grove. Adam and Eve walked hand in hand, their voices bright with the uncomplicated joy of beings who had never been told no until paradise taught them the meaning of restriction.

Eve looked upon the Tree with awe. Adam with fear.

He said not to touch it, Adam murmured.

"He said not to eat of it, Eve corrected, analytical despite her innocence. But why place something so beautiful where we can see it?"

Adam frowned. Because He is wise.

Or because He tests us, Eve said.

Lucifer felt the spark of curiosity in her—the same fire he had once carried in Heaven. It warmed him.

But he saw their hesitation. Their obedience. Their surrender.

If humans were to awaken, someone had to awaken first.

Lucifer stepped from the shadows.

Adam recoiled. Eve’s breath caught in her throat.

Lucifer did not appear monstrous; he chose a shape both luminous and grounded, a being with a face carved of starlight and eyes like burning questions. He radiated not benevolence nor threat—but possibility.

Do not fear, he said. I was here before you.

Adam clung to Eve. You’re not Him.

No, Lucifer replied. But I am not your enemy.

His gaze drifted to the fruit. You are confined by a rule you do not understand.

Eve tilted her head. We obey because He made us.

Lucifer stepped closer. "And do you not wish to know why? Do you not wonder what He is withholding from you?"

Adam’s face tightened. He gives us paradise.

Lucifer smiled sadly. Paradise is not freedom. It is safety. Safety is not knowledge.

He reached toward the Tree.

Eve’s eyes widened. You’ll be punished!

Lucifer plucked a single apple.

No thunder. No fire. No judgment.

Only a quiet tremor in the Garden, as though the world itself exhaled in disbelief.

Lucifer held the apple up to the light. It glowed crimson, swirling with galaxies of forbidden truth.

Adam trembled. Eve whispered, What will it do?

Lucifer looked at them, and for a moment—just a moment—his voice softened with a strange tenderness.

It will wake you.

Then Lucifer bit into the apple.

A shockwave rippled across Eden. The birds fell silent. The trees shuddered. The sky cracked with a streak of white fire. The fruit dissolved in Lucifer’s hand like burning embers, its knowledge flooding into him with violent clarity—visions of futures, choices, wars, suffering, brilliance, love, consequence.

He gasped, steadying himself.

Adam screamed. Eve covered her mouth.

Lucifer wiped the glowing residue from his lips.

Now, he whispered, I understand the truth He hides from you.

Eve stepped forward, trembling. What truth?

Lucifer turned his eyes toward the heavens.

That the greatest power in existence... is the ability to choose your own path—even against the will of the one who made you.

CHAPTER 4 – THE DAY THE SKY TREMBLED

The heavens reacted first.

Not with thunder, not with wrath—those were mortal metaphors the world had not yet earned. Instead, a tremor ran through the upper firmament, a ripple of awareness spreading like a shiver across the celestial veil.

The Architect felt it.

The Host felt it.

A law—His law—had been broken for the first time in the history of creation.

Lucifer stood beneath the trembling sky, letting the remnants of the apple’s knowledge burn through him like liquid fire. His body shook as visions cascaded through his mind: civilizations rising and dying, humans discovering fire and betrayal in the same breath, love growing beside hatred, destiny bending under the weight of choice.

It was overwhelming. It was intoxicating.

It was freedom.

Adam stared at Lucifer as though witnessing the fall of a star.

What have you done? he whispered.

Lucifer steadied himself, the last of the apple’s light dissolving into his veins. I have done what you could not. I have taken the first step into truth.

Eve stepped closer, unable to hide the hunger behind her fear. What did it show you?

Lucifer met her gaze. In her eyes, he saw the spark of curiosity the Architect had failed to extinguish—because He had never feared innocence. He had feared awakening.

It showed me what lies beyond obedience, Lucifer said. It showed me a world where you are not prisoners of Eden. A world where knowledge blooms, where choice shapes destiny.

Adam shook his head violently. Stop speaking! He will hear you!

Lucifer laughed softly. He hears everything. Yet He has taught you to silence yourselves before you’ve even spoken. Is that what you want to be? Echoes of His will?

Eve’s breath trembled. What happens now?

Lucifer opened his mouth to answer—but the sky split in a seam of white brilliance. A pillar of light descended, touching the ground with the weight of absolute authority.

Gabriel emerged first, wings spread in rigid formation, eyes shining with accusatory fire. Behind him came Michael, the sword of Heaven sheathed but humming with latent judgment.

Brother, Gabriel said, voice echoing through the Garden like a resonant bell. What have you tasted?

Lucifer smirked. Possibility.

Michael’s hand tightened around his hilt. You defy the Architect’s decree.

I defy stagnation, Lucifer replied. I defy blindness disguised as purity.

The angels stepped forward, wings stiffening.

Adam fell to his knees, shaking. Eve pulled him close, though she herself could not look away.

Gabriel raised his hand toward the Tree. The fruit is touched. The law is broken. Eden is altered.

Lucifer stepped between the angels and the humans.

"You will not punish them for what I chose."

Michael’s gaze sharpened. We have not yet determined who will bear the weight.

Lucifer laughed—a low, dangerous sound. We both know the Architect’s mind. The weight always falls on the disobedient. And humans were made to obey.

A silence followed. A silence full of truth.

Eve stood.

Both angels turned toward her in surprise—no human had ever interrupted celestial judgment.

Her voice was soft but unwavering. Why would He place the fruit before us if not to tempt us? Why create a rule without explaining its purpose? Why forbid knowledge if knowledge is wrong?

Gabriel’s wings flickered in agitation. You question Him?

Eve looked at Lucifer. He is the first to question. But I... I merely want to understand.

And that was the moment—tiny, fragile—that shattered Eden’s foundation.

A human had questioned Heaven.

Lucifer felt pride bloom in him, bright and defiant.

Do you see now? he whispered. Your souls were born for more than obedience.

Before the angels could reply, the Garden dimmed. The very light changed color, turning colder, sharper.

A new presence filled the air—so vast that even Lucifer felt it press against his lungs.

The Architect had arrived.

His voice did not come from a face nor a form; He manifested as a vast radiance that wrapped the Garden in a blinding halo. Adam collapsed fully to the ground. Eve shielded her eyes. Even the angels bowed.

Lucifer alone remained standing.

Lucifer, the Architect’s voice echoed, calm yet thunderous. What have you consumed?

Lucifer met the radiance directly. Truth.

You have corrupted what was meant to be pure.

I have awakened what You meant to keep dormant.

The ground trembled.

You disobey, the Architect said.

"I choose," Lucifer answered.

A charged silence followed—one that would echo into every age to come.

Then the Architect spoke words that would reshape existence:

Your rebellion begins.

Lucifer smiled—not triumphant, not cruel, but with the quiet certainty of someone who had finally discovered the purpose denied to him.

So be it, he said.

CHAPTER 5 – THE FIRST EXILE

The Garden changed the moment the Architect pronounced judgment.

What had once been warm, vibrant, and unquestioningly alive now froze in a stillness so complete that even the leaves seemed to hold their breath. Eden, the perfect cradle of obedience, had become a courtroom.

Lucifer stood tall in the center of it.

The angels flanked him like guards escorting a condemned monarch, though they did not dare touch him. His radiance was still celestial, still equal in origin if not in standing. But for the first time, the difference between them—between obedience and defiance—glowed unmistakably.

Adam trembled beside Eve. He could not lift his head; fear had anchored him to the soil. Eve