"What is time like in Hell?" Caleif inquires, her voice tinged with curiosity as she circles Lucifer, who stands transfixed, his gaze locked onto the swirling depths of the portal. The air around them hums with a strange energy, casting eerie shadows in the dim light. "Well," Lucifer begins, his voice measured and resonant, "it's been about three days here, which translates to roughly three thousand years in Hell." His words hang heavy in the air, the weight of eternity palpable. "But he doesn't know that," Lucifer continues, his eyes still drawn inexorably to the portal's otherworldly glow. "To him, it will feel like only three days, just as it does for us. It's a good thing he can't hear us, I'm sure he'd be pissed" Despite his efforts, his gaze remains tethered to the portal, as if the very fabric of time is woven into its depths, holding him captive.
A shiver runs down my spine as I continue swinging the massive demon's severed arm like a club, crushing three more attackers with a single blow. I've lost count of how many I've killed—thousands? Tens of thousands? The numbers blur together in an endless crimson haze.
"Come on!" I roar, my voice hardly recognizable anymore. "Is this really all you've got?"
The six-armed monstrosity I beheaded moments ago still twitches at my feet, its ichor pooling beneath my boots. I shouldn't be enjoying this as much as I am, but there's something intoxicating about unleashing everything I've held back for so long. No need for restraint. No need for mercy. Just pure, unfiltered violence.
Estingoth's presence pulses through me like a second heartbeat. "They're sending their elite warriors now," he warns as a new wave of demons parts the crowd. These ones move differently—disciplined, coordinated, their eyes glowing with malevolent intelligence.
"Good," I snarl, tossing aside my improvised weapon. "I was getting bored."
The elite demons form a circle around me, their movements synchronized with unsettling precision. One steps forward—taller than the others, with armor that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it.
"You fight well, architect," it says, its voice like grinding stones. "But even you must tire eventually."
I laugh, the sound echoing across the arena. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But here's the thing about rage—it doesn't get tired. It just gets hungrier."
From the corner of my eye, I notice the five Pillars watching from a raised platform, their expressions a mixture of fascination and growing concern. They didn't expect this—a prisoner who doesn't break, who thrives in their hellish colosseum.
The elite commander draws twin blades that ripple with dark energy. "Let us test that theory."
They attack as one, a perfect storm of lethal precision. I dodge, weave, and counter, my body moving with a fluidity that should be impossible after so much fighting. But I'm not tired—if anything, I feel stronger, more alive than I have since the Guardians stripped my cosmic power.
It's like something dormant inside me has awakened, something that's been waiting for permission to emerge. The gauntlet blazes with energy, but it's not just Estingoth's power anymore—it's mine too, transformed and amplified by this place of endless conflict.
I catch a blade aimed at my throat, twist it from its owner's grasp, and drive it through the demon's chest in one fluid motion. Two more rush me from opposite sides; I drop to one knee, letting them collide above me, then surge upward with enough force to send them flying into their companions.
"You're enjoying this," Estingoth observes in my mind, his tone equal parts approval and caution.
"Is that a problem?" I ask silently as I rip the arm off a particularly persistent attacker.
"Not for me," he replies. "But you might want to consider what it means for who you're becoming."
I don't have time to ponder his words. The elite commander is on me again, those rippling blades slicing through the air with deadly intent. One catches my shoulder, cutting through my armor like it's paper. Pain flares, hot and immediate, but I welcome it. Pain means I'm still alive, still fighting.
I grab the commander's wrist before he can withdraw the blade, pulling him toward me with irresistible force. "Let me show you something," I growl, pressing my gauntlet against his chest. "A little trick I picked up during my cosmic transformation."
The gauntlet pulses, and the commander's eyes widen in sudden terror. I'm not sure what he's seeing—some fragment of cosmic horror I glimpsed at the Threshold, perhaps—but it's enough to make him freeze for a crucial second.
That's all I need. I drive my fist through his chest, armor and all, feeling bone and sinew give way beneath my knuckles. The commander gasps, a sound of disbelief more than pain, as I tear out something that might be his heart.
"Next," I say, dropping the still-pulsing organ as the commander crumples at my feet.
The remaining elites hesitate, exchanging glances that speak volumes. They're afraid now—not just of losing, but of what I represent. A being who doesn't just survive their trials but thrives on them, growing stronger with each victory.
From the platform, Seraphel rises to her feet, her beautiful face twisted with calculation. "Enough," she calls, her voice cutting through the arena's clamor. "You've proven your worth, architect. The trial is complete."
I look around at the carnage surrounding me, at the thousands of demon corpses littering the arena floor, at the elite warriors who now keep their distance. "Complete? I'm just getting started."
