Hell was not a place.
It was a wound.
A rupture in creation, carved open by screams that never ended, stitched together by fire that never burned out. The air itself was ash, every breath a mouthful of knives. The skies were a ceiling of molten black, cracked like broken glass, and through those cracks spilled rivers of flame that bled downward forever.
The ground was alive. It pulsed beneath the weight of suffering—veins of magma crawling like serpents beneath flesh-like stone. Every step echoed with groans of something vast and unseen, as if Hell itself remembered every sin ever committed, and was forced to relive it endlessly.
Souls drifted everywhere, millions of them, translucent and writhing. They screamed until their throats tore open, then screamed louder as the void stitched them back together just to be broken again. Their bodies twisted into shapes that no human tongue could describe—limbs stretched into hooks, eyes swallowed by mouths, jaws dislocated into eternal cries.
And above them, hanging on obsidian hooks, were things that had once been men, women, kings, killers, saints—every kind of soul stripped bare of title and hope, left to sway like grotesque ornaments in Hell's furnace air.
The demons were worse.
Things of muscle and horn and fire, beasts that should not have been able to stand, crawled on all fours or walked like men, but each was wrong. Too many teeth. Too many hands. Eyes in places no eyes should be. Their wings beat not to fly but to suffocate, stirring clouds of ash heavy enough to choke even the dead. They ruled the souls like cattle, yet even in their cruelty… they feared.
Because something else had entered Hell.
*********
He walked on blackened ground, dressed in nothing but a hooded sweatshirt, dark pants, sneakers that left no sound when they touched the flesh-stone beneath. The modern clothing clashed with the ancient nightmare around him, and that alone made the demons tremble harder.
Every eye followed him.
Every scream faltered.
Every creature with knees bent them.
Death inhaled. The stench of brimstone, iron, and eternal rot filled him. He exhaled slowly, his voice a whisper only Hell itself could hear:
"Still smells like me."
And Hell shivered.
**********
The landscape bent. One blink, and he was elsewhere.
Not fire. Not screams.
But silence.
A lake stretched endlessly, its surface like glass, smooth and pale as bone. No ripple, no wind, no reflection. Only one thing broke the horizon: a single, upright stone, dark and jagged, and chained to it… a prisoner.
He was a figure of broken light. His long platinum hair was filthy with dried blood, yet strands still shimmered faintly in the silence. His once-golden armor was shattered, hanging in fragments, each piece scarred by claws and fire. His flesh was a tapestry of wounds—burns, cuts, holes where spears had gone clean through. Yet still, his body radiated a faint glow, the last defiance of divinity that could not be extinguished.
His wrists and ankles were bound by black chains that hissed with molten cracks, each link pulsing with lava as though Hell itself fed on his restraint.
Death appeared at his side.
He said nothing at first. Only looked.
His hood shadowed his face, but his eyes—two pits of purple fire, burning with ancient runes that shifted and coiled like snakes—were fixed on the prisoner.
"Hey." His voice was low, not human, carrying the weight of epochs.
"Still won't talk?"
The chained figure raised his head.
Golden eyes. Not broken, not dulled. Still bright, still filled with rage.
Death crouched down. Their gazes locked, divinity versus divinity, silence thick enough to crack stone.
"Come forth."
The shadows behind them tore open. A beast the size of a fortress emerged, all muscle and horns, its flesh etched with scars that smoldered with molten fire. Its jaw could have crushed palaces, and its eyes burned with the kind of fear demons were not supposed to know.
It dropped to one knee instantly.
"My lord… Golther, at your service."
Death didn't look at him. His eyes stayed on the prisoner.
"Did he speak?"
Golther bowed lower, shaking despite his size. "No, my lord. Not once. He does not scream, does not beg. His wounds heal before we can carve the lessons deeper. And some of my kin… they died simply by being near him. His presence… it burns us."
Death finally turned his head. His stare met Golther's.
"Raise your head."
The demon obeyed—slowly, trembling.
And then it broke.
Its body convulsed, spine snapping like twigs, arms twisting backward until the bones split the skin. Flesh tore, organs spilled, its scream shook the glass-lake and then cut off as its body collapsed inward. In a heartbeat, the fortress of a demon had been reduced to red and black dust that scattered into nothing.
Death stood slowly, rolling his sleeves back to reveal scarred, veined forearms. He turned again to the chained figure, and for the first time… he knelt.
"You've been lucky I've been busy these past millennia," he murmured. His voice was calm, almost kind—but each word made the very chains hiss louder.
"These fools thought you just another captive. No wonder they believed they could wound you."
A pause. Silence thick as blood.
"But now… now it's time you learned pain in its purest form."
His lips curved—not in a smile, but in something colder.
"After all… I created it."
**********
Hell itself reacted.
The scene shifted outward, back to the countless demons and screaming souls. They stopped. Every lash, every torture, every scream froze. They felt it—the weight, the presence pressing on their bones, on their minds, on their very souls.
And then the first scream hit.
It wasn't human.
It wasn't angelic.
It was the chained one's cry, ripped from him by a God who had returned to his throne. It cut across Hell like lightning, splitting the silence and filling it with horror so pure that even the torturers staggered.
Every demon froze, trembling, their claws and wings shaking as the sound crawled inside them. Even the damned souls, who had long forgotten fear, remembered it.
And in that moment, one truth consumed all of Hell...but it's not Hell that felt the terrifying presence.....
***********
The chamber was not of this world.
A cathedral of silence, endless and eternal, carved from pure white marble that gleamed with its own light. The floor stretched flawless and unbroken, polished so perfectly it mirrored eternity itself. High above, a dome rose, its ceiling engraved with constellations that shifted faintly as if alive, whispering secrets of forgotten skies.
At the center stood a vast table, longer than rivers, older than mountains. Encircling it were thirty-six seats—thrones, each one different, each a masterpiece forged for divinity. Their designs bore engravings of creation itself: forests etched in emerald stone, oceans in sapphire, flames of ruby, and skies in diamond. They shone gold and white, regal and absolute, resonating with authority that no mortal tongue could ever name.
And upon these thrones, gods sat.
Flawless. Radiant. Perfection incarnate. Some wore robes woven from light itself, some were clad in armors that hummed with celestial power. Their beauty was suffocating, their presence a storm. Even the faintest ripple of their auras could crush a mortal's bones to dust.
Yet in this grand assembly, silence reigned.
For though thirty-five thrones glowed with divine radiance, one remained empty. Its gold frame cold. Its engravings dark. The place reserved for one who had not sat there for eons.
Every god in the chamber felt it—the faint, terrible shift. A shadow creeping back into a world that had long forgotten its true master. It was not sight nor sound that alerted them. It was something deeper. A presence like a whisper beneath the skin, like the first chill of winter touching the bones.
The gods, mighty as they were, said nothing. Until one finally stirred.
Their voice rang across the hall, sharp and restrained, though laced with fury that echoed even through eternity.
"He's finally returned…" the god's eyes burned, their knuckles tightening upon the throne's armrest sending web cracks through it. "…The God of the Underworld. Death."
The marble chamber trembled as the words fell, like even the world itself feared the truth.
And then—darkness.