AT THE AGE OF SEVEN, LaVey experienced what he would later call his first encounter with hell. He slept in a large, comfortable bed, wrapped in cotton sheets that carried the soft scent of lavender.
It was the bedroom of an ordinary boy—scattered toys, children's books stacked on the desk, a photograph of his adoptive parents resting on the nightstand. But that night, his sleep was abruptly shattered by something that would haunt him forever.
When he awoke, he could barely breathe. His body would not obey him. His arms were crossed over his chest and tightly bound, his feet fastened together with a thick, coarse ribbon. What had once been softness had turned into rigidity—the mattress had vanished, and beneath his back there was only a cold, almost stone-like surface.
Around him, the dimness flickered with small flames; candles arranged in a circle cast shadows that danced along the walls like specters from a living nightmare. He tried to scream, but his voice died in his throat. The air he breathed tasted metallic—like fear itself.
And then he saw them.
Men cloaked in black robes, their faces hidden beneath death-like masks, wielding long, slender swords that reflected the candlelight. They moved in perfect synchrony, as if performing a ritual learned centuries ago. They murmured words he could not understand—a language that sounded ancient, profane, woven from whispers and curses.
When the cold blade touched his skin, he felt the ice of absolute terror. The pain was not physical—it was spiritual. Something inside him shattered, and he knew with certainty that he would never be the same again.
From that night on, LaVey died to the world. He never returned to school. He lost his best friend, his childhood, and his laughter.
Under the care of the mysterious Monsieur Constantine, he spent the following years in an isolated mansion in the misty countryside of the Czech Republic, where the bells of nearby churches rang for a God who no longer recognized him.
While the children of other families learned mathematics, English literature, and proper manners, he was instructed in rituals, ancient symbols, and the power of blind obedience. He learned to decipher grimoires, to summon invisible forces, to fear—and to serve. The man who raised him claimed he was preparing him for something greater—and on his thirteenth birthday, he revealed the truth: LaVey was his illegitimate son.
The revelation shook him, but it also filled him with a dark sense of pride. For the first time, he felt he belonged to something. Constantine told him that the Ipsissimus—the supreme master—had chosen him even before he was born.
And LaVey believed him.
The adoptive family to whom he had given love and loyalty had died four months earlier in a deliberate fire. The flames consumed not only the house but the last bond that tied him to humanity. From that moment on, his gratitude and devotion to the man who had taken him in with open arms transformed him into the most loyal of servants.
The name he adopted—LaVey—was a tribute to Anton LaVey. A symbol. A new identity. The boy who had died in the fire needed a reborn body and name—and he swore his future would be as grand as it was terrible.
Now, obeying a new mission from his father, he followed orders without hesitation. He had planted a real threat—something that should not exist—inside the luggage of a priest traveling to England. It would be the beginning of a greater plan, a piece on the invisible chessboard that Constantine moved with diabolical mastery.
LaVey followed every step. Using his father's infiltrated contact inside Scotland Yard, he manipulated the security camera footage, erasing traces and creating false ones. He knew that the slightest mistake could condemn him—but the risk excited him. It was proof that he was alive, that his father's legacy pulsed through his veins.
The black Tesla sports car glided along Bayswater Road, slicing through the London wind with an electric hum. LaVey accelerated, keeping enough distance to remain unnoticed. He followed the vehicle until it entered an underground parking lot, then stopped a few meters from the entrance.
He remained there, watching, his heart beating with the cadence of a ritual drum. His gaze fixed, cold, disciplined.
The mission had only just begun—and he knew that, in that game of faith and blasphemy, not even God would be able to save him.