"Indeed you are," she agrees, descending from the platform with inhuman grace. "But not here. You've earned the right to face the next level of the Pit."
I narrow my eyes, suspicious of this sudden reprieve. "And if I refuse? If I'd rather stay and finish what I started?"
Seraphel's smile is a thing of terrible beauty. "Then you forfeit your chance to advance, to face greater challenges, to eventually earn your freedom."
Freedom. The word hangs in the air between us, tantalizing and almost certainly a lie. But what choice do I have? I can stay here, fighting endless waves of demons until... what? Until I finally tire? Until they overwhelm me through sheer numbers? Or I can play along, advance through their trials, look for weaknesses I can exploit to escape.
"Fine," I say, rolling my shoulders as my armor shifts and repairs itself. "Take me to the next level. But know this—I'm not playing your game because I have to. I'm playing it because it amuses me. For now."
Her smile doesn't falter, but something flickers in her eyes—a momentary uncertainty that tells me I've struck a nerve. "Such confidence," she purrs. "We'll see how long it lasts."
She gestures, and reality tears open beside us, revealing a swirling vortex of darkness and fire. "The Pit of Desolation awaits, architect. Few have reached it. None have emerged."
I step toward the portal, feeling its heat wash over me like a physical force. "There's a first time for everything."
As I pass Seraphel, I pause, leaning in close enough to smell her strange, intoxicating scent. "By the way," I whisper, "when you report back to the Guardians, tell them they've made a terrible mistake. They should have killed me when they had the chance."
Before she can respond, I step through the portal, embracing whatever new hell awaits on the other side. The cosmic architect might be gone, stripped of his reality-bending powers, but something new is taking his place—something forged in hellfire and tempered by endless combat.
And when I finally escape this place—because I will escape, no matter how long it takes—the cosmic order is going to learn exactly what happens when you throw someone into hell and they come back changed.
The portal closes behind me with a sound like tearing flesh, and I find myself standing on a vast plain of obsidian glass. The sky above—if it can be called a sky—churns with clouds the color of bruises, occasional flashes of lightning illuminating the desolate landscape. In the distance, mountains of razor-sharp crystal reach toward the turbulent heavens, their peaks disappearing into the roiling darkness.
"The Pit of Desolation," I murmur, taking in my new prison. "Charming place."
"It was designed to break the spirit rather than the body," Estingoth explains, his presence a comforting weight in my mind. "Many powerful beings have gone mad here, alone with nothing but their regrets and failures."
I laugh, the sound harsh and strange in this empty place. "Then they clearly didn't have your sparkling personality for company."
Something shifts in the landscape ahead—a ripple in the obsidian plain that suggests movement. I tense, ready for another attack, but what emerges from the glass isn't a demon or monster.
It's Caleif.
She stands there, perfect in every detail—her ember-red hair, her golden-flecked eyes, even the small scar at the corner of her mouth that she got during our first adventure together. She's wearing the same clothes she had on when I was taken, and her expression is one of pure relief.
"Kamen," she says, her voice achingly familiar. "I found you. I finally found you."
I don't move. This isn't the first illusion they've tried on me, though it's certainly the most convincing. "Nice try," I say flatly. "But we both know you're not real."
Her face falls, hurt filling those perfect eyes. "It's really me. Lucifer helped me find a way in. Please, we don't have much time."
She takes a step toward me, hand outstretched, and I feel something in my chest twist with longing. God, I miss her. The real her. But this... this is just another test, another way to break me.
"If you were really Caleif," I say, hardening my heart against the pain in her expression, "you'd know better than to expect me to fall for such an obvious trap. The real Caleif would never risk coming here, especially not after what happened with the Forgotten."
"I had to try," the false Caleif says, her voice breaking. "You've been gone so long, and we've been so worried."
Something in her words catches my attention. "How long?" I ask, suddenly curious about what this illusion thinks it knows.
"Three days," she says, tears welling in her eyes. "But Lucifer says time moves differently here. He says it's been much longer for you."
Three days. It feels right—the fighting in the arena couldn't have lasted more than a few hours, and before that... But something nags at me, a discrepancy I can't quite place. This illusion is good, but it's made a mistake somewhere.
"You're getting better," I acknowledge, circling the false Caleif cautiously. "The last one couldn't even get her clothes right. But you're still not her."
The illusion's shoulders slump in defeat. "I knew you'd say that. Lucifer warned me you might not believe it was really me." She looks up, meeting my eyes with a gaze so familiar it hurts. "He said to tell you something only I would know. The night before you were taken, when we were talking about the Guardians stripping your powers, you said you felt relieved. That you were glad to be free of the burden, even though you were angry about how it happened."
