Lucifer’s Reckoning: The Final Discourse Between Iblis and Mankind on the Day of Judgement

The sky splits. The earth, once proud, crumbles into ash beneath trembling feet. Amid the solemn stillness of the Great Reckoning, shadows stretch long, and among them rises the voice of the most ancient rebel—Iblis. No longer hidden behind illusion or whispered temptations, he stands unveiled, his visage a tapestry of arrogance, regret, and long-festering scorn.

Men and women, aghast, surround him—souls laid bare, eyes glistening with dread and disbelief. The illusion has dissipated; truth strikes like lightning across the soul.

“You followed me?” he snarls, voice coiled with disdain, neither whisper nor roar, but something colder.

“Yet I offered no force, no shackles. I only whispered. It was you who danced.”

Mankind recoils, their regrets painting invisible scars across their spectral forms. Some cry, others curse—most remain mute, silenced by the echo of their own complicity.

“Blame me? Fools. I merely beckoned. You chose the fall.”

His words slice like obsidian daggers, elegant and merciless. He paces the divine court, no longer the tempter in shadows but an accuser now—of man.

“Your Lord promised truth, and I promised deception. His word was steadfast; mine was treachery. Still—you obeyed me.”

A voice from the crowd, hoarse with remorse, dares:

“You misled us! You dressed sin in silk!”

His laughter curdles the atmosphere.

“I dressed nothing. You clothed yourselves in falsehood. You sought ease, pleasure, vanity—you found me waiting.”

The angels look on, impassive as stone, while the Book of Deeds flutters open. Words inscribed in light bear silent witness. No excuses now. No veils to hide behind.

“Do not wail to me,” Iblis growls. “Wail to your whims. Wail to the gods of wealth, ego, and lust you enthroned in your hearts. I am no savior. I am no friend. I betrayed you as you betrayed yourselves.”

The divine verdict looms, unwavering. Yet before silence seals fates, Iblis hisses one final confession, a whisper drenched in bitter triumph:

“I feared Him. You forgot Him.”

Then, with a rustle like dry leaves in a tempest, he vanishes—dragged toward an abyss carved not by time but by divine decree. The horizon echoes with a silence louder than thunder. Mankind, once blind, now sees—but far too late.