ahhhh—
A howle of the damned echoed across the endless crimson desert, beneath a sky burning with hatred—a sky not unlike the seething torment of those who dwelled in this forsaken land.
Here, the souls of the damned clawed and bit with a desperation that knew no language. Grotesque creatures—twisted amalgamations of horror—tore each other apart endlessly. Humans missing chunks of their torsos stumbled forward, their insides half-spilled, never allowed to die. Beasts made of flesh lumps and mismatched scales prowled the carnage, some with human faces, others with insect eyes, jaws twitching as they fed on the endlessly regenerating damned.
Each bite. Each scream. Each shred of skin. Meaningless. For this was a place where death offered no escape. Flesh always reformed. Souls always returned. Pain was simply the nature of being here.
In the heart of this infernal realm stood a structure—not a mountain, but a tower shaped from flesh. A living monument to agony, so impossibly tall it seemed to pierce even the sky of Hell. It writhed with life. Not dead. Not truly alive. It breathed and pulsed, a titan of sinew and suffering. Countless beings, fused into one endless pillar. Minds shattered, bodies stitched together in unholy harmony—forever conscious, forever silent.
A tower of pain.
A monument of anguish.
The foundation of Hell itself.
And atop this mass of torment sat a man.
Skrii—
The screaming of the damned continued, like rain on a rusted rooftop.
The man sat upon a throne made of flesh, its surface pulsating beneath him like muscle under strain. The throne was alive—screaming silently with every breath it took.
He looked… human.
Average, almost. No divine horns, no crown of fire. Just deep-set, exhausted black eyes, and a mane of unruly dark hair that draped down like shadows. His body was compact, lean muscle tightly coiled into the frame of a nineteen-year-old, but every inch radiated power—silent, effortless, oppressive.
"What a bore," he muttered, his voice hoarse with timeless apathy. "An eternity… and not a single rebellion. No challenge. No fun. You're no better than this chair."
He stood. His foot nudged the throne.
The throne exploded—flesh rupturing like overripe fruit, screaming beings undone in an instant. They began reforming immediately, the laws of this hellish world knitting them back together as if nothing had happened.
The force of the kick echoed downward. Layer by layer, the flesh-tower broke apart, rebuilding itself behind him as he descended—like a grotesque elevator of agony.
Eventually, he reached the scorched surface of Hell.
He walked into the chaos—a free-for-all of eternal violence. Beings shrieked, clawed, devoured each other again and again in a pointless frenzy. With a lazy swipe of his hand, the entire battlefield vanished.
Silence.
In their place, a single orb formed in the air. It floated—small as a marble, yet impossibly dense. Every soul, every beast, every failure condensed into it. A prison? A toy? Even he didn't seem to care.
"…Hm? What's that?"
His attention shifted. A small tear—a crack—had appeared in the sky, as if someone had pierced the fabric of this realm with their bare fingers. From it, violet light glowed, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The man stepped forward, eyeing it with mild curiosity.
"Should I jump in?" he mused aloud.
He lifted the orb. It vanished from his hand, and the air around his palm rippled like disturbed water. Without hesitation, he took a few steps back—then leapt, diving headfirst into the purple wound in reality.
Instantly, his body was submerged in an alien void. It felt like water, but darker, heavier. He floated, and the transformation began.
Compression. Dissolution. His soul warped. His body crumbled. The essence of the King of Hell condensed, weakened, reshaped.
A light pierced the darkness—a pinprick that grew and grew until it consumed him.
Then—sound. Muffled. Muddled. Unfamiliar.
Not heard through ears, but sensed. Felt.
He was… small. Fragile. A baby.
His reign was gone. His throne, erased. His body—new.
He opened his eyes—blurry and undeveloped. He saw the inside of a worn, shabby tent. Rough fabric. Dim candlelight. And hands—coarse and trembling—held him.
A woman. The midwife? Her face was lined with fear. Her eyes darted between him and another.
A man.
Large. Towering. Dressed in leathers, scarred and weathered like old stone. A jagged claw-mark scar ran across his face. He looked down at the child, then at the woman.
He spoke—but the words were alien, spoken in a language the King no longer recognized. Most of his worldly memories had faded long ago. But not all.
The man took the infant into his arms. Then turned.
Another woman was there. Thin. Weak. Her eyes half-dead, a dull mauve glow flickering in her pupils. Her skin was pale, her black hair tangled and matted. Long, pointed ears twitched slightly. Her body was covered in bruises—welts and wounds too many to count.
The man drew his blade.
And with a single, brutal motion—he swung.
Her head fell. Blood sprayed across the tent. A few warm droplets landed on the infant's face.
The newborn King did not blink. Did not cry.
He simply stared.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
Watching as the body of the elf woman collapsed, her blood pooling on the dirt below.