I freeze, the words hitting me like a physical blow. That conversation happened in private, in the middle of the night, with no one else present. How could an illusion know about it?
"Caleif?" I whisper, hope and fear warring in my chest. "Is it really you?"
She nods, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "It's me. And we need to go, now. The portal won't stay open long."
I lunge forward, then freeze. If this truly is Caleif, my one chance to break free... but what if it's a cruel illusion? What if it's a cunning trap, crafted to shatter my spirit by dangling false hope? I refuse to succumb. A torrent of fury surges through me, transforming me into an unrecognizable force of destruction. I charge, obliterating demon after demon, even as their entire army bears down on me. "These three days have been killer," I snarl, a dark laugh escaping before Caleif barrels toward me, slicing my throat with ruthless precision.
As I stand there shocked I feel blood rush down my throat as something inside me finally snaps, they used the one I loved as an illusion against me, no more. I won't hold back anymore, from here on out I'm going 100% all out/
The rage that floods through me isn't human anymore. It's something primal, something that's been building through three thousand years of endless combat, waiting for exactly this moment to break free. The fake Caleif's blade is still pressed against my throat, her perfect features twisted into a cruel smile that the real Caleif would never wear.
"Got you," she whispers, her voice now carrying undertones of malice that make my skin crawl.
I grab her wrist with crushing force, feeling bones grind beneath my grip. "Wrong," I snarl, my voice distorting as something fundamental shifts inside me. "You got yourself."
The transformation happens instantly. My armor doesn't just repair itself—it evolves, becoming something that belongs more in nightmares than reality. Spikes erupt from my shoulders and knuckles, my helmet reshapes itself into something skull-like and terrifying, and the crimson energy flowing through the gauntlet spreads across my entire body like living fire.
The false Caleif's eyes widen in genuine terror as she realizes her mistake. She's triggered something that was meant to stay buried, something that three thousand years of constant warfare has been nurturing in the darkest corners of my soul.
I rip her arm off at the shoulder, ignoring her screams as I backhand her across the obsidian plain. She tumbles end over end, her perfect illusion flickering and revealing glimpses of the true horror beneath—something with too many teeth and eyes like burning coals.
"You want to see what three thousand years of your hospitality has created?" I roar, my voice echoing across the desolate landscape with enough force to crack the glass beneath my feet. "Let me show you what happens when you break someone who refuses to stay broken!"
I launch myself after the creature, moving faster than I ever have before. The impact when I reach it creates a crater in the obsidian, sending shockwaves rippling outward like a stone dropped in still water. I grab what's left of its throat and lift it into the air.
"You made one critical error," I growl, my grip tightening until I hear vertebrae pop. "You used her face. Her voice. Her memory." The creature writhes in my grasp, its illusion completely shattered now, revealing something that looks like it was assembled from spare parts and bad dreams. "That was sacred. And now you're going to pay for defiling it."
I drive my fist through its chest, feeling its essence unravel around my fingers. But I don't stop there—I tear it apart piece by piece, channeling every moment of pain, every hour of loneliness, every second of rage I've accumulated in this hellish place.
When I'm finished, nothing remains but scattered ichor and the echo of my fury reverberating across the plain. I stand there, breathing hard, feeling the new armor pulse with dark energy. This isn't just enhancement anymore—it's transformation. I'm becoming something else, something shaped by endless conflict and refined by absolute hatred.
"Impressive," a familiar voice says behind me. I turn to see Seraphel standing at the edge of the crater, her expression unreadable. "Though perhaps not entirely unexpected."
"Come to gloat?" I ask, flexing my clawed fingers. The spikes along my knuckles extend another inch, eager for more violence.
"Come to offer congratulations," she corrects, though her tone suggests anything but celebration. "You've passed the trial of desolation. Few have managed to resist the lure of false hope so... decisively."
I laugh, the sound harsh and alien even to my own ears. "False hope? Is that what you call psychological torture now?"
"We call it necessary," she replies, taking a careful step back as my armor flares with renewed energy. "The Pit has many levels, architect. Each one strips away another layer of who you think you are, revealing what lies beneath."
"And what lies beneath me?"
Her smile is equal parts admiration and fear. "Something that should never have been created. Something that makes even us uncomfortable."
The honesty in her admission surprises me. "Good," I say simply. "Because I'm just getting started."
The obsidian plain begins to crack and crumble around us, reality reshaping itself once again. But this time, I can feel the change coming from me as much as from external forces. The very fabric of this place is responding to my transformation, bending to accommodate whatever I'm becoming.
