Kael had always worked through problems by talking to himself, a habit that had made him the weird guy in revolutionary meetings and was now making him the weird guy in Hell's barracks. But weird was better than converted, and after what he'd witnessed in the combat arena, he desperately needed to figure out what the hell was actually going on.
Which was ironic, since he was literally in Hell and still couldn't figure out what was going on.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, pacing the length of his obsidian quarters while his fellow recruits were at evening formation. "Let's think about this like... like a puzzle. Except the puzzle pieces are all on fire, and some of them are screaming, and putting the puzzle together might mean you become part of the puzzle yourself."
He paused, frowning. "That analogy sucked even by my standards."
The problem was that everything about his situation felt fundamentally wrong, but in ways that his revolutionary training hadn't prepared him to handle. On Earth, the enemies had been clear: corrupt governments, oppressive systems, corporate exploitation. You could identify the bad guys because they were the ones with all the power, crushing everyone else to maintain their position.
But here? Here, he was supposedly fighting for freedom against... people who wanted order? That should have been simple, right? Freedom good, oppression bad. Except the "order" side was apparently made up of human rights activists and social workers, while the "freedom" side was literally eating the souls of defeated enemies.
"This whole situation is like..." He struggled for a comparison that made sense. "Like being told that vegetables are evil and candy is healthy, but then finding out that the candy is made from processed vegetables, and also the vegetables are actually other people who thought candy was evil, and everyone's just eating each other while insisting they're the good guys."
He sat down heavily on his stone bed, which was somehow comfortable despite being carved from volcanic rock. Even the furniture in Hell was better than he'd expected, which was just another thing that didn't fit his preconceptions.
Maybe that's the problem, he thought. I keep trying to fit this into categories I understand, but what if the categories themselves are wrong?
On Earth, he'd fought against systems that claimed to be legitimate while actually serving the interests of a powerful few. The government said it was protecting democracy while crushing dissent. Corporations claimed to be serving customers while exploiting workers. Religious institutions preached love while practicing hate.
So what if Heaven and Hell are both doing the same thing? What if they're both claiming to serve some higher good while actually just... what? What would they actually be serving?
He thought about the combat he'd witnessed, the way both sides seemed equally committed to completely destroying their enemies. Not just defeating them, not just stopping them from fighting—literally consuming or processing their spiritual essence to fuel the war effort.
"It's like..." He paused, trying to find the right comparison. "Like two restaurants claiming to serve the best food, but actually they're both just grinding up their customers to feed to new customers, and the only difference is whether they grind you up with a smile or grind you up while promising you'll enjoy being ground up because it's for your own freedom."
Jesus, that's dark even for me.
But it also felt true in a way that made his stomach churn. What if the war wasn't about good versus evil, but about two different flavors of the same fundamental exploitation? What if both sides were just using different rhetoric to justify turning souls into resources?
The thought should have filled him with righteous anger—that was his usual response to discovering systematic deception. But instead, he felt a kind of numbing dread. Because if he was right, if both Heaven and Hell were essentially the same kind of exploitative system wearing different masks, then what was he supposed to do about it?
Revolution required an alternative. You couldn't tear down a corrupt system without having some idea of what to build in its place. But here, in the afterlife, surrounded by the fundamental cosmic forces of existence itself... what alternative could there be?
Unless the alternative isn't about choosing between Heaven and Hell, but about refusing to choose at all.
The idea felt dangerous even to think about. Refusing to choose sides in a cosmic war? That wasn't revolution—that was just... what? Nihilism? Cowardice? Or maybe the kind of radical thinking that his revolutionary training had never quite prepared him for?
"This is like being offered a choice between two different kinds of poison," he said aloud, "except everyone insists you have to pick one, and when you ask why you can't just not take poison, they tell you that not choosing poison is actually the worst kind of poison of all."
That analogy actually worked pretty well, which was either a good sign or a very bad sign.
He thought about the moment in the arena when he'd hesitated, when he'd looked at his opponent and seen not an enemy but another confused soul caught up in something neither of them fully understood. For just a second, there had been recognition between them—not the artificial certainty of Tempestuous Power, but genuine human connection.
And that's when the power faltered.
That was significant. The Tempestuous Power that Hell was training him to use worked best when he stopped thinking of his opponents as people and started thinking of them as obstacles to freedom. But the moment he recognized their humanity, the power became unstable, unreliable.
Which suggests that both types of power—Seraphic and Tempestuous—require you to stop seeing your enemies as individuals. Heaven's power works when you're certain you're righteous. Hell's power works when you're certain you're free. But both require certainty, and certainty requires not thinking too hard about whether your enemies might have a point.
The parallel was unsettling. He'd seen the same dynamic in revolutionary movements on Earth—the way righteous anger could blind you to complexity, the way the certainty required for effective action could also make you incapable of questioning whether your actions were actually justified.
But here's the thing about revolutionary movements, he thought. The best ones, the ones that actually created positive change, were led by people who managed to maintain both conviction and doubt. People who were absolutely committed to their cause but also willing to question their methods, to adapt when they learned new information.
So maybe the problem isn't that I'm doubting. Maybe the problem is that everyone else has stopped doubting.
That felt right in a way that cut through the artificial clarity of Tempestuous Power. Revolution wasn't about blind certainty—it was about the courage to keep questioning, even when questioning was difficult and dangerous.
But if that was true, then what was he supposed to do with that insight? He couldn't exactly announce to his fellow recruits that they should all start questioning their commanders' authority. He couldn't refuse to participate in training without getting himself classified as a problem that needed to be solved. And he couldn't just leave—where would he go?
Maybe the point isn't to do anything dramatic right now. Maybe the point is just to keep thinking, keep questioning, keep refusing to let the power turn me into someone who stops seeing enemies as people.
It wasn't much of a plan, but it was something. And it felt more honest than either the righteous certainty Heaven was selling or the passionate freedom Hell was peddling.
He thought about the mysterious figure who had visited him, the one who'd warned him about others who were asking similar questions. Maybe he wasn't as alone as he felt. Maybe there were others who had noticed the same inconsistencies, who had felt the same unease about the way both sides seemed to require the complete dehumanization of their enemies.
And maybe, he thought as he prepared for another night of troubled sleep, the real revolution isn't about choosing between Heaven and Hell. Maybe it's about choosing to remain human in a war that wants to turn everyone into weapons.
The thought felt like both hope and heresy.
But then again, in his experience, the most important revolutions usually started that way.
"This whole situation," he said quietly to the volcanic landscape outside his window, "is like being trapped in someone else's war movie, except you keep remembering that the people being shot are actually people, and everyone keeps telling you to stop remembering that because it's bad for morale."
He paused, considering his words.
"Huh. That one was actually pretty good."
Maybe he was getting better at analogies.
Or maybe the truth was just finally simple enough for even his metaphors to handle.