The descent into the Lower Layer of Hell was not made with steps—it was made with screams.
The gate behind Rean snapped shut like a closing wound, sealing away the blood-soaked battlefield above. The world twisted. The sky turned into dripping ink, and the ground beneath their feet rotted into charred bones and ash. Heat no longer felt like heat—it was hunger, gnawing, endless, eternal.
"You weren't joking," Rean muttered, his voice hoarse.
Anos, walking beside him, didn't answer. His expression was tight, eyes fixed ahead. The Demon King's armor shimmered with infernal power, but even he looked wary.
Rean flexed his fingers. The system's power still pulsed inside him—new, unstable, but real. The ability to summon magical beasts. Armor forged from shadow. A sword that fed on fear.
He had tasted its strength when he destroyed the Guardian above. But he could feel something else buried deeper.
Something still sleeping.
"Where are we?" Rean asked.