"The next level awaits," Seraphel says, though she sounds less confident than before. "Though I confess, we're no longer certain what we'll find when you emerge from it."
"Neither am I," I admit, feeling power surge through me like molten metal in my veins. "But I promise you this—when I finally get out of here, everyone who put me here is going to regret it. Starting with the Guardians who thought they could dispose of me like yesterday's garbage."
A new portal tears open, revealing depths that seem to swallow light itself. This one feels different—older, more dangerous, tinged with the kind of malevolence that makes reality itself recoil.
"The Abyss of Endings," Seraphel whispers, her voice carrying notes of something that might be genuine concern. "Where concepts go to die. Where meaning itself unravels."
I look at the portal, then back at her. "Will I still be me when I come out?"
"I don't know," she admits. "No one has ever emerged from the Abyss unchanged. Most don't emerge at all."
"Perfect," I say, striding toward the portal without hesitation. "Because the me that went into your first trial? He was holding back. He was trying to be reasonable, trying to find peaceful solutions." I pause at the threshold, feeling the Abyss pulling at me with hungry tendrils. "The me that comes out? He won't make that mistake."
I step through, and reality screams.
The Abyss is a place where language fails. My consciousness splinters and reforms, stretched across impossible dimensions. This isn't like the other levels—this is primordial chaos, the raw stuff of un-creation.
I fall through layers of non-existence, each one peeling away another aspect of what I thought defined me. Memories dissolve—my life before the gauntlet becomes a distant echo, then vanishes entirely. My name feels foreign on what passes for my tongue in this place. What was I called? Why does it matter?
Only rage remains constant—a burning coal at my core that refuses to be extinguished.
Something ancient watches me from the depths. Not a creature, but a concept given partial form—the End of All Things, patient and inevitable.
"You don't belong here," it observes, its voice the sound of stars going cold. "Not yet."
"I go where I please," I respond, though I'm no longer certain I have a mouth to speak with.
The concept seems amused. "Do you? Or do you go where others send you? Cosmic architect. Guardian's prisoner. Demon's champion. Always defined by others, never by yourself."
The accusation stings because there's truth in it. I've been reacting since this began—to the gauntlet, to cosmic threats, to the Guardians' betrayal. Even my rage is a reaction.
"Then who am I?" I demand. "Without all that?"
"That," says the End of All Things, "is the only question worth answering."
The Abyss shifts, and suddenly I'm facing myself—not as I am now, armored in nightmare steel, but as I was before any of this began. Human. Ordinary. Afraid.
"Remember me?" my former self asks. "The person you were?"
"You were weak," I snarl, the armor pulsing with my contempt.
"I was human," he corrects. "I felt joy and sorrow and love without cosmic significance attached to every emotion. I lived without constant battle."
"You accomplished nothing," I accuse.
"I was happy," he counters. "Can you say the same?"
The question pierces through my rage like a spear of ice. When was the last time I felt genuine happiness? Not triumph, not victory, not the savage joy of battle—but simple, uncomplicated happiness?
I think of Caleif—the real Caleif, not the twisted illusion they used to torment me. I think of quiet moments between cosmic crises, of her laugh when I say something particularly stupid, of the way her head fits perfectly against my shoulder.
"I remember," I whisper, and for a moment, the armor recedes slightly, revealing scarred flesh beneath.
But then other memories surge forward—the Guardians' betrayal, the endless combat of the Pit, the countless beings who've tried to manipulate me for their own ends. The armor surges back, stronger than before.
"They took everything from me," I growl. "They deserve what's coming."
My former self shakes his head. "They took your power, not your humanity. That, you're giving away freely with every life you extinguish, with every drop of joy you sacrifice to feed your rage."
"My humanity is weakness they exploit!"
"Your humanity is why Caleif loves you," he counters. "Why your friends follow you. Why students look up to you. Strip that away, and what's left? Another cosmic force, indistinguishable from the ones you despise."
I lunge at him, but my hand passes through as if he's made of smoke. The Abyss shifts again, and now I'm surrounded by mirrors, each reflecting a different version of myself—the teacher, the lover, the fighter, the architect, the prisoner.
"Choose," the End of All Things whispers from everywhere and nowhere. "Or be chosen for."
I stare at the reflections, each representing a path, a possibility, an identity. The armored warrior stares back with eyes like burning coals, promising power through endless conflict. The cosmic architect offers purpose through creation rather than destruction. The teacher shows patience, influence spreading through generations of students.
"I choose..." I begin, but the Abyss doesn't let me finish.
Reality fractures, and I'm falling again, this time through memories that aren't mine—lives ended by my hand in the Pit, dreams crushed, futures erased. Three thousand years of combat, compressed into a single, horrifying moment of understanding.
I've become death on an industrial scale. I've slaughtered my way through Hell itself, reveling in the carnage, feeding on the violence until it reshaped me into something barely recognizable.
But beneath it all, beneath the armor and the rage and the transformation, there's still something that remembers being human. Something that longs for connection rather than conquest.
The Abyss shows me one final vision—Caleif, the real Caleif, standing at a portal with Lucifer, watching me fight through scrying magic. Her face is etched with horror and grief as she witnesses what I've become, what Hell has made of me.
"Three thousand years," Lucifer is saying, his perfect face grim. "The Pit changes everyone who enters it. Even him."
"We have to get him out," Caleif insists, tears streaming down her face. "Before there's nothing left of the man I love."
The vision cuts like a knife. Three thousand years. To them, it's been three days. To me, it's been an eternity of blood and fire and transformation. An eternity of becoming something else.
The End of All Things speaks one last time as the Abyss begins to collapse around me. "Remember this moment, warrior. When you finally break free—and you will—remember what you saw here. Remember what awaits you beyond the Pit."
I'm ejected from the Abyss with the force of a cosmic rejection, landing hard on what feels like solid ground again. My armor smokes and hisses, adjusting to the shift in reality. I'm in a new arena, this one vast beyond comprehension, with a single figure waiting at its center.
Seraphel stands alone, her beauty terrible in its perfection. But she's different now—her form more solid, more real, as if she's dropped pretenses I hadn't even recognized before.
"Welcome to the Final Circle," she says. "The place where the truly exceptional prove their worth."
I rise to my feet, feeling the weight of three thousand years of combat in every movement. "And how exactly do I do that?"
Her smile is both invitation and challenge. "By defeating me, of course. I am the hundredth Pillar, the final test. Defeat me, and you earn your freedom."
I study her, noting the subtle differences in her stance, the power that radiates from her like heat from a star. "You're not like the others."
"No," she agrees. "I am the Pillar of Transformation. I don't break spirits—I reshape them." She gestures to my armored form. "Much as I've been reshaping you since your arrival."
Understanding dawns like a cold sun. "This was your plan all along. The trials, the combat, the Abyss—all designed to forge me into... what?"
"Something new," she says. "Something necessary. The cosmos is changing, architect. The barriers you created are only the beginning. What comes next will require guardians with the will and power to maintain balance through whatever storms approach."
"And you think I'm going to be your weapon?" I laugh, the sound harsh and metallic through my transformed helm. "After everything you've put me through?"
"Not our weapon," she corrects. "Our equal. A being forged in hellfire, tempered by cosmic understanding, driven by righteous purpose. The perfect balance of human compassion and demonic power."
I think of the vision the Abyss showed me—Caleif's horror at what I've become. Is this truly who I want to be? A being so transformed by rage and combat that those who love me can barely recognize me?
"And if I refuse?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Then you remain here," Seraphel says simply. "Forever. Fighting endless battles until even your extraordinary will finally breaks."
I look down at my armored hands, at the claws that have torn through thousands of demons, at the spikes that have impaled countless foes. This isn't who I was. But after three thousand years, is there any going back?
The vision of Caleif's tears flashes through my mind again. There has to be a way forward that doesn't mean surrendering to either the Guardians' control or Hell's corruption.
"I have a counter-offer," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I defeat you, and I leave on my terms. Not as your equal, not as anyone's weapon or guardian. As myself—whatever that means now."
Seraphel's perfect eyebrows rise in surprise. "You think you can defeat me? Truly?"
"I think I've spent three thousand years learning how to kill things that thought they were unkillable," I reply. "So yes, I like my chances."
She laughs, a sound like breaking glass and flowing honey. "Very well, architect. Show me what Hell has made of you."
The final battle begins without warning. One moment we're standing ten feet apart, the next she's on me, moving faster than thought. Her first blow catches me in the chest, sending me flying backward into a pillar of black stone that shatters on impact.
I recover instantly, propelling myself forward with enough force to crack the ground beneath me. Our collision creates a shockwave that ripples outward, distorting the very fabric of this hellish realm.
She's strong—stronger than anything I've faced in the Pit. Each exchange of blows feels like fighting a force of nature, like trying to punch a hurricane into submission. But I've spent three millennia becoming something beyond natural, something forged specifically for this kind of impossible combat.
We tear through the arena, each blow powerful enough to level mountains. I catch her wrist as she aims for my throat, twist, and hurl her into the distance. She crashes through several structures before halting her momentum, her perfect form now showing signs of damage—cracks in her porcelain skin revealing molten light beneath.
"Impressive," she calls, genuine admiration in her voice. "You've learned well."
"I had good teachers," I reply, flexing my gauntlet. "About three million of them."
She laughs again, and this time there's real pleasure in it. "Do you understand yet? Why we put you through this?"
"Because you're sadistic bastards who enjoy breaking people?"
"Because we needed to know if you could withstand it," she corrects, closing the distance between us in a blur of movement. "If you could endure transformation without losing your core self."
Her next attack comes from multiple angles simultaneously—not just physical but metaphysical, targeting body and mind at once. I block what I can, absorb what I can't, and counter with a technique I learned from a particularly nasty demon in my two-thousandth year here: a strike that bypasses physical defenses entirely, targeting the essence beneath.
Seraphel gasps, genuine surprise crossing her features as my attack connects. "Where did you learn that?"
"I'm a quick study," I say, pressing my advantage with a flurry of blows that force her onto the defensive. "And I've had a lot of time to practice."
The battle escalates, each of us drawing on powers that would shatter lesser beings. She calls down lightning that burns with colors I have no names for; I respond by tearing open the ground beneath her feet and hurling molten rock at her with enough force to shatter reality itself.
But even as we fight, even as I pour three thousand years of accumulated rage into every blow, I can't shake the vision from the Abyss. Caleif's horrified face haunts me, a reminder of who I was before this place reshaped me into something barely human.
"You're holding back," Seraphel observes, dancing away from a strike that would have taken her head off. "Why?"
I pause, my claws dripping with her golden blood. "Because I'm trying to decide who I want to be when this is over."
Her expression shifts, becoming something almost... maternal? "And who do you want to be?"
I think of the academy, of students from three realms learning together. I think of the doorways I created, of the connections being built despite cosmic opposition. I think of Caleif's laugh, of Elara's pragmatic loyalty, of Valen's academic excitement.
"Someone they can still recognize," I say quietly. "Someone worth coming home to."
Seraphel nods slowly, lowering her hands. "Then you've passed the true test."
I blink, confusion cutting through my battle-fury. "What?"
"The trials weren't about breaking you or reshaping you into our weapon," she explains, her voice gentle despite the devastation around us. "They were about seeing if you could endure transformation without losing your essential self. If you could become powerful enough to face what's coming while remaining someone worth saving."
The rage that's sustained me for three millennia suddenly feels hollow, purposeless. "You mean..."
"You were never our prisoner," she says with something that might be pride. "You were our candidate. And you've proven yourself worthy of what we're about to offer."
I stagger backward, the weight of understanding hitting me like a physical blow. "The Guardians didn't send me here to be contained. They sent me here to be tested."
"The Guardians are fools," Seraphel corrects. "We brought you here despite their wishes, not because of them. There are forces stirring in the deep places of reality, architect. Things that make your previous cosmic crises look like children's games. We needed to know if you could become strong enough to face them without losing what makes you... you."
I look down at my armored hands, at the transformation three thousand years of combat has wrought. "And have I?"
She smiles, and for the first time, it reaches her eyes. "Ask me that question again, and listen to how you phrase it. A being consumed by power would ask 'Am I strong enough?' You ask if you've retained your humanity. That tells me everything I need to know."
The arena around us begins to dissolve, reality reshaping itself once more. But this time, I can see light beyond the changing landscape—not the false illumination of hellfire, but something clean and pure and infinitely welcoming.
"The exit?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.
"Your graduation," she confirms. "Though I should warn you—the cosmos you return to is not the one you left. Three days may have passed in mortal time, but those three days have seen... developments."
I think of Caleif, of my friends, of the sanctuary and academy waiting for my return. Whatever developments have occurred, whatever new crises have emerged, I'll face them. But not as the rage-consumed monster Hell tried to make me, and not as the powerless victim the Guardians intended.
I'll face them as myself—transformed but not broken, strengthened but not corrupted, carrying the power of three thousand years of combat tempered by the memory of what I'm fighting to protect.
"Take me home," I say, stepping toward the light. "I have work to do."
As the portal opens fully, revealing the familiar desert heat of the sanctuary beyond, I hear Seraphel's final words echoing behind me:
"Remember, architect—true power isn't about what you can destroy. It's about what you choose to preserve."
I step through the light, leaving Hell behind, carrying its lessons but not its corruption. Three thousand years of testing are over.
Now comes the real challenge: being worthy of the second chance I've been given.
As I step out of the portal, I look and see everyone standing infront of a portal, Lucifer instantly turns around and swipes out with a sword as he feels pure bloodlust and an energy that is so intense it frightens him as they all look and see my new form and feel the oppressive aura I have as they slowly sink to one knee I feel the cool blade against my throat, but it's the looks on their faces that really pierce me. I can see it all - the horror, the disbelief, the primal fear etched into their expressions as they sink to their knees before me. Not out of respect. Out of terror.
Lucifer's perfect face is ashen, his sword trembling slightly in his hand. The great Morningstar himself, afraid. Of me.
"Kamen?" Caleif whispers, her voice cracking. She doesn't move toward me like she always would have before. Instead, she stays frozen, those beautiful eyes wide with uncertainty as she takes in what I've become.
I want to say something reassuring, something that proves I'm still me underneath this nightmarish exterior, but the words catch in my throat. Three thousand years of violence have changed how I communicate. My voice emerges as a rumbling growl that makes everyone flinch.
"It's still me," I manage, though even I can hear how different I sound - like gravel being crushed beneath steel. The crimson energy pulses across my armor in waves that match my heartbeat, casting everyone's faces in bloody light.
Lucifer recovers first, lowering his sword with deliberate slowness. "Well," he says, that perfect smile returning though it doesn't reach his eyes, "that was quite the makeover. Hell's spas are truly underrated."
His attempt at humor falls flat in the crushing silence. I take a step forward, and everyone except Lucifer instinctively backs away. The hurt this causes feels worse than any wound I suffered in the Pit.
"Three thousand years," I say, the words hanging heavy between us. "You let me rot there for three thousand years."
"To us, it was only three days," Elara says cautiously, her hand still resting on her weapon. "We've been working non-stop to find a way to get you out."
I look around at the sanctuary - unchanged, exactly as I remember leaving it. Three days for them. An eternity for me. The cognitive dissonance is dizzying.
"Your armor," Valen observes, his academic curiosity momentarily overriding his fear. "It appears to have undergone a complete metamorphosis. The biomechanical integration is unprecedented."
I glance down at myself, seeing my transformed state through their eyes for the first time. What was once Estingoth's gauntlet has evolved into a full exoskeleton of nightmare-forged metal, crimson energy flowing through it like blood through veins. Spikes protrude from my joints, my fingers end in razor-sharp claws, and I can feel the weight of horns sprouting from my helmet.
"Side effect of non-stop combat," I say, trying to soften my voice and failing. "You adapt or you die."
Caleif takes a hesitant step toward me, and something in my chest aches at her caution. Before, she would have thrown herself into my arms without hesitation. Now she approaches like I'm a wild animal that might lash out.
"Can you..." she begins, then swallows hard. "Is it permanent? This form?"
I focus inward, searching for the connection to the armor that's become so integrated with my being. To my surprise, I can feel it respond to my will, receding slightly. Not completely - I don't think I'll ever be fully human again - but enough that my face is exposed, my hands return to something approaching normal.
The relief on Caleif's face is palpable, and she closes the remaining distance between us, reaching up to touch my cheek. Her fingers tremble slightly against my skin.
"Your eyes," she whispers. "They're different."
I don't need a mirror to know what she means. I can feel the change - the crimson glow that's replaced my normal irises, the way my vision now processes information differently, seeing heat signatures and energy patterns as clearly as physical forms.
"A lot of things are different," I admit, leaning into her touch despite myself. "But not how I feel about you. That's the one thing three thousand years couldn't change."
She searches my face, looking for the man she remembers beneath the monster I've become. Whatever she sees must reassure her, because she suddenly throws her arms around me, holding me tight despite the remaining armor.
"I was so afraid," she whispers against my neck. "When I saw what was happening to you in there, what you were becoming... I thought we'd lost you forever."
I wrap my arms around her carefully, acutely aware of my new strength. Even with the armor partially retracted, I could crush her without meaning to. The thought sends a chill through me.
"You almost did," I say quietly, the memory of the Abyss still fresh. "There were moments when I forgot who I was, why I was fighting. When all that mattered was the next kill, the next victory."
Lucifer clears his throat, breaking the moment. "As touching as this reunion is, we have some rather pressing matters to discuss." His eyes flick to my transformed state. "Starting with exactly what happened to you in there, and what it means for our... situation."
"Situation?" I ask, reluctantly releasing Caleif but keeping her close to my side.
"The Guardians weren't pleased when they discovered you'd been taken," Valen explains. "They've been... insistent about retrieving you. Something about maintaining cosmic balance."
I laugh, the sound harsh and metallic even with my helmet retracted. "Cosmic balance. Is that what they're calling it now? They stripped my powers, then tried to bury me where I couldn't influence anyone. Where I couldn't teach others what I'd learned."
"And yet here you are," Lucifer observes, studying me with unnerving intensity. "Not only free, but transformed in ways that suggest you've acquired new abilities to replace those they took."
I flex my hand, watching crimson energy dance between my fingers. "The Pit changes everyone who enters it. Three thousand years of combat against increasingly powerful opponents... you adapt or you die."
"And clearly, you adapted," Elara says dryly. "The question is, into what exactly?"
It's a fair question, and one I'm not sure I can fully answer. I'm still discovering the extent of my transformation, still reconciling the being I've become with the man I was.
"I'm still figuring that out," I admit. "But I know this much - I'm not the same person the Guardians thought they could dispose of. And I'm not the weapon Hell tried to forge me into either." I meet each of their gazes in turn. "I'm something new. Something that remembers being human enough to care about what happens next."
"And what does happen next?" Caleif asks, her hand finding mine despite the claws that still tip my fingers.
I look around at the sanctuary, at the doorway connecting the three realms, at the friends who never stopped trying to bring me back. Despite everything that's happened, despite three thousand years of combat and transformation, I still recognize what matters.
"First, I need to understand what's changed while I was gone," I say, my voice steadier now. "Three days here might not seem like much, but a lot can happen when cosmic forces are involved."
"That," Lucifer says with a grim smile, "is quite the understatement. The Guardians haven't been idle during your absence. They've been... restructuring things."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Valen explains, "that they've been systematically dismantling the connections you created between realms. The doorways remain functional, but they've implemented new restrictions, new barriers to the free exchange of knowledge you established."
Anger flares inside me, hot and immediate. The armor responds, spikes extending as crimson energy pulses more intensely across my form. Everyone tenses, and I force myself to calm down, to push back against three millennia of combat-honed rage.
"Sorry," I mutter as the armor settles. "Still adjusting to the new... upgrades."
"Fascinating," Valen murmurs. "The armor appears to respond directly to your emotional state. A psycho-reactive exoskeleton of unprecedented complexity."
"That's one way of putting it," I say. "Another would be that I've spent three thousand years becoming a weapon, and now I need to remember how to be something else."
Caleif squeezes my hand. "You will. We'll help you."
I look down at her, at the determination in her eyes despite the lingering fear I can sense beneath it. She's trying so hard to see past what I've become, to find the man she loves beneath the monster.
"The Guardians," I say, turning back to the others. "What exactly have they done? And why?"
"They claim it's about balance," Elara explains, her tone making it clear what she thinks of that explanation. "About ensuring that no single realm gains too much influence over the others. But really, it's about control. Your approach was too democratic, too difficult for them to manipulate."
"So they're reinstating the old barriers," I conclude. "Making sure knowledge stays compartmentalized, keeping the realms separate except where they can control the interaction."
"Precisely," Lucifer confirms. "And they've been particularly zealous about restricting access to anything related to cosmic architecture or barrier manipulation. Your students have been... discouraged from pursuing certain lines of inquiry."
A cold fury settles in my chest. "Discouraged how?"
The silence that follows tells me everything I need to know. The Guardians haven't just been restructuring the system - they've been intimidating anyone who might continue what I started.
"That ends now," I say, my voice carrying the weight of three thousand years of undefeated combat. "I didn't survive the Pit just to come back and watch everything I built be dismantled by cosmic bureaucrats afraid of change."
"What exactly do you plan to do?" Elara asks, her practical mind always looking for specifics. "You may have new abilities, but you're still facing the combined authority of three realms."
I smile, and from their expressions, I can tell it's not a reassuring sight. "I'm going to give the Guardians exactly what they wanted when they stripped my cosmic powers. I'm going to show them what happens when you force someone to find another way to achieve the same goal."
"And what way is that?" Valen asks, his burning eyes bright with curiosity.
I look around at my friends, at the beings who never gave up on me despite what I've become. "Before, I tried to reshape reality directly. Now, I'm going to reshape how people think about reality. Not through cosmic manipulation, but through example."
"Example?" Lucifer repeats, his perfect eyebrows rising slightly.
"The Guardians wanted to make an example of me," I explain, feeling the pieces of a plan falling into place. "They wanted to show what happens to those who challenge the cosmic order. Well, now I'm going to be a different kind of example - proof that their authority isn't absolute, that their power isn't incontestable."
I flex my hand, watching crimson energy dance between my fingers. "They took my ability to reshape reality, but they gave me three thousand years to become something they can't control. Something that can inspire others to find their own power, their own voice in cosmic affairs."
"They're not going to like that," Elara observes dryly.
"Good," I say, feeling a predatory smile spread across my face. "Because I'm done caring what they like. I'm done playing by their rules. From now on, I make my